The boy paused at the side of a giant granite boulder, guarding him from a large cliff to his left.  He grinned at the sight before him.  Fresh tiny paw prints imprinted the sand deposits along the top of the cliff in the forest clearing.  Cunner was nearby, Markliam mused.  He looked toward the trees at the end of the trail, hoping to spot the orange furre, but found nothing.  He jogged across the sand in his friend's direction carrying his father's crossbow.

    Markliam was still trying to think of a good excuse for his father.  The elder Kliam had banned his son from playing with his ancestor's weapon of war.  It was ancient, his father would tell him.  It was over ninety years old and very dangerous for little furres like him.

    Markliam was eleven years old though.  According to him, that was not little.  He had practised with crossbows before and even hunted with his father.  He was the elder child, so the ancient weapon would go to him anyway.  Besides, there were no arrows in it during his hunt for his friends.  It was safe.

    He stopped at the end of sand and quietly listened for any disturbances.  In his imagination he pretended that he was his ancestor, Kliam, one of the most noted soldiers of Xte.  He fought for the protection of the kingdom under the command of the great warrior Gorian.  Although according to his father's stories, that kingdom was lost in a civil war, or more accurately, divided into two.  But his ancestor fought bravely to the end.

    Markliam rubbed his paw against his matted dark green hair.  It was awfully quiet.  He figured he was closer to his village but he could not hear anyone.  Normally the birds would chirp and make reckless noise in these woods, but they were silent.  He could not even hear Cunner, which surprised him.  Cunner's family were not exactly forest dwellers like the other villagers.

    He waited a moment, standing under a pine trying to feel his environment.  The forest felt very strange.  It was getting warmer.  Sweat dripped over his brown skin.  He was pawing at his moist arm, hoping to wipe the water away, when a sudden bitter smell invaded his nostrils.  It smelt like his father was burning their meat over the fire ... only much stronger.  He looked toward the village and noticed that the trees were being surrounded by a dark grey fog.  He decided to forget his 'hunt' and walked briskly for his home.

    The closer he came to Yrdnal, the thicker the fog became.  Markliam realized that it was the fog itself that had the bitter smell.  Terror crept through his neck as he realized that this fog was really smoke.  His brisk walk turned into a panic run.  He stopped when he realized that there were no trees around him.  He must be in town, but the smoke was too thick for him to see anything.

    As if activated by his desire, the smoke rolled away majestically.  He looked across the burnt meadow and gaped at the charred bodies of his fellow villagers decorating the hill.  He could not recognize them.  He looked for his house to his right.  What he saw were pieces of jagged wood, every one of them burned through.  Surrounding the house were more charred bodies, some smaller than the others.

   A bird chirped from across the meadow.  The chirping was prolonged and carried with it certain words of doom.  Shadows emerged from the top of the smoked hill, outlining hundreds of furres.  Markliam's feet froze to the ground.  They were alive.  And they were approaching him.

    Soils of yesterday, the chirping continued, I stand before you, younger than the valleys of which you hide.

    The words were hideous.  Markliam could not listen to the rest of them.  He was more focused on the approaching shadows.  They had no faces, but their eyes shone out of their darkness and into him.  He started to feel weak and panicked.

    Markliam?, another voice whispered into his head.  It was a woman's voice.  It felt ghostly as if it were the wind itself.  Stern, yet gentle.  And more in control than Markliam was.

    Markliam ... run!

    Markliam did as he was told.  He bolted back into the woods.  The bitter smell followed him.  He choked as he ran through pine branches.  The smoke thickened and kept in his way.

    Earth remains.

    It took a few seconds for Markliam to realize he missed his footing.  He was no longer running.  He was falling.  His back fell against the steep slope as he remembered about the cliff.  Markliam started to cry as he fell.  His mother told him not to go near that cliff.  His head fell against the slope, forcing him into a black world ...
 
 
 

    ... with music.  A furre was humming.  A woman.  Markliam's eyes tried to see as a damp cloth was placed on his forehead, leaking water into his hair.  His ears told him it was his mother helping him, but his eyes saw the pink furre with violet clothing. He cried.  The woman continued to hum the song of the legendary blue warrior, the story of a knight named Gorian.

Chapter 2