Chapter Two: Homecoming

“They came from the darkness. We’d never seen anything like them. They were abominations of nature.”

—Ylva Norn, A History of Faengard: The First Age

Ein and his father stuffed themselves until they were bursting at the seams that night. There was no need to hold back; anything left over would be thrown away between all the meat and wolf pelts they needed to carry home. They abandoned the scraps of deer they’d salvaged and a few other odds and ends—a spare pot, a quiver of arrows, a flask full of alcohol for treating wounds. There wasn’t much else they could afford to discard. They hadn’t packed many things in the first place.

Alend sprinkled another handful of salt over the roasted meat and then passed it over to Ein, who took it eagerly. Even with such basic seasoning, the smell caused Ein to salivate like a canine himself. It had been a long time since he’d been this full. Even when his stomach was so bloated he couldn’t stand up straight, he refused to see the food go to waste. Sitting around a crackling campfire with a full belly and waves of warmth licking at his face, he found himself wishing his mother and sister were there.

We’ll be back before long, he thought to himself. Back with enough food to last a month.

He couldn’t wait to see some of the fullness return to his mother’s cheeks, to see the bright smile light up Cinnamin’s face when she met them by the door. He also wanted to see Evaine again, and Bran.

Alend tossed a gnawed bone into the darkness and drank a mouthful of melted snow. The plan was to take the night to rest and recover, and then set off on the road home at first light. They’d left markers along the trail to aid them—strips of cloth, nails hammered into trees, things that didn’t appear naturally in the wild. Hopefully the winds hadn’t torn them away.

Ein realized his father had fallen silent against his tree, arms folded across his chest. Alend was staring into the clearing where they’d found the wolves, where the corpses still lay stripped to the bone. The flames painted dark shadows across his face. His brow was lowered into an almost horizontal line, eyes dark and distant, brooding.

“What do you think killed them?” Ein asked. He licked clean the skewer in his hand and massaged his stomach.

“I only wish I knew,” Alend replied. “Why don’t you tell me?”

He directed his attention to his son, eyes glinting. Ein couldn’t tell if his father even knew the answer at all.

“Something dangerous,” Ein said. That much was obvious, and Alend’s look told him so. “Something that can take on six wolves at once with enough strength to rip them apart. Something that walks on two legs and has claws.”

“An idiot would be able to tell me that much.”

Ein ignored the jest. “My first guess would be a bear… but bears hibernate in winter, and even the strongest bear can’t fight six wolves and win with such ease. If we ignore bears, wolves are probably the next highest on the food chain. The next top ‘dog’, so to speak.” He smirked.

Alend scowled and threw another bone at his son. “I didn’t spend all these years raising you to become a court jester.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first.” Ein swerved, watching the bone as it whistled past his ear and into the darkness. He cleared his throat. “It’s not tigers or mammoths for sure; they don’t live around these areas. That only leaves…” he broke off.

“That only leaves?”

“This is just a guess,” Ein said. “But the next thing I would think of would be something from the legends. Perhaps… a relict.”

He paused, looking towards his father. He’d expected admonishment for believing in such superstition, but Alend was strangely quiet.

“What do you know about the relicts?” he asked.

Ein stared deep into the flames, watching them crackle and spit. Sparks of orange and ash sprayed onto the ground every few moments, sizzling into nothingness. The relicts were legends, folk tales told by housewives to scare children out of the woods. If you spoke of them in front of the villagers, they’d only laugh and ask if you still wet your bed and drank your mother’s milk.

“They’re demons,” he said at last. “Creatures of pure evil from mankind’s darkest nightmares. Natives of Nephilheim, the land of shadows.” He cleared his throat and began to sing:

“Relict, relict, creation’s delict;

Promises broken, Pantheon tricked.

Strength and will of no man living,

Vicious spirit, unforgiving;

Eyes of night and claws of steel,

The Faceless Ruler’s troops ideal,

See a relict, run, survive!

No mortal man returns alive.”

“Relict, relict, creation’s delict, Promises broken, Pantheon tricked. Sealed behind great Aedrasil, Return to war one day they will.” Alend joined in, finishing the last verse of the rhyme. “So you think these murders are the work of a relict?”

Ein shrugged. “Could just as well be a dragon or some other legend. But with the way things have been lately, especially with the Great Winter and all, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Alend nodded. Ein waited to see if he would say anything more, but he didn’t. It was almost as if his father believed in them—in the relicts. That would mean he believed in the Oathbreaker and the ramblings of the Three-winged Crow. Given the current circumstances it wasn’t a far cry, but the thought of demons and an ancient god of evil marching on Felhaven was so absurd Ein couldn’t keep from smiling. Felhaven was a sanctuary, a village in the middle of nowhere in the far reaches of Faengard. Even if the Oathbreaker was real, there was nothing he could possibly want with such a secluded place. The villagers would sooner die of starvation than mythical monsters marching into town.

“So that’s it?” Alend spoke up, startling him. Ein thought his father had gone to sleep.

“What do you mean?”

“Is that all you have to say?” Alend said. “In regards to what killed those wolves?”

Ein thought for a moment. “I suppose so,” he slowly said.

“It could have been done by something wielding a human weapon. Like a sword.”

“That’s ridiculous. Humans wouldn’t leave those kinds of tracks.”

“Perhaps,” Alend said. “But the relicts were not Al’Ashar’s only servants. There were also the Faceless, men and women who’d sworn themselves to the Oathbreaker in exchange for power, and among them, seven who stood head and shoulders above the rest. The Urudain.” He bundled his furs about him and curled up against the tree. “Didn’t Garax ever tell you stories about them?”

“So you believe in it, then? In the Twilight of the World?”

Alend waved his hand in a shooing motion, signalling the end of the conversation. Ein shifted his attention back to the soft crackling of the fire.

Relicts. Monsters, demons, creatures of old from ages long gone. Any stories that remained likely contained but a glimmer of the truth, as was the nature of recollection. However, a glimmer of truth was still a glimmer. Ein looked around at the flickering shadows, picturing wolf-men with claws prowling through the night. Then, they turned into cloaked swordsmen drifting between the tree trunks, with only emptiness where their faces should be.

Ein shook his head at the absurdity of it all. The relicts had not been seen since the Second Age, according to the stories. They didn’t exist. He snuggled down into his blankets, yet, try as he might, he continued to see dark shapes floating about the edge of his vision. It was a long time before he finally fell asleep.

#

Morning came. Ein and his father wasted no time, skirting through the woods as quickly as they could with their bulging packs. Ein had the sharper vision so he led the way, picking out landmarks and discrepancies in the wood where they’d left signs of their passing. Alend brought up the rear, cleaning as they went, removing the scraps of cloth and nail they’d wedged into trees to mark the path. It was slow going but they were no longer underfed or poorly rested, or hindered by the need to tread lightly.

As the sky brightened into midday, Ein’s pack grew steadily heavier until he felt like he was hauling a great boulder on his back. Sometime later his father took on part of his load, giving him the chance to massage some blood back into his shoulders.

They moved until it was too dark to see and then slept. They didn’t eat as much on the second night, nor did they talk, and Ein’s sleep was much better than before. Physical exertion was a fine cure for insomnia.

Finally, they broke out of the woods and onto the snowy outcrop overlooking the valley. Alend dropped his pack, signalling for a rest. Ein brought his waterskin to his lips and drank deeply.

Stolen story; please report.

The Sleeping Twins stood tall and proud against the horizon, two white-capped peaks marking the start of a mountain chain. There was a lake just past the sprawling mass of trees below them, and a river running from the lake, and next to the river, nestled right between the Twins was the village of Felhaven. Ein knew it well, all of its tidy buildings with their snow-covered roofs, the well-worn dirt paths that snaked around them, the village square that lay in the middle of it all. Smoke rose in sleepy wisps as dawn’s first light crept across the valley.

It was an old village, steeped in a history almost as rich as Faengard itself. He remembered old Garax telling the story when Ein had been but a child, sitting around the fireplace with all the rest of the children. The legend spoke of a pair of talented Songweavers, the titular twins Fel and Brackenburg who’d roamed the land, calling down lightning and redirecting rivers in their wake. They’d travelled far and wide in search of a place to settle down, slaying monsters, rescuing damsels in distress, until finally they stumbled across a small plot of land nestled between a lake, a forest and a chain of mountains—a natural fortress isolated from the rest of the world, an oasis that was difficult to reach from the outside and easily overlooked by unfamiliar eyes. Thus, Felhaven was founded, and when the twins died, two great mountains rose from their corpses to seal off the last remaining path to the village. The valley was named in their honour.

Ein had envied the twins once, wishing he could have lived a life as a Hero of Faengard. Not anymore, though. He was happy just the way he was now, the son of a blacksmith.

“I wonder if they’ve started making preparations for Founder’s Eve yet,” Alend muttered.

Ein squinted into the distance. “I think so,” he said. He could make out the beginnings of food stalls in the village square and a line of lanterns that had been preemptively tied between a few of the rooftops. “How many days left again?”

“Two. We should be back with a day or so to spare.”

With all the excitement and danger of the hunt, Founder’s Eve had slipped Ein’s mind completely. The festival had been a long time coming, a day of peace in a time of darkness. The villagers didn’t celebrate often, but when they did, they celebrated like kings. Word had it that Mayor Walmsley had somehow hired the Wydlings, the most famous travelling troupe in all Faengard to perform for the day. They even had with them a Songweaver, which was a feat in itself given the current state of things.

“It feels like a complete waste of time,” Ein grumbled. “It’s money that could be spent on food and furs instead.”

“You sound like a sellsword,” Alend said. “Money and food aren’t the only things you need to get through tough times. A good boost to morale can be just as important.”

“I suppose. Though, having a full stomach and a heavy purse definitely lifts the spirits.”

Alend grunted. “Have any of the village girls spoken to you yet?”

Ein tilted his head. “About what?”

“About your birthday.”

The blood immediately rushed to his face. This year’s festival would mark the third year of the Great Winter, and the conclusion of his boyhood. He was sixteen, a fully fledged man, and this Founder’s Eve would be his first as an adult. Certain things were expected of men from Felhaven—particularly unmarried ones.

“They haven’t,” he said, busying himself shovelling snow into his flask. Alend’s gaze continued to bore into him.

“Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Do I really have to be married?” Ein asked, tucking the flask away. He took his time tightening his straps. “I don’t feel like I’m ready yet.”

His father scoffed. “Trust me, boy. No one feels like they’re ready when they come of age. It’s just the way the world works. Be thankful your mother and I didn’t pick someone for you, though if you remain indecisive for too long we might have to.”

“I… It just feels so sudden—”

Alend raised an eyebrow. Ein looked away uncomfortably, staring at the treetops below. The village had more than its share of unmarried girls—he simply could not think of them as women, not yet—but they were girls he’d known his whole life, whom he’d grown up alongside. The idea of taking one of them to be his bride was an uncomfortable one. It would be like marrying Cinnamin, and last he checked, siblings did not marry, not even in Felhaven.

“Can’t I wait a while longer?” he asked. “It’s not like anyone will be leaving.”

“No one will be leaving,” Alend agreed. “But time doesn’t wait for anyone. In a few weeks, some of the other boys will come of age and you can rest assured they’ll snatch away all the good ones come next Eve. I’m sure a lot of the girls will be hoping you pick them.” He scratched at his beard. “In hindsight, I should have just arranged for you and Evaine to be wed back when I could.”

“Surely not? Why Evaine of all people?” Ein couldn’t see her in that way no matter how hard he tried.

“Your mother would cuff you over the head for saying that,” Alend chuckled. “Evaine is good friends with Cinnamin, and her father’s farm is the biggest in all Felhaven. She’s one of the prettiest girls in the village, and she’s strong and healthy enough to bear a few sons. I couldn’t think of a more suitable person.”

Ein sighed. Alend was right; if he were to pick any person from the village to wed, it would be her—for practical reasons, if anything else. He would have to make an effort to befriend any other girl, and there was always the chance that they wouldn’t get along. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be relieved or not that Evaine was already betrothed.

“Just remember,” Alend said. “If you stay in Felhaven, you’ll have to marry eventually. The early bird gets the worm. You don’t have a lot of time to decide.” He slapped Ein on the back and shouldered his pack, signalling the end of their break.

Ein nodded, took one last drink of water and strapped on his own belongings.

“Go and enjoy Founder’s Eve,” Alend continued. “Enjoy your first Dance, and have a good think about your future.”

Ein didn’t respond. He’d been looking forward to their return, but now he wasn’t so sure.

They left the edge of the outcrop and began making their way down to the valley, one hand against the cliff face, the other on the ground. It was slow going. The rocks were half-frozen and as slippery as ice, and several times Ein almost slid to his demise. The sky grew brighter and slightly less grey as the day progressed. Ein looked forward to reaching the bottom. From there, it was just a single flat stretch through the woods and farmland before they were home.

They reached the base of the valley in two hours’ time and found their way onto one of the many hunting trails that streamed through the woods. Snow fell for a while and then stopped. The Felhaveners had only taken to hunting about a year ago, but even in that time the wildlife population had taken a drastic plunge. Scarcely a few years before, it wasn’t uncommon to see flocks of songbirds dancing through the trees, herds of deer grazing in the meadows, schools of fish swimming through the ponds. Now there were only pigeons and snow finches. Most of the deer were either dead or had migrated, and over half of the bodies of water were frozen solid.

By the time evening came, Ein and Alend had left the woods well behind and were on the road, footsore and weary but hopeful. The fields stretched on in an endless swathe of white, dotted with the hardiest of weeds here and there. When the wind blew, snowflakes washed away like veils of dust across the plains. They might have stopped one more night before continuing on, but both father and son had travelled the route enough times to know how close they were to home. Ein recognized a broken trunk and a crop of evergreens that signalled the start of Evaine’s farm. He quickened his pace.

The Tamelyn homestead took up a good portion of the roadside, bounded by a rickety old fence that any man could step over. Fields of snow-beans gave way to frosted radishes, leeks, turnips and other winter vegetables. Scarecrows stood guard, weathered and worn by wind and time. It was the biggest farm in Felhaven, feeding half the village’s population.

“It’s a bit quiet, isn’t it?” Alend asked.

Ein nodded. The Tamelyn family didn’t just grow crops, they had a flock of sheep too, along with a lone wolfhound who kept the livestock herded. The hound was usually the first to greet them, loping alongside the fence from several hundred yards away as soon as it caught their scent, sometimes even further if the wind was blowing in the right direction. It was about as old as Evaine herself, and she’d named it Einar just to spite him. Evaine was odd like that.

“Maybe they’re having dinner,” Ein shrugged. “It’s about that time, after all.” The last vestiges of daylight sunk from behind the clouds.

“Perhaps.” Alend wasn’t convinced. Neither was Ein, if he was to be honest with himself. The old hound always met them whether or not it was meal-time.

They slogged further along the farm until they reached the sheep pen. The gate was open. It had been ripped off its hinges.

Ein stared at the fractured wood for a moment, trying to comprehend what had happened. It was splintered and sheared across the centre, lying in a dreary heap across the road like a bundle of driftwood. Alend took one look and then stepped into the paddock.

It didn’t take long for them to find the livestock. The entire flock of sheep had been slaughtered and left in bits and pieces on the ground, fleece dyed deep in the scarlet of blood and guts. Bodies lay scattered across all corners of the pen. Eyes stared lifelessly, beads of dull black locked in expressions of terror. Ein could almost see them fleeing in their final moments, bleating with frenzy as their brethren were slashed to pieces around them. The thick smell of blood, entrails and scat pierced his nose, causing him to gag.

“It’s the same,” Alend said. He retained his composure, studying a series of tracks on the ground. “Exactly the same.”

“The wolves,” Ein realized. “The same thing killed these sheep as those wolves.”

His father nodded. The tracks on the yellowed grass matched the ones in his memory—five-toed, clawed, bipedal. They littered the inside of the pen and around the edge of the fence, near the splintered gate.

Ein wandered amongst the corpses, checking each one in the hopes that at least one of them had survived. He found the lifeless body of Einar the hound buried beneath two of the sheep. The beast had spent its last moments trying to protect its charges from the unknown assailant. Its body was already frozen stiff, a single clean slash opening up its belly.

“Einar…”

The hound would never bark again or wag its tail, never snap at his ankles when he came to visit. Tears pricked behind his eyes. Then, with a sudden realization, Ein jerked his head towards the house.

“Evaine,” he cried out, everything else forgotten.

“Hang on,” Alend said quietly. He grabbed the back of Ein’s pack and held him in place. “Don’t go charging in right away.”

Ein almost snapped at his father, but common sense got the better of him and he nodded. Father and son armed themselves, making sure their hunting knives were within easy reach by their waists. Then, as the last corner of the paddock sunk into the darkness, they made for the house.

It was a simple structure in the same fashion as most of the other houses in Felhaven, single-storeyed with wooden walls and a straw-thatched roof. There were no wisps of smoke coming from the chimney however, no sounds of chatter or dishes being washed, and the windows lacked the homely glow of a hearth-fire. Alend led the way around the side and to the front door, the entrance nearest the scene of bloodshed. Ein followed with bated breath, hoping against hope that his childhood friend and her family were safe.

There were no marks on the walls, no scratches or splinterings, no shattered windows. However, the front door had been beaten inwards, the top half cracked, a great gash running along its length. Alend prodded it with his foot, then bent down and pulled it off its hinges with a low grunt. It made a loud creaking sound as it came free.

“Evaine!” Alend called out in a low voice. “Valeesha! Nath!”

His voice echoed against the empty walls.

“Wyd almighty,” Ein swore. Unable to wait any longer, he pushed past his father and ran into the homestead, kicking down doors, calling at the top of his lungs. His eyes frantically darted across the rooms, searching. “Evaine!” he cried. “Evaine, are you there?”

The inside of the house was a disaster. The plates were shattered and strewn across the kitchen, shelves upturned with books and tableware spilling across the floor, chairs and tables broken into tiny pieces. A large crack ran through the centre of the fireplace where something had rammed into it. It was like a wild beast had whipped through the house, leaving nothing untouched. There was a pool of dried blood on the dining room floor and a large bloodstain on the wall nearest to it.

Ein couldn’t remember how long he stood there for after he’d sifted through all the rooms, but Alend finally brought him to his senses with a firm tap on the shoulder. While he’d been frozen in silent panic, his father had been carefully examining the door and the paddock for clues. Apparently he’d found nothing, and now that the initial shock of it all had worn down, Ein could see the tiredness settling in his eyes.

“Let’s keep going,” Alend said. “They might be waiting for us up at the village.”

Ein swallowed the lump in his throat. “They’ll be there,” he nodded. “They’ll be there.” He repeated the phrase to himself, as if saying it would make it come true.

Gods, what the hell is going on?

Whatever had killed those wolves in the forest had reached Felhaven. Ein and his father weren’t safe, not even in the Sleeping Twins.

They left the farm, heading out along the road in complete darkness. Resting was not an option, not anymore. Ein never loosed his grip on the knife strapped to his waist. Not even when the farm was far behind them, as broken and lonely as they’d first found it.