I love prose that makes me feel small - like a speck, here today but gone tomorrow, part of a history and a world that stretches far beyond the span of my existence. I love Tolkien's reverence for nature and his honesty about the weaknessess of men. I love it when heroes fail but friends pull through. I love language that is both humble and beautiful, free of pretence but takes full delight in wordcraft. I love the way Leguin makes me feel seen, and in turn calls me to see the darker parts of myself.

What do I hate? I hate stories that appeal to the basest parts of us, seeking simply to stroke our egoes and feed our lusts so they can absorb our minds and pick our pockets in the proccess. I hate craftsmanship is bent and distorted in order to make comodities. I hate how the things most precious and sacred to us are often used as leverage to control and manipulate us. I hate the cold indifference of the modern world and the lonely isolation so many of us live in.

I yearn for connection, I yearn to make something beautiful, something true... or at least something honest.

I do not think I am there yet, but that is where I want to go.

Prologue

To my dearest Kin,

My true child, not by flesh and blood but by The Wind and Word; greetings from an old wanderer.

I know that when we last parted I was less than forthcoming about my plans. In truth, I did not know exactly what I was searching for - all I had was a sense that something was lacking. I had learnt enough from our years together to listen to that tugging on my soul, so I left in haste. I can only apologise that I have been gone for so long and with such little contact.

There is much I would like to tell you about these months of travelling and searching, but suffice to say that I have found what was I was looking for. It is an old truth we as a people once knew; that the survival of the good in our world has always depended not on the deeds of rulers or armies, but on the quiet, faithful lives of simple people, often all but forgotten.

I know that our scholars will write many volumes about the events of the past few years; let the kings have their history books. The future of our land, the future of Teltra, will be shaped by the stories we tell around our campfires and in our tavern halls. What you now hold in your hands are those very tales; ones of simple, forgotten people who nonetheless have forever shaped these windswept isles. I leave them in your care and trust that you will share them widely.

I pray that as a people we will learn to remember the right stories, not ones of battles won and foes vanquished, but ones of the hope that endures. And I pray that you will never again face such terrible times as we shared together. If you do, I hope these tales will keep you, and our peoples, warm through the darkest of nights.

I am glad to be able to give these to you, the fruit of my wanderings, and to now be able to rest. You will be happy to hear that I have found a secluded place in the south, somewhere to live out my last days in peace. If The Wind wills, it may carry us to meet once more, if not here, then on that farthest shore.

Your ever faithful friend,

Gorith

Part One: Into The Woods

The ancient oaks of the Old Wood hung over the path ahead, dipping their bare branches low to the ground. They bent and swayed, blown about by the fierce, easterly wind. Farin watched transfixed from the back of his horse. The whole wood loomed large as he approached, a living mass of rippling, dancing, creaking.

“No need to worry lad.” Balan did not look up at Farin as he rode beside him, his eyes ever fixed to the ground. They were swiftly darting this way and that, silently noting the passing of game by the signs they left in the wet mud, in the bent grass and broken branches.

“Not worried, just cold,” Farin replied quietly. Balan snorted.

“Just do as you're told, stick close to Lord Rane, and you’ll come home in one piece.”

Farin looked ahead. Lord Rane rode beside his blademaster, Jotir, the two men talking casually while they ate in the saddle, gesturing every now and then towards the forest before them. The relentless wind blew their dark green cloaks flat against their heavy set frames and carried their speech far from Farin.

“How many times has Lord Rane been into the Old Wood?” Farin asked.

“Hard to say,” Balan replied with a shrug, “been leading the hunts since I were a boy. Led me on my first too.” Balan looked up at the two figures riding ahead of them, an awed expression briefly crossing his face. “They say half the wealth of Ealin has come from his hunts, or from those of the men he's taught.” Balan looked over at Farin, then tucked his black hair behind his ear. “This I can tell you for sure,” he continued, returning to studying the track ahead, “no other man I would choose to lead me into those woods.”

As they drew closer and closer the whine of the wind was slowly swallowed up in a great, continuous roar, the sound of the wind amongst the branches of the endless forest ahead. Lord Rane and Jotir paused at the treeline and turned, waiting for Balan and Farin to join them.

Farin had grown up watching those two men from his father’s fields as they had led companies of the hunt out past the family farm and into the wild, green cloaks flapping, brass buckles catching in the morning sun, swords strapped to their sides. When they returned by evening, battered but often buoyed by the joy of a good haul, Farin’s father would offer them food and rest, and so it was that Farin spent many nights peering down through the stairway bannisters, long after he should have been in bed, watching great lords and mighty warriors sitting around a farmers table, laughing and drinking with his father as they told the tales of their latest heroics. Each night Farin had fallen asleep imagining himself as a part of their stories, slaying his own great beasts and returning home with his own bounty. Each morning however he would rise early to feed the chickens, tend the horses and work the fields till dusk.

Then, a year past, Lord Rane had arrived at the farm long after dark. Four of his men had rushed him in through the kitchen door; he had been covered in blood and was deathly pale. Farin’s mother had not hesitated. Within moments she had put all the men to work. Rane’s men cleared the table and laid their lord gently on it while Farin’s father went to fetch her healing supplies, and Farin was sent to the stables to tend Lord Rane’s horse.

He had found the poor beast wild eyed, shivering and limping with a large gash down its left flank. It had taken him the whole night to clean the wound and suture it; he had to stop often to calm the horse and speak gently to it, then return to his work by candlelight. Jotir had found Farin the next morning, sleeping against the side of the horse with bloody rags and a needle in his hands.

Lord Rane and the horse both lived. He had thanked Farin’s whole family with his usual sombre dignity put aside, smiling broadly as he clasped each one of them by the forearm in turn and bowed low. Out of gratitude he gifted Farin’s father two new work horses, his mother a large vial of Sarif tincture (which was worth more than the farm would produce in a year), and to Farin he gave a dark green woollen cloak which fastened about the neck by a brass clasp shaped like twisting, interlocking vines; the uniform of the company of the hunt. He had not believed it then. He still struggled even now as he rode up to join Lord Rane and Jotir at the edge of the wood; he was to be one of them.

Farin’s green cloak hung a little loose about his shoulders, and he was uncomfortable in the saddle - he was more used to grooming a lord's horse than riding it. Despite all that, nervous excitement jostled within him, infused his bones.

Lord Rane looked Farin up and down, his cold blue eyes steely and calculating, weighing. Shortly he scratched at the grey stubble on his chin and asked “How many years do you have boy?”

“14, Lord Rane.” Farin replied.

“That makes you a man, yes?”

Farin paused for a moment, unsure how to answer, then gave a small nod.

“Hmm. We shall see. Well, every free man of the south needs his own sword. Jotir?”

The blade master opened his saddle bag and pulled out a long, narrow cloth-bound package, about the length of a man’s forearm, and handed it to Farin. Farin looked at it, stunned, then opened it eagerly. The cloth fell away to reveal a well polished wooden hilt and leather scabbard, and within a shining steel blade. It glinted as Farin half unsheathed it.

“My Lord, I…” Farin could not find the words. No one in Farin’s family had ever been given something so fine.

“A man does not forget his debts,” Lord Rane replied simply, then turned to Jotir. “Make sure he doesn’t stick himself with it, and teach him the woods as we go.”

Jotir nodded then grinned as he grasped Farin’s shoulder. “Just remember which end is the sharp one and keep it well oiled,” he said with a wink, then added, more seriously, “and keep your eyes and ears open.”

Lord Rane turned his horse to face the tree line once more. “Daylight is wasting and we want to be homeward long before nightfall. Balan, lead on.”

“Right you are, m’ Lord,” Balan replied with a bow of his head and rode into the Old Wood.

The roaring of the wind lessened as they passed under the boughs of the trees, the air now close about them. A lightly trod trail, used by countless generations of hunters and foragers who had come and gone before them, disappeared deeper into the forest, snaking between the gnarled oaks, silver birch trees and through the dense undergrowth. It had rained the night before and now and then the sun broke through the cloud cover above, shining down through the naked branches and briefly catching the carpet of ferns and brambles and dry brown leaves, causing them to glisten silver in the low autumn light.

Farin fidgeted with his reins as he rode next to Jotir, trying to soak everything in.

“Again, Farin; what is the Old Wood?” Jotir asked. Farin replied immediately, repeating by rote what he had been taught.

“It is the wealth of the Southlands, where we get our dyes, our furs, our medicines, like the Sarif nut which- ”

“Good,” Jotir interrupted with a wave of his hand, “clear you listened to your parents. What else?”

“It is also the sorrow of the Southlands,” Farin replied, uneasy as his gaze passed over the dense undergrowth on either side of them. “Many of our men have died here; to great boars, bears, the Waterhounds, even to some creatures we have no names for...”

“Correct again. Look at me Farin.” Farin snapped his gaze away from thickets and trees and obediently focused on Jotir’s weathered face. “This is your first new lesson. You must hold both of these truths tightly, in balance. Don’t let one drown out the other. Know why we are here, know what we face, and you will return home with more wealth than sorrow.” Farin nodded in reply.

He suddenly felt acutely aware of the sword now buckled at his side, the strange newness of its weight and presence there. He wondered if he would have to use it. He prayed silently to Elru Windfather that if the moment came, he would not fail.

The Old Wood changed the deeper they went. The broad forest floor began to descend sharply and they followed the path as it snaked back and forth down towards the sound of rushing water and the chirping of birdsong. The wind which blew uninhibited all across the eastern sea and the Southland flats grew even less here, the slopes behind them breaking its power and offering a rare reprieve. The air grew warmer the lower they went and they soon removed their thick woollen cloaks, strapping them to the side of their saddlebags.

Eventually the ground levelled out once more and Balan drew them to a halt, some hundred paces from the river which was now visible through the trees. There they dismounted.

Farin watched the men carefully; they never took eyes off their surroundings. Not Balan as he strung his bow, nor Jotir as he tightened the straps on his leather armour. Lord Rane stood on a rock and scanned the woods around them, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword and the other holding some rough hessian sacks.

“Hand on sword, Farin,” Jotir said, nodding towards Lord Rane as he tied their horses to a nearby branch, “down in these valleys, always keep one hand on your sword.” Farin obeyed, copying Jotir’s ready posture, left hand on the pommel of his sword hilt and right arm free to balance as they made their way over the moss coated roots and granite boulders, down towards the river's edge.

They hopped over small streams which trickled between the rocks, pooling behind miniature dams of broken branches and fallen leaves before flowing over them and down to join the deep, broad river.

On the banks of the river the ground was clear and flat once more, the soft earth dark under their feet. They paused and Lord Rane drew them together. Farin peered into the brown river water, trying not to think of what could lie in the shadows beneath the surface.

“All looks clear m’ Lord” Balan said, still glancing about as he spoke in hushed tones.

Lord Rane grunted in reply. “Very good. Still, you never know. The grove is maybe two hundred feet downriver. Balan, Jotir, we will stand guard. Farin,” Lord Rane thrust the sacks into Farin’s hands, “you will gather what we came for. Keep your ears open and run to us if you hear any of us shout.” Farin nodded and took the sacks gratefully. With that they set off southwards along the river bank, following the flow of the river in single file, Balan out front with bow at the ready, Lord Rane, Farin and then Jotir following behind.

The river narrowed and quickened, now rushing over ridges in the riverbed which grew larger the further south they travelled, until all at once the ground fell away and the waters disappeared over the edge of a small cliff and down into the forest below. Here, beside the river and close to the cliff, was a grove of trees with long drooping branches and leaves the green-gold colour of early spring. They stood stark against the bare forest about them, a strange beacon of life and new growth.

Farin stared in wonder. They were Sarif trees, Quickhearts as the other common folk called them. He had seen their sap used to clean and heal wounds rank with gangrene and their nuts ground and soaked to make deep red dyes, but he had never seen the trees themselves. They were even more beautiful than he had imagined, their branches swaying in bright curtains of fluttering leaves.

“You’re up lad,” Jotir said and patted his back, “remember, eyes and ears open. Get as much as you can.” Farin gathered his courage then set off, hunched low and moving quickly. The men followed behind, then fanned out as they reached the trees, turning to face out into the woods while Farin passed through the hanging branches into the shade of the Sarif grove.

The light was gentle and warm beneath the Sarif trees and Farin was completely enveloped in green, both above and all about him. The floor was a carpet of brown husks, split open and sticky with sap, most still containing their blood red Sarif nut.

Farin eagerly got to work, collecting both husk and nut as quickly as he could. The rough husks were difficult, sticking to his fingers and the sides of the bag, but after a few minutes he had managed to fill the first sack and was working on the second. In the space of five minutes or so he would gather enough to pay for his parents farm three times over. His heart raced as he thought of bringing his share home, imagining his mother’s joy, his father’s pride. Every so often he would stop, listening, looking about. “Remember why we are here, remember what we face,” he repeated to himself under his breath, over and over as he worked.

He had nearly filled the second bag when he heard a faint splash over the sounds of the river. He looked up, his whole body suddenly tense. The branches swayed lazily about him, the light playing across the forest floor. He strained his ears, listening. There was nothing but the murmur of the river, the wind in the leaves.

All at once there was a thud and a scream, then silence once more, followed by a guttural, stuttering shriek which split the air.

"FARIN!" Lord Rane bellowed from somewhere beyond the Sarif trees. Farin sprinted forwards, burst through the branches and skidded to a halt, looking about wildly.

Jotir was on the floor ten paces to his left, a writhing brown mass twice his size on top of him. There was a quick thud of foot steps; Lord Rane sped past Farin and slammed into the side of the beast, sending it sprawling. As quickly as it fell it twisted to its feet and rounded on the lord. Its sleek, brown coat rippled with muscular strength as it slowly bore down on him, approaching on all fours with its whiskers flattened against its muzzle, tufted ears against its rounded head, snarling and baring its fangs.

“BALAN, WATERHOUNDS!” Rane roared, then charged the animal. An arrow whistled over Rane’s shoulder and struck the Waterhound, only just puncturing its thick hide. The arrow hung loosely out of its flank as the beast shrieked again, then sped past Rane with the grace and speed of flowing water.

Farin turned just in time to see Balan lose a second arrow. This time it found its mark, driving straight through the charging animal's right eye, bringing it to the ground thrashing and whining. A second later Rane was on top of it, driving his short sword up and through the underside of its head. There was a grim, gurgling sound as the beast bled out onto the forest floor, thrashed once more, then was still.

“The female, where is the female?” Balan panted, a third arrow already nocked to his bow.

Jotir groaned and tried to sit up, then fell back to the ground, clutching his shoulder. Lord Rane ran to his side and dropped to his knees, leaning over him and gently inspecting the wound. After a moment he let out a deep sigh. “He will live,” he said, the relief in his voice palpable, “we need to get him out of these woods now, but he will live!”

Rane wrapped Jotir’s good arm about his own shoulders and helped the man to his feet.

“Farin, get the bags. We’re going now.” Balan said, still turning his head this way and that, peering into the trees. Farin simply stood, rooted to the spot.

“Farin!” Balan shouted and gave him a shove, “The bags!” This time Farin heard - he rushed back through the leaf-curtain and snatched up both bags from where he had left them, near the base of the largest Sarif tree.

Something struck him hard from the side and fell on top of him as he hit the ground. Searing pain shot through his left arm. He kicked and scrambled wildly, trying to get away, to get up and run. Another arrow whistled through the air and the Waterhound shrieked, then leapt away. Farin rolled onto his back and propped himself up with his right arm. He couldn’t get his sword from its scabbard, his hand wasn’t working. The Waterhound ignored Lord Rane and Balan, who had now both entered the Sarif glade. Farin cradled his injured arm in his lap and tried to shift himself backwards. The Waterhound snarled as it approached slowly. Each movement racked his body with more pain, causing hot tears to spill down his cheeks as he kicked and shuffled himself away from the beast. Suddenly the ground disappeared from beneath his right hand and he tipped backwards. His feet spun over his head as he fell. There was another shout and a shriek, the rush of air against his face and something struck his head.

Farin woke deep in a bank of rotting leaves, staring up through a tangle of brambles at the darkening sky above. He tried to move; Overwhelming pain erupted from his left arm. What had happened? Where were the others? Farin closed his eyes tight, trying to clear his head. Everything felt clouded, distant. Everything except the pain.

He managed to roll onto his good side and look down to inspect his injured arm. The blood was warm and slick and had soaked through his shirt. He tenderly lifted his tattered sleeve to inspect the damage; it was just above his elbow, a gouge taken out of the flesh. His forearm was clearly broken - it was swollen, an angry purple, radiating searing pain whenever he tried to bend his wrist or move his elbow.

Farin sat up slowly, taking steady, deliberate breaths and waiting for his head to stop swimming. He felt like he was going to be sick. He slowly untangled himself from the bramble patch he was in and shuffled over to rest against a nearby tree, then looked around.

Twisting trunks and boughs and roots of ancient trees climbed over moss clad boulders, disappearing into a thick fog in all directions, save behind him where a sheer rock face rose to a ridge some twenty feet above.

The events up on the ridge flooded back to him. He hoped the others were out there, somewhere nearby, looking for him. He heard nothing but the rustle of leaves and the pounding of the nearby waterfall.

Farin tore some material from his undershirt with his teeth, then used it to pack the wound and bind it. As the flow of blood stemmed to a trickle, the thought slowly began to dawn on him with a terrible and growing force; he was going to die here.

The daylight, diffused and pale, was fading quickly and Farin could see no way back up the cliff face. He tried to control his breathing as panic started to take hold. No one was coming. He was all alone.

Night fell and the Old Wood came alive with new and strange sounds; bird calls he had never heard before, a mournful howl echoing through the trees, and somewhere deep in the forest something massive passed by, cracking branches and shaking the earth as it went. Farin tried to stay as still and as silent as possible; even his own breathing seemed too loud.

The moon rose full and silhouetted the trees and rocks about him in silver. Farin drew his sword and rested it across his knees as he stared out into the darkness. Every tiny movement, every sound caused his throat to catch, his sword hand to tense. Branches like fingers clawing at the night sky clacked together in a faint wind high above him. There was a rustling noise, then something moved in the moonlight, just ten paces ahead.

Farin lifted his blade, eyes wide with fear as a small jac deer jumped out into the clearing before him. It started, then stared at him, its black eyes reflecting the moonlight. For a while they were both frozen, motionless, looking at one another. Farin felt foolish and lowered his blade. Instantly the jac deer bounded off in amongst the trees and boulders.

Farin felt a deep despair fall upon him as he watched the animal leave. Even the tiny deer seemed to have a better chance of surviving the night; it could move. Farin stared down at his broken arm, then looked up and out into the trees again, praying for morning to come quickly.

The woods about him slowly faded into dream. He thought he heard music coming through the trees from somewhere far away, a strange melody that danced and swelled; it felt both foreign and familiar, like a song from beyond his childhood, barely remembered, awakening something deep within him.

The roaring of the wind lessened as they passed under the boughs of the trees, the air now close about them. A lightly trod trail, used by countless generations of hunters and foragers who had come and gone before them, disappeared deeper into the forest, snaking between the gnarled oaks, silver birch trees and through the dense undergrowth. It had rained the night before and now and then the sun broke through the cloud cover above, shining down through the naked branches and briefly catching the carpet of ferns and brambles and dry brown leaves, causing them to glisten silver in the low autumn light.

Farin fidgeted with his reins as he rode next to Jotir, trying to soak everything in.

“Again, Farin; what is the Old Wood?” Jotir asked. Farin replied immediately, repeating by rote what he had been taught.

“It is the wealth of the Southlands, where we get our dyes, our furs, our medicines, like the Sarif nut which- ”

“Good,” Jotir interrupted with a wave of his hand, “clear you listened to your parents. What else?”

“It is also the sorrow of the Southlands,” Farin replied, uneasy as his gaze passed over the dense undergrowth on either side of them. “Many of our men have died here; to great boars, bears, the Waterhounds, even to some creatures we have no names for...”

“Correct again. Look at me Farin.” Farin snapped his gaze away from thickets and trees and obediently focused on Jotir’s weathered face. “This is your first new lesson. You must hold both of these truths tightly, in balance. Don’t let one drown out the other. Know why we are here, know what we face, and you will return home with more wealth than sorrow.” Farin nodded in reply.

He suddenly felt acutely aware of the sword now buckled at his side, the strange newness of its weight and presence there. He wondered if he would have to use it. He prayed silently to Elru Windfather that if the moment came, he would not fail.

The Old Wood changed the deeper they went. The broad forest floor began to descend sharply and they followed the path as it snaked back and forth down towards the sound of rushing water and the chirping of birdsong. The wind which blew uninhibited all across the eastern sea and the Southland flats grew even less here, the slopes behind them breaking its power and offering a rare reprieve. The air grew warmer the lower they went and they soon removed their thick woollen cloaks, strapping them to the side of their saddlebags.

Eventually the ground levelled out once more and Balan drew them to a halt, some hundred paces from the river which was now visible through the trees. There they dismounted.

Farin watched the men carefully; they never took eyes off their surroundings. Not Balan as he strung his bow, nor Jotir as he tightened the straps on his leather armour. Lord Rane stood on a rock and scanned the woods around them, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword and the other holding some rough hessian sacks.

“Hand on sword, Farin,” Jotir said, nodding towards Lord Rane as he tied their horses to a nearby branch, “down in these valleys, always keep one hand on your sword.” Farin obeyed, copying Jotir’s ready posture, left hand on the pommel of his sword hilt and right arm free to balance as they made their way over the moss coated roots and granite boulders, down towards the river's edge.

Legacy is a word the great and powerful guard jealously.

They hold it fast around them

like a blanket,

tight against the cold.

Fragile hands

clawing desperately to build

something from dead stone and blood soaked earth

that will last

longer than them.

But you?

Legacy is a word you give freely, hands open, expecting nothing in return.

Yours is a love that quietly thunders

echoing down through the generations.

What do you leave behind? To what shall I compare it?

A small seed planted

that grows into a great tree

a home for the birds;

a place to sing

and to rest.