About Eighteen Years Later…

The morning light peeped in through a corner of the round windows, one among the three that dotted the brick walls of his bedroom. Kerrigan yawned as he woke up, the drowsiness still enticing him to lay back on the bed. A silent breeze gusted in through the opening by which the dawn had crept in. It was cold and shivery, he thought, even though the long winter had passed. A colorful spring had made its way to the western countries of Galacor and the snow on the Wickerone Ranges to the east was just starting to melt.

His ears pricked up at the noise of the running water nearby; a rillet that ran to meet the Great Sea to the west, originating in the mountains. He stretched his legs, cursing the sound of the gushing stream. The cacophony made by it was excruciating to his ears. All day, all night. Why ever did his parents had to build a house so close to the water? He would never know.

He drew aside the ragged, dirty curtains, letting the sunlight through. The chill in the air suddenly vanished, the room getting warmer. What sleep he had in him vanished. Rubbing his eyes, he walked out of the room into a hall, which was empty. A frown encroached on his forehead, wondering where his parents had disappeared to.

'Mother!' he shouted. 'Father!'

Nobody answered.

The door, he saw, was open. His brows furrowed again. His parents were never that careless enough to leave the door open. Even though they had nothing precious enough for the bandits to target them, his father still liked to keep the doors closed unless and until necessary. Only during the summer, when the weather was hot and the sun burned outside with ghastly heat would he consider leaving the doors open, eager to let some wind in. Not that it helped, he had heard. The winds during the summer were hotter, though a little humid. His mother used to say the weather was much drier to the east.

But he had never experienced the heat of the summer. It had been winter since he was born. Eighteen years had passed since his nameday and the cold had refused to relent. People had begun speaking of it as the sign of coming darkness; rumors had spread of daemons and witches scouring the world, eating any living thing that crawled under the sun. All through his life he had trudged through snow and never once saw lush greenery. Except for when the spring had arrived. The snow thawed and slowly the green was making its return.

He called out to them again. Yet there was no answer. Silence except for the gusting winds that grew warmer as the day progressed.

'Where are you?' he whispered, his heart beating fast. Had something happened to his parents? Had bandits struck their house at last, and when they had, having found nothing, did something to his parents? Chaos sprouted in his mind, torn in two about what was to be done. He could rush to the cluster of houses lower in the valley -- a small town called Sipleton that lay on the foothills of the Wickerone Ranges -- and spread the word among its people. But his family wasn't exactly any of their priority. They all looked down upon them, especially the ones who possessed gold in their coffers. His family was of the farmer's clan, one of the lowest, and according to the Councilors, they did not warrant much attention.

His feet led him running out of the house. To his front, a huge green field spread for a league or two in either direction before it ended on the fringes of a dark forest, except for the west where the fields met their end on the moist banks of the rillet. As far as his eyes could see, he could not see any trace of his parents. Sometimes, his father did work the land early morning, even before the sun showed its face in the sky. But there was no sign of him in the fields today. He turned westward where the stream flowed, the water splashing amongst the black rocks that blocked its path downward. He could see the rich white foam on the surface of the water. A bucket lay on its banks, empty and dry, much to his surprise. It was even more surprising that he could see that it was dry even from standing thus afar.

Birds chirped in the sky above, flying from tree to tree. Sparrows and doves, pigeons and white swans, all nesting in the surroundings, all in absentia during the winter. The thought of them flying and the sound of them tweeting, save the guttural racket of the pigeons, made him happy. For a while. He forgot for that moment the absence of his parents. And when these birds had disappeared behind the brick walls of his house, the thought of them returned and he looked around with worry, creases appearing on his brows.

'Mother, Father,' he shouted, his words carried by the winds across the land. Yet there was no answer from either of them. Where were they? Where had they gone? Did something bad happen to them? Dark questions made his mind uneasy.

***

Down below in the valley, in the wee hours of the morning, the town of Sipleton had erupted into a celebration. Children ran amok through the narrow roads of the town, crying for their parents and elders, each having a wooden flute in their hands.

'The peddler has come,' they squeaked in their innocent voices. 'The peddler has come.'

Doors creaked open and out came the elders, gathering up their baskets and whatnots to carry the wares from and to the peddler. They had all been eagerly waiting for him to arrive. The winter had seen no trace of him. They needed his wares now, but most importantly, they wanted to hear stories, tales of the outside world. For years now they had gone without knowing the happenings elsewhere in Galacor and the lands beyond. And so as they breezed down the muddy paths, each wore a smile on their faces, their anticipation carrying across the town.

***

Kerrigan knew better than to follow the path to the forests. People spoke of the wolves that lived in them. In the beginning, he had thought they were tales to scare him, but a day had come when he had heard them howling. And where one wolf prowled, the pack that it led followed. The mere reminiscence of that event sent shudders down his spine and he cleared such thoughts away. No, his parents wouldn't dare go into the forests, not unless they had desperate need of wood, which they didn't, considering he knew there were countless logs of wood kept in their barn, and even if they did, his father would never go deep. He would stay in its fringes. But most of the time, his father bought wood from the village. It was expensive, but it was safe.

But the footsteps told him otherwise. He was sure the prints matched his parents. A pair of twos marching straight towards the dark woodlands. He wondered what madness had grasped both of them. Had they heard something? And if so, why had both of them gone? The whole logic of it seemed foolish to him. They knew they had a son who was sleeping in his room, oblivious of what was going on. But then, more and more he thought about it, he could not help but soothe down his misunderstanding. Where his father went, his mother would follow, especially if there was danger lurking. Had they left him because they had sensed something evil? He had no answers to any of his questions and it did nothing but irk him.

A crow cawed out loud as it perched on a wooden stick placed in the center of the field. He looked at it with great disdain. For some reasons he hated the passerine species. He distrusted the kind, especially the ravens. Crows, he tolerated, convincing himself that they were lesser relatives of the ravens. The latter he believed to be creatures of darkness, spies of the shadow. His belief was shared by many in the country, by almost everyone who hated and feared The Brothers Dark.

'Shoo!' he cried at the crow, which did not bother about his waving hands. It, much to his annoyance, did not move and began to caw louder. And suddenly, it fluttered its wings, black as coal, and flew away towards the forests with nary a look at him. He found its behavior weird and as he took another step forward, a strange ache assailed him in the head. He knelt down on his knees and held his face in his arms, his mouth dying to scream. Yet no sound he made for fear of attracting whatever it was that lurked in the woodlands. His breath came in gasps. His eyelids blinked faster than usual and then drooped to a close. He fell down on the ground in a swoon.

A blue circle of fire encircled him. He was standing on a chariot led by two horses, one black and one brown. In his hands he held a greatbow, his fingers clutching at an arrow he had made appear as if through magic. He took aim at his opponent, a middle-aged woman who stared at him with great confidence. She was a warrior.

He let loose the arrow and it flew with the wind at the woman. And just as he turned away to pick up another shaft, in the corner of his eyes, he saw the arrow turn into a flock of ravens that turned back towards him and pecked at his flesh.

He screamed out loud, squirming in pain as skin left him.

'Kerrigan, wake up, dear,' said a woman in his ears.

He woke up with a loud gasp and saw that his mother was beside him, a wide smile on her face, her light blue eyes looking at him with maternal affection. His father stood behind her, a look of concern on his face, his fingers on his dusky chin.

'What happened, son?' his father asked. 'You were thrashing yourself on the ground as if grounded with pain.'

'N...nothing,' he stuttered.

His father did not respond. Yet in those eyes he saw that his father wasn't done yet.

His mother broke the tension. 'Come along now. Back to the house you go and in the comforts of the bed you sleep. A field is no place for a young boy like you, especially when the cold has not gone yet and when the summer comes nigh.'

They led him through the fields back to their house, not far away.

'Where had you gone?' he asked.

His mother smiled. Pointing to a basket of corn, she said, 'Gone to get some corn, dear. Will make you some roast for breakfast. You go and freshen up. Some cold water shall drive what remains of your dark nightmares.'

He nodded. 'Shall do, Mother.'

Just as he turned to go, a small boy, with disheveled hair, appeared at the door, panting as if he had run all the way uphill. His name was Petros.

'What's it, Petros?' his mother asked, sweetly. 'And why are you panting thus? Run far?'

The boy gave a nod of his head. Kerrigan could not help but smile.

'The peddler is here.'

***