Chapter 1: The Wooden Mirror

            The young hunter didn’t feel the chill of the icy wind, but the still-warm goat’s fur kept him company. It was soft as a bedsheet even if the little animal smelled worse than the manure that fed the village mushrooms. Three days he’d spent combing the snow, chasing tiny footprints that looked like pairs of knives. The hooves that made them were now inescapably pinned to his chest by two gloved hands. Their ten digits helped feed a hundred mouths. An endless task given what little grew in the snowy shadow of the Weltdorn mountains. Fields of chard, carrots, and onions separated their huts from the wild trees. Each one a humble ally to his family's cause and an important ingredient in their power. Without them, he likely wouldn’t live in the village, but instead would be doomed to haunt the woods day and night looking for game.

            The ribbon of dirt he was walking up meandered between leafless trees. Weathered rocks jutted from the ground to stab his feet and twisting roots surfaced to trip them. No builders from the coast had ever ventured up into the hills to conquer this stretch of wilderness. Pelzstrom occupied a land of ice, wolves, and harsh winds that no reasonable person would ever wish to visit. Still, at least the landscape fed the eyes while it delighted in taunting empty stomachs.

            Above the frozen soil, an arch of fallen logs stretched catlike over his head. Every hunter who set out into the woods made sure to pass beneath the unnatural marker. Ropes of twisted rawhide from his family’s hunts sewed the small wooden structure together. His father said they'd built it as a reminder of home. But Stig knew he wasn't referring to their house. Just like its makers the arch endured all the world could offer with a smile, even though its happened to be upside down.

            Two dozen buildings littered their little hamlet and if someone spent all day they wouldn’t be able to find much rhyme or reason to their placement. A circular town hall sat close to the middle that was every other structure’s senior. It was even older than lady Otrud who was watching the fields from her rocking chair. Her grandsons and their sons as well were out in the fields dusting off the chard while the children were scavenging twigs from the tree line. Further into the village, Mr. Blatt’s cart was parked just outside his home. A few dozen sacks of vegetables filled the back as the plump trader had already taken anything valuable inside. Stig imagined it was just a habit borne of some larger and less trusting town. Truth be told, everything seemed altogether normal and usual in Pelzstrom. The only thing that stood out was the Weltdorn mountain tops. Each peak stood naked without their misty scarves amid the canvas of cloudless blue sky.

            After a minute of winding through the maze of mud-brick buildings Stig’s home came into view. It’s brown walls held up a straw roof whose two sides rose to a point in the middle. Smoke billowed from a brick chimney connected to his favorite fireplace in the front. Out back was a shed for their hunting tools that was always unlocked. Mr. Blatt’s habits hadn’t rubbed off on the Dammerungs. Beside the small shack was a plank of wood sprouting two sticks for hands and a less than scary face that kept watch until it was time for target practice. Behind them both was an enormous tree that sat atop the hill. There were none like it in the village and he had never seen its twin, cousin, or even distant relation in the forest. His father said it was called a Struna tree and it came from the same place that they did, somewhere far away. A land with a name he’d never heard and one his parents were careful to never speak aloud.

            Walking through the door he saw his mother chopping away at a bit of deer destined to float in the stew of their neighbors. The Dammerung family preferred to eat meat over a roaring fire instead. If only because they ate enough that their’s needn’t hide in a puddle of broth to conceal its meager size. 

            The knife danced across the roast slicing open ruby red canyons. With perfect precision the steel carved chops from the little mound before another pass brought it all to pieces upon the wooden block. A satisfying thud embedded the blade into the cherry colored wood as his mother looked up. Stig’s mother was an oddity in their village as befit any of the three Dammerungs. She was perfectly preserved by the icy cold climate and nary a wrinkle could be found on that face hard enough to have been carved from a glacier. It was nothing more than a well-worn mask though. Her eyes failed to fit in with the rest of the illusion. They were too kind, too gentle, and their blue depths gave a hint of the boundlessly charitable personality of their owner.

            “Stiggy! Welcome home,” she said embracing him and the goat with a bearhug.

            “Mother, you’re going to paint us both red,” Stig said.

            “Sorry dear, must’ve left my mind in the woods last night. Ooh, I hope you didn’t have to march too long carrying this one. He’s soft as the clouds, but smells something awful.”

            “It’s a goat, mother.”

            “Yes, yes, I know but I always hoped that smell would improve over the years. I’m still waiting for the day as eagerly as I was twenty years ago.”

            “All the snow on the Weltdorns will melt and the floodwaters will carry us down to the sea before then.”

            “Lucky then that I taught you how to swim. Now set him down on the block. That far side there. No point in tinting that lovely white fur.”

            “Any chance Mr. Blatt would buy a pink goat pelt?” Stig asked as he carefully laid the goat onto the dry half of the table.

            “None I’m afraid. That merchant is shaped just like his favorite thing in the world, an overstuffed purse. And while a pink pelt would match his cheeks I doubt he’d find a buyer to pair it with.”

            Stig couldn’t help but let air escape from his nose. “Careful or he may hear you mother.”

            “Careful? It’s his belly that's swollen not his ears. Now get cutting while I go deliver these bits. We’ll be needing the kolos from our neighbors if I keep running this mouth of mine or so some people seem to think.”

            With a parting kiss on his cheek, she left out the door and in all likelihood wouldn’t be back for some time. Pulling the hunting knife from his scabbard the young hunter set to work. Peeling away the fur took little time with the blade sharp enough to survive three generations. Stig’s father said it was made of Noian steel forged somewhere beneath the Weltdorns. In daydreams, he’d imagined the caverns beneath the mountains that were so vast their edges melted into sunless walls of black. Somewhere in between rows of stone buildings stacked upon one another was the very same forge that spat fire and had long ago coughed up this steel. It had been a faultless tool in his hands, but he’d always wondered if it had even been intended for such a role. To him, it was far more likely one of his ancestors had acquired some very large person’s toothpick. Stig had only ever met someone taller than a house a handful of times and life here felt desperately in need of a story more interesting than rows of frozen vegetables.

            Warmth poured from the stomach as his steel sliced along the invisible line he’d been taught to see since the age of six. Organs, innards, and red broth poured onto the block. The liquid twisted along the grooves carved into the wood before tumbling into a bucket placed beside Stig’s feet. Once the pelt was no longer in danger of turning pink Stig began scything away the connecting sinew. The meat inside was still warm as he dug his fingers beneath the fur. For a little more than an hour, Stig tended to the goat and by its end, the pelt along with a pile of chops sat upon the block.

            Sweat now dripped from his brow like he was made of melting snow. Hands pressed against his sides Stig took a glance towards the hide still waiting for someone to scrape it down, causing his fingers to tremble with exhaustion. Wind whistled through the kitchen window as he remembered what else he would hear for leaving a job unfinished.

            With a sigh, the pelt’s strings loosened. Unfurling the still pink scroll of flesh and fur Stig reached down to the shelf of tools under the block. Grasping the leather-wrapped handle he began scraping away. A breeze now began flowing not from the window but from his very own fingers. Wind essence hugged the tool like a winter coat. With his affinity’s help, the blade flew between fur and flesh separating them easily. Lips parted revealing a snow-white smile. He was getting better and only two people in the village could still surpass his skills.

            A pink curtain fell from the pelt which reached the floor before the last connections were cut away. Like rewarding a loyal dog, Stig handed the fabric to the flames. A bit of steam escaped as its orange glow seemed to fade. The flames' hesitation melted soon enough though and the fire crackled with delight or at least he thought that’s what it sounded like. 

            Next he grabbed their jar of salt from the counter. A winter storm began blanketing the backside of the goat which grew deeper with every fistful. After grinding the grains into the material both sides were nearly the same shade. Satisfied with his work, Stig carried the hide to the outdoor shed by their small stable. A pair of deer skins lay waiting in the corner. He hadn’t had the time to ask earlier, but an answer was staring back at him from its empty shelf. His father hadn’t returned.

            But even though he was absent Stig could hear the familiar words. Only look up when you’re too tired to look forward. Stepping back out into the sun exposed him to a wonderfully balmy breeze or at least it felt that way to him. Short brown as bark hair danced in its gusts and for a moment he dared to gaze up at the sky. His skin felt warm as the sun stared down from its lonely perch amid the ocean without waves. No body of water or robin egg could match that wonderful hue. It all felt too pleasant.

            Pelzstrom was in the middle of winter, but the wind didn’t crawl across his spine. To be honest he’d never truly felt icy cold or even the searing blaze of their fire. Only curses behind other’s chattering teeth could provide insight into the air’s true bite, his family’s success ensured that. There were half a dozen other houses that could claim they were hunters, but none of them could boast such protection from the wind. Two or three possessed an affinity for the soil, but all that earned them were fewer days doing laundry as the dirt refused to stain them or their clothes. He couldn’t understand how their essence was still orange after all the vegetables they ate.

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            A strong gust of wind shoved him out of the thought. Its weight dragging both eyes to the wooden scarecrow. A small tilt of the woven grass hat exposed the two coal-black eyes staring back. Streaks of wizened gray-colored its faded red grain. His name was Cedarson and in many ways he was Stig’s oldest friend. Behind the splinters dwelt an understanding of his every struggle, frustration, triumph, and success. A wooden mirror no less useful than any made of silver. 

            At first even hitting Cedarson’s wooden planks had been difficult for him, but those days were now distant memories. Drawing his bow, Stig considered his last hunt. The goat was not exactly a hunter’s triumph, but it had made up for his blunder the day before. Iron had missed fur by inches and no matter how much he pondered only one answer seemed to explain it. His coating was to blame. It was the last thing preventing him from earning the same mantle as his parents. That same respect bestowed upon the useful. Both of their arrows flew across fields in the roughest storms without erring even a little. A fact that the wooden mirror reflected with unflinching honesty. Cedarson’s fingers were a favorite target of his father who often shot through their gaps. Only a few shallow scrapes had been carved after years of target practice. Stig’s contributions weren’t so easily missed.

            Feathers tickled his right cheek before departing on their voyage. A coat of wind essence tore through the air like a lightning bolt. Destined for the gulf between pinky and ring finger. An ugly twang screeched. Cedarson had a new scar across his fingertip. A yellow blanket emerged from his fingers. This time he tried picturing the arrow’s shape and weight. Drawing again, Stig took the air in slowly before loosing once more. Only silence greeted him this time. Again and again he loosed. After six more shots the scarecrow had earned three more wounds. Could he have really improved so little?

            For another hour Stig emptied the quiver and refilled it like he had for nearly fourteen years. Sometimes he made three cuts and other attempts ended in five. Once there had only been two, but that run was swiftly followed by seven. By the end of it Cedarson’s fingers were nearly in as bad a shape as his own.

            “A father’s son if there ever was one,” a voice said from behind.

            Turning about Stig saw his mother leaning by the kitchen door. An approving smile stretched across her lips.

            “I didn’t know father missed so often,” Stig replied.

            “He used to. In fact when we first came to this little village I was the better shot,” she said.

            “What happened?”

            “He failed enough to become better than me. You were a very hungry baby.”

            "It’s a wonder I’m not a starving son then,” Stig said gesturing towards the scattered spread of arrows.

            “Don’t diminish your efforts. You only missed two a few minutes ago,” she said.

            “How’d you know that? Have you been watching me this entire time?” he asked.

            “I didn’t need to see every volley to understand how much better you’ve gotten. That coating was a sight better than last month’s. Which was an improvement from the month before and the one before that.”

            “It’s still breaking up too quickly. Every time I visualize the arrow in my mind it's like I’m staring through a cloud.”

            “I won’t promise clear skies, but the next rank shouldn’t be so challenging.”

            “And when will that be? I’ve already seen twenty winters here even though I don’t remember them all.”

            “Sooner than you’d think. That churning pot of essence in your chest is nearly boiling over if my eyes aren’t misleading me. Carry a few more pelts and I think you’ve got it.”

            “Really? I can become a soldier?”

            “Only if you promise not to be an actual one. Don’t want a helmet messing up your adorable hair,” she said tussling his head.

            “Mother you know I hate it when you do that,” he said trying to pull her hand away.

            “I know. Now fail some more while I get dinner going. Alright?” she asked.

            “Alright, you sure you don’t want some help?”

            “Certain,” she said.

            His mother disappeared back into the house as quietly as she’d arrived. Stig felt a bit of stubborn pride and energy pouring back into his fingers. Faster than ever he loosed volley after volley upon Cedarson. Some went left, others right, and most went straight between the scarecrow’s fingers.

            “Stiggy, dinner’s ready!” his mother shouted from the window.

            “Just a moment. Let me empty the quiver,” he said.

            Not one to keep a hot plate waiting Stig began firing. The first arrow sailed clean through with ease. A second did much the same, but the third seemed to wobble precariously. His streak was unbroken until the fourth shot. It’s bolt carved a new scar into one of Cedarson’s thumbs. Remembering her advice, Stig stopped. Gulping air like a drowning man he stood still as a stump. Hot air exhaled through his nose. He could see the arrow now. The fog was lifting and Stig wasn’t about to let it return.

            Loosing his arrow the fifth sailed cleanly past the thumb. Without pause he carried on with the sixth, seventh, and eight shots. There were no arrows left to shoot, the quiver was empty, and Cedarson only had one new scar.

            Wearing a grin that felt like victory he walked inside. There his mother was waiting at their dinner table with two plates of sizzling deer accompanied by boiled potatoes. A fine dusting of herbs from old lady Otrud’s spice garden sat on it like powder.

            “Mother, wasn’t father supposed to be back by now?” Stig asked.

            “Yes and his meat is already starting to get cold,” she said.

            “I wonder if he rode off to Kreudorf. You know how he likes to visit the Crown.”

            “Perhaps, but the setting sun isn’t exactly a secret to a man with your father’s eyes.”

            “Well I think it’s because he likes hearing news about where we come from,” Stig said looking at her intently now.

            His mother paused for a moment. Those kind blue eyes stood still as they considered him carefully. She pursed both lips three times before finding words to her liking.

            “Stiggy what do you know of the world outside our little village?” she asked.

            “Only what you’ve taught me,” he said.

            “And what you’ve overheard from our neighbors,” she insisted.

            “And that I suppose.”

            “So what do our neighbors say?” she asked innocently enough.

            “Only bits and pieces here and there. The Noians had a festival with fireworks in Groberg. Supposedly some of them even roared back at the audience like monsters set loose across the sky.”

            “I’d nearly forgotten they existed. Such wonderful colors. Like constellations brought to life.”

            “You’ve seen them? Real fireworks?”

            “Many times. Don’t ask me to describe them as anything I say would fall utterly short.”

            “Could I see them one day?”

            “Soon enough I hope. If your father and I can agree on some things. But we’ve wandered away from my original question. Have our neighbors said anything else?” she said as her face grew dark. Shadows from the fire danced in translucent crimson to the sound of crackling wooden logs.

            “They said that armies have been seen marching from the North,” he admitted.

            It was a piece of information that Mr. Blatt had mentioned three days before. The chubby merchant had said little, but even from a distance Stig could see his fearful eyes darting. Paranoia spinning them like a puppet.

            “You’re nearly all grown up and yet we’ve still managed to hide so much of this world’s ugliness from you. But I suppose it was inevitable that this would reach your ears. The Republic is marching on Grunland.”

            “But I thought the Keindom had attacked the Republic months ago.”

            “They did. A murdered Baron is not forgiven easily.”

            “Could a war really reach us here? Do you think a knight might visit us?”

            “I certainly hope not. Too often those who wield such power are too eager to unsheath it.”

            “Can they really spin entire bows from the air? Plate themselves in liquid metal? I can’t believe anyone could use their affinity like that.”

            “Yes and even more than that active imagination of your’s can conjure.”

            Stig continued peppering her with questions for hours as they ate. Many led to unfamiliar stories that were delightful to hear while others were old practiced answers he’d heard a million times before. Night fell across Pelzstrom as the sunlight dwindled. The burning logs had been reduced to glowing lumps as their smoke grew thin. Its ashy scent remained, keeping them company. As the hours passed Stig wondered where his father was, but it seemed that like so many questions in his life it would go unanswered. Any evidence of the dark expression on his mother’s face had long since faded. Exhaustion having taken its place.

            With a hug she wandered off to her bedroom. Stig didn’t last much longer. Both of his eyes were practically sealed shut by the time he shuffled over to his bed. The world would still be there in the morning and perhaps his father would be back home too.

            Embers of the extinguished logs ascended into the night sky through the chimney. Specks of red swimming in a black sea like the fireworks he wanted to see so badly. Beneath the same stars and past the edge of the forest that he’d never crossed, there were other lights in the darkness. Like a million fireflies they rose from torches, ashes, and the kindled dead. An inferno held back by cracked bricks fallen from a broken wall. Its flames rising waves against an untested shore.