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The Fallen Prophet (The Dark Prophecy Book 1)

Page 3

by Cody Loewen


  As the sun starts to sink below the horizon and the sky begins to darken, signs of a town begin to take shape. The faint rumble of a blacksmith’s hammer clangs in the air. Flickers of lanterns and cooking fires begin to glow as daylight fades away. The unmistakable aroma of fresh baked bread reminds my stomach that all I have eaten today is fruit.

  The town becomes clearer as I get closer, and it becomes obvious that it is much larger than my village. The entire town is surrounded by a wall made from logs planted vertical in the ground, sharpened at the top to prevent anyone from climbing over. The path I’m walking leads to a large gate into town, where two uniformed guards stand on platforms built behind the wall. Each guard is armed with a bow and a quiver full of arrows strapped to their backs. The wall is tall enough that I can’t see anything inside, and it seems to grow taller the closer I get.

  “State your name and your business, miss,” one of the guards shouts down from his post, his voice deep and strong, but not unwelcoming. It easily carries down to me. Both guards look relaxed, but alert. They must get visitors often, unlike our village.

  “My name is Lykara, I come from a small village a day’s journey to the west,” I yell up at them, my voice sounding small, and I hope they can hear me clearly. “We were attacked by trolls, who took all survivors as prisoners and burned everything to the ground. I was hoping to rest in your town until I could join up with the army. I have plans to become a Reaver.”

  The wooden gate groans as it begins to open in front of me. I do not understand how something so huge can be opened without needing ten men to move it. But, right now, I am too tired to investigate further. The town begins to take shape as the opening grows large enough to walk through. Each square building, strong and practical, is connected by a walkway of bricks. This network of buildings, which I guess must be houses, stretches away from the front gate and across the town. Behind the smaller buildings, toward the back wall of the town, I see a much larger building surrounded by a big circle of open grass.

  By the time I take all of this in, I am through the gate, and the guard that spoke to me has climbed out of his post and now stands in front of me. He is much taller than I thought. When I look straight ahead, I stare at the center of his chest, which is covered by a leather breastplate adorned with a green tree over his heart.

  “Welcome to Willowdale, Lykara,” he says warmly, extending his hand. I reach out and grasp his hand with my own. It feels tiny in his firm, but gentle grasp. “My name is William. I’m sorry to hear about your village. We had heard rumors of the trolls gathering and raiding again but have not seen any ourselves. Anyway, you said something about joining the Reavers? Those are high hopes”

  While his height and size cast an imposing shadow, William’s young face give him a sense of innocence. I can’t tell his exact age, but he must be about the same as me. His face is devoid of any hair, and his head is covered with a shaggy layer of blonde locks. He has round, rosy cheeks that seem to widen further when he smiles, and his eyes are a bright blue, and filled with warmth and kindness.

  “Yes, the trolls destroyed every piece of my life,” I state, my face growing warm from anger. I take a breath to try to calm myself, crossing my arms to hide the shaking. I sniffle, pushing back the moisture threatening to fill my eyes before continuing. “My father was in the last war with the trolls, and he taught me how to fight. Fighting these monsters is the only path that makes sense. I will avenge him.”

  “I understand your pain, your anger. Your need to do something. But the Reavers might not be your best option. It can be a dangerous place even during times of peace. I have heard rumors about the training to get into that group, and it sounds arguably worse than battle itself. There’s a reason every man and woman of the Reavers is considered to be worth five normal soldiers. They have been pushed to their breaking points and beyond, and only a handful of those who set out with that goal actually make it through the training. Don’t go looking for more trouble. Why don’t you go join up with the main army host, and become a soldier? Or even stay here and rebuild your life. I know your angry, and these thoughts of vengeance are clear in your head, but you could make a good life for yourself right here in Willowdale.”

  “I have sworn to kill the troll who killed my father,” I declare, annoyed at him for trying to deter me from my decision, but I know he is only trying to help in his own way. “I can’t stay here and just move on with my life knowing that that murderer is still out there, spreading his evil. And I don’t want to be another soldier, going where I am bid, and doing whatever task is commanded of me. My father was Reaver in the last war with the troll, and he taught me everything I know. My best chance to actually hunt down the monsters that did this lie within that battalion, and that is where I am going.”

  We start walking down the center path through the rows of houses. While the buildings themselves look almost identical, I can guess details about each home’s inhabitants by the things outside. We pass a house with hides stretched across wooden posts, drying to be used for clothing or a rug, I assume. Another house sports an anvil in the back, and I can see a cooking pot hanging over a large fire in front of a third. The variety of professions throughout the town is a familiar sight, but this place is huge compared to the tiny community I have always known. The torches, set in in metal holders along the inside of the wall, seem to stretch on forever in the darkness.

  “Most of the town, except for the guards on post, are in their homes for the night,” William explains as he leads us through the middle of the town. “But I can take you to a place where you can get some real food and spend the night.” We pass countless homes, some dark, others with candles burning inside. Through a window, I see a mother tucking a young boy into bed in the dim light of a bedroom near the path we are walking on.

  I wonder how many children live in this place; I think to myself as I try to take in everything I can. We always had children in my village, but because of the small population, it was only a handful at a time. In a town as big as this, there must be tons of them. I imagine the cacophony of noise that many children would make, playing during the day, and chuckle to myself.

  William senses my change in mood and looks over at me, a broad smile lighting up his face and creasing the corners of his eyes.

  “Our guests usually stay in the town hub,” He explains, gesturing at the big building positioned by the back wall. “We hold our town meetings there, but it also has rooms for visitors or for people who don’t have their own homes.”

  “You have an entire building for guests?” I ask him. “We rarely had any visitors in our village, so we didn’t have any building like that. Any time anyone visited our town, they just stayed in someone’s home.”

  Before he can answer my question, we reach the front of the large stone building, and I can’t believe how big it is. The houses in my village were tiny compared to this, most designed as one big room, where we eat, sleep and go about our daily chores. Where we used to do those things, I remind myself. No more.

  The houses we have passed are much bigger than those back home, with some even having second floor and multiple rooms. But they still seem small in the shadow of this hub that towers over all of them. Made of rows of red bricks, with a set of large wooden doors in the center, the building seems to climb into the sky. Four rows of windows reflect the flickering torchlight from the walls behind. I wonder if these are the rooms William mentioned.

  William pushes the double doors open, revealing a massive room. Smooth planks of wood, fitted so tightly together that don’t make even a squeak as we walk, make up the floor. Chairs are lined up in neat rows, with their backs to the doors, facing a wooden podium at the other end of the room. A huge stone hearth surrounds a fireplace big enough for me to stand in.

  “The ground floor of the building is used for meetings and gatherings of all sorts,” William states, letting me take it all in. “There is also a kitchen where food is made for anyone spending time here. Al
l of the rooms for visitors are upstairs. Our guests generally pay a small fee for a room and food each day they plan on staying here, but I’m sure with your situation I can convince the owner to let you stay a night free of charge. He collects payment from each visitor each morning, and also does all of the cooking, so I’m sure we will see him, and I will arrange something for you.”

  I imagine people filling every chair in the room, discussing issues, coming to a decision, and cannot help but feel small in comparison to the number of people that live in this place.

  As I scan the open room, I see the doorway into what must be the kitchen area, and the stairs, tucked away in the corner next to it. I want to ask more questions, find out everything I can about this place, but suddenly the weight of the sack over my shoulder seems almost more than I can bear. William notes the sudden sag of my shoulders and leads me toward the stairs. He tells me to wait and leaves to go talk to a man in the kitchen who I assume must be the owner.

  After a short exchange, William rejoins me at the stairs and informs me that I will be allowed one night free of charge here. I thank him and he leads me up to where I will be staying. I lean a little on the walls as I climb. One flight, then two. With each leaden step I am starting to like this building less and less. Finally, we reach the top floor and turn down the long, single hallway lined with doors on both sides.

  About halfway down the hall, William stopes and opens one of the doors on the left side.

  “This room is empty for the night, so you can sleep here,” He tells me, holding the door open as I walk into the room. “Everything you need for the night should be in the room, but you can come find me or one of the other guards to help you out if there is something else you desire. The man who I talked to downstairs runs this building and lives here as well. If you tell him you need me, he can help find me out in the town. Breakfast is at sunrise, and if there is anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask. I will come back in the morning to show you more of the town in the daylight.”

  He shuts the door behind me, and I am alone once more. There is already a candle lit in the room, so I can find my way. The room feels small compared to the area downstairs but is still larger than my entire home was. A large bed dominates the far wall, the candle sitting on a table next to it. I go to the window and look out at the night. The window looks out the back of the building. I am excited to look out in the morning and see what is outside the fence on the back side of the town. In the dark, I can’t make anything out past the candlelight and the torches that line the wall.

  Bone crushing fatigue threatens to overtake me. I shrug my travel sack off my shoulder, and it thuds to the ground. I prop my sword in its scabbard against the table next to the bed. A wash basin beckons me from across the room, the small mirror above it mocking me as I approach. I slip out of my boots as I stand in front of the wash basin, staring at the image of the girl in front of me in the mirror. I hardly recognize the person staring back, I am so covered in black soot, streaks running from my eyes, creating trails down to my chin.

  I pull the rest of my filthy clothing off, making a pile on the ground next to me, and step into the metal tub of water, still watching myself in the mirror. As I run the cool water over my head and face using the small pitcher on the side of the tub, I begin to see my familiar features once more. As the black runs from my hair, its normal mocha color shows through, and I run my fingers through it to remove any stubborn soot, and pull the tangles free, letting it fall loosely down my back. Once I am satisfied with my hair, I move on to my face, meticulously clearing every inch, revealing my smooth, tan skin underneath. Unlike William, my eyes are a dark brown, almost matching my hair, and I can see the pain that sits behind them, where I used to be so carefree and happy.

  I continue to wash the soot, and smell of char off my small frame, until my skin feels raw from my scrubbing, before stepping out of the water and using the towel hanging next to the basin to dry off. Satisfied with the state of myself, I move onto my clothes, using the water to rinse away the grime that has built up on them, and then hanging them to dry where the towel was. I slip into the simple robe that was left on the bed, before returning once more to the mirror hanging on the wall. As I stare into my reflection, my eyes harden, and my mouth pulls tight into an intense expression of anger. Thoughts of my new mission invade my mind again as I watch myself.

  I will join the Reavers. I will hunt down the monsters who did this to me. I will kill Kromm.

  I repeat those three objectives to myself as I stand there, and almost watch myself transform in that mirror. The innocent young girl who was sparring with her father just a day ago is gone. I am now staring into the eyes of a warrior. My father may not have known it, but he was training me for this moment. Eventually, I look away from my own image, and my eyes settle on the bed, bringing back my exhaustion.

  I pull the blanket back and climb onto the soft mattress. I sigh as I pull the blanket up to my chin and lay my head on a pillow softer than any pillow I’ve felt before. Even with my exhaustion, sleep eludes me for a long time. Every time I close my eyes, an image of the monster Kromm, or the remains of my father’s burned body invade my thoughts, and I open them quickly, not wanting to dwell on either nightmare.

  Lying there in the dark, with the light of my single candle giving just enough illumination for me to see the ceiling above me, the tears begin to flow again. I roll over onto my stomach and thrust my face down into the pillow to hide my sobs from the inhabitants of the room next to mine. Through the blur of tears, I glimpse the red stitching on the sleeve of my father’s uniform sticking out of the top of my bag. How am I supposed to survive without him? As my emotions at the tragedy that has become my life consume me, my trickles of tears turn into rivers of blood as I drift into dreams of revenge.

  Chapter 3

  I awake, disoriented, by feel of the plush mattress and blankets, so different from what I have always had. As I regain my senses in the stillness of the early morning, I take a moment in the darkness to remind myself of where I am and the circumstances that have brought me here. Taking a steadying breath, I sit up and look around the room. The pre-dawn darkness offers no light in the room, so I can’t see much. The faint glow of torches on the wall outside my window provide just enough light to maneuver in the room. Knowing that I have nowhere to go until after the sun has peeked over the horizon, I sit on the edge of the bed and try to imagine what my future holds, what my life in the army and the war will be like—if I ever get there.

  What do elves look like? I find my mind wandering to stories my father told me about his time in the army. I remember him describing his unit as being a mixture of humans and elves, but before yesterday, I had never even seen another person outside of my village, much less an elf. From my father’s lessons, I do know a little about the elves. I know they live in the forests for the most part and have an affinity to nature. In my imagination, I visualize small huts made from branches and sticks from the trees with roofs covered in leaves. After all, it just makes sense that anyone living in the forest would have to use the materials around them to live.

  Will they look like humans? My imagination runs wild as I picture a slim, graceful creature, much like humans, but with a greenish hue to his skin and long flowing hair. I can almost see him, wearing clothes made from leaves and the skins of forest animals, holding a bow in one hand as he darts nimbly among the high branches of the tallest trees. I open my eyes, images of my elf shooting an arrow down at a deer on the ground far below fading as I blink the dark spots out of my vision. I realize the sun has started to rise, throwing the first rays of daylight into my window.

  A wonderful aroma wafts under the door, making my stomach growl loudly in complaint of how little I ate yesterday during my journey here. Has it really only been a day since my life crashed down around me? I reach down and grab my boots, still crusty from the road, and slip them on. My waterskin and food sack, now almost empty, I leave where they lie, knowing I w
ill not need them for breakfast. I do fasten my sword to my hip though, my throat tightening as I think about my father and the events of the last couple of days. It feels strange to be wearing the ancient blade that served my father through all his years of fighting, but a moment of pride comes over me at the thought of wielding the beautiful weapon. As I braid my hair and tie it with a leather thong, I repeat my vow of vengeance to myself again. I open the door to my room and take a deep breath, steeling myself to walk out and face the unknown.

  I am immediately greeted by a trickle of people walking from their rooms to the stairs. Everybody is so different; I cannot help but stare. I see a middle-aged man, who obviously just woke up, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he drags his feet on the ground down the hallway. I see a woman, who appears wide awake as if she has been up for a long time, holding the hand of a smiling young girl who skips past my door. I see an older man and woman, smiling at each other, hands interlocked as they carefully step down the first stair toward the kitchen. As I take in these differences, I step out of my own doorway and join the flow toward the smells of what can only be breakfast. I smile tentatively as people greet me with warm expressions and kind words. I can’t believe all of these people are just guests, like me, visiting Willowdale.

  Our procession reaches the bottom of the steps, and the faint hint of cooking food that I caught from my room earlier has turned into an overwhelming aroma that draws us into the main room of the hub. The wave of people carries me into the eating area, where I choose an empty table near the outskirts of the room. I sit and watch the others for a clue as to how to proceed. I don’t know if I am supposed to serve myself or if someone will bring the food out to me. Not wanting to look like a fool, I simply wait. The smell of cooking meat makes my mouth water in anticipation. Back home, our meals consisted mostly of food we were able to grow. Meat, especially large game, was considered a treat. While Bacchus and the other hunters were skilled, it was often difficult for them to find enough game to feed the entire village. When they did, it was a celebration. Meat for breakfast was unheard of. They must have more hunters here who are able to bring back more, or maybe they raise animals here for food?

 

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