Eyes of Mist

1 - Peaceful Days

Prologue

The bells were silent. A hush lay over the plain between the river Armasin and Pherdon keep, yet there was no peace in it.

The soldier's breath came in short gasps as he trudged through wet grass and desperately tried to make out a shape or anything that could help him within the heavy mist. An icy lump of dread had formed in him when he was ordered to find out what had happened in Pherdon. Still, he followed his duty and obeyed. Now he was possibly walking right into an ambush with just a handful of men and cold sweat was running down his spine.

He had never been able to believe that Pherdon could fall. Too many times he had seen the proud walls himself. He was told the keep was impossible to conquer; its catapults would tear the poorly armored Shakaree soldiers apart. In the two years since he had joined the army, the young man had witnessed more than once that the cruel invaders from the north should never be underestimated, yet he had never doubted Pherdon's supremacy.

But when black clouds appeared over the plain this morning, the guards at the bridge fortress of Karn got nervous. They recognized the clouds as precursors to a Shakaree attack, and soon the storm bells of Pherdon proved them right. When the bells were abruptly silenced without horns sounding as a sign of victory of the Falaman defenders, the anxiety had turned into fear. In the end a small band of scouts were sent to find out what happened.

The soldier gave a start as a gust of wind set the mist into motion, and he believed he could make out the shape of a man. Next to him one of his men breathed in sharply, but then laughed in relief and turned around to the soldier. "Just a tree."

The soldier was about to join in when the other man's eyes suddenly widened, and he collapsed into a lifeless heap. A Shakaree soldier stepped over the body and swiped his sword at the soldier, but his remaining men were quick to get their defenses ready.

He pushed back some of the attackers with his blade. Yet he didn't believe they would make it to the keep. At least not in a shape that would enable them to report back. If only the keep's defenders would come to their aid.

One of his men dropped to the ground, blood pooling beneath him, and the soldier made his decision. "Retreat!" he yelled but his voice sounded hollow and frail in his ears. Their attackers rushed to surround them, but his men followed him when he broke through and ran off into the mist.

He couldn't say what hit him, just felt hot pain course through his leg. He fell down hard, and a moment later someone bent over him. Through the haze that clouded his mind, he heard the voice of one of his comrades: "Corporal Sanwa! You have to hold on! Open your eyes! Marilo!"

1 - Peaceful Days

Tamaril raised his head and ran his hand through his thick white hair. He laid down the quill next to the book he had just been writing and stood. It was seldom that he stopped writing. He had ceased to feel the need for sleep or food a long time ago. It had been at about the same time when he had stopped being what he had been born as. His memories of these times were only fragmentary, images at best, emotions that seldom surfaced in his consciousness when he laid aside the quill and went into the forest.

The forest, strangely enchanted by the power of the unicorn. This place made him what he was. What he was... He didn't even know what he should call himself. His features were still those of the sixteen-year-old boy he had been when he first arrived here. But as time passed he seemed to become unreal himself. He thought he remembered to have had dark hair once. Now it was a silvery-white like almost everything here. His light blue eyes were an exception though the silver had already started to shimmer in them. Silvery-white like the trees, the leaves, the forest ground. Silvery-white... like the unicorn.

He knew that there had once been a unicorn in these woods. It had talked to him... or had that been a dream? However, it was no longer here, and he had stopped looking for a way out of the forest a long time ago. He had found a new sense of life when he began writing. He wrote of war, good fortune in battle, and of despair. When he laid pen to paper, he forgot himself. It was not his thoughts he wrote down however, but the story of the world out there unobtainable to him. Somewhere people were fighting for their lives, but writing about their trials stopped affecting him a long time ago. Despite this, he never stopped writing. He desperately clung to his last link to a world he may have once belonged to.

Sometimes he asked himself if time passed when he stopped writing or if history itself waited for him to take the quill. At least it seemed to him as if no time had passed at all, as if the entire world had paused with him.

Sighing he returned to the pitch black desk, the only thing that wasn't gleaming white, and once more took the quill.

"Who knows," he whispered softly, "maybe I'm even the Lord of Time."

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Dew gathered on the delicate leaf of a maranfa bush and fell to the ground when Ayala's finger tapped against it. Her long dark hair fell into her hazel eyes as she bent down to pick up some of the leaves, and she shoved it back with an annoyed gesture.

Jara wouldn't be pleased that she wasn't back yet. She had departed at dawn to gather the valuable plants, but it seemed there were hardly any this year. She had been looking for them almost all morning, but in vain.

It didn't exactly help that she still didn't know the valley by heart as it had been with the woods near the farms were she grew up. She had been here for no more than half a year and could still remember the day she entered the village Jara lived in, surrounded by curious children. Her mother knew of the old healer and sent Ayala to live with her and learn the art of healing. The village was a place of refuge, one of many mountain villages where women and children from the northern regions of Falamar, where the fighting was worst, were sent. Healers were always needed there.

That had to be what she was meant for. Still, she wasn't sure whether or not she should welcome her parents' decision to send her away. She missed her home, her friends. Most of all she missed Marilo, the boy she grew up with. She used to call him her Sako, her brother. The memory brought a smile to Ayala's face.

She had learned a lot since, much of that painfully. Jara wasn't the most patient woman alive, and Ayala, who had only known the protected life with her parents, found herself in a place where she had to take care of herself.

Well, if it had to be like that she would come along, she promised herself. She wouldn't give in because of this strict Jara. And somewhere there just had to be these annoying maranfas. Ayala's gaze wandered over the tree-covered slopes and caught a small treeless hollow closer to the rocky top of the mountain. She remembered being shown the valley by Jara a few weeks ago. During this tour, they had stopped close to the summit to rest. Ayala dimly remembered having seen a lot of plants around the Summit.

The ascent would take some time, but it was better than returning to Jara now with the pitiful amount she had. Ayala sighed again. Jara was a kind woman at heart, but she was often very harsh towards others.

The higher she climbed the freer the girl felt. When she reached a small level area, she turned around and allowed her gaze to wander. In front of her she saw the valley widen towards the east before leading to the Great Plain of Falamar that her people were allegedly named after.

The land stretched gently over green hills in which numerous lakes, or sulians - as they were called in the ancient language of the Falamar - were embedded like sparkling sapphires. The plain extended further east, accentuated by sunny woods, until it reached the shores of the Old Sea, Lanoar.

Ayala had never seen the sea that formed the eastern and southern border of her home country, but she had heard many stories of the beaches and rocky cliffs at the outer rim of Plain Falamar. She just had to close her eyes to imagine hearing the rushing of waves that brought news in a language only those who listened with their hearts could understand.

Actually, she hadn't been in many places of her own country, Ayala realized. She had neither caught sight of the proud battlements of Triannar, the capital of Falamar to the south, nor laid her eyes upon the mighty river Armasin in the north. And concerning Armasin, it was probably better this way. For on the far side of the river there was the territory of the Shakaree.

The Falamar rarely spoke of it. They called it the Nameless Lands, where only evil existed. It was whispered that the land seemed to be dead. A swamp where everlasting fog drifted through rotten trees, making wanderers loose their way and inevitably drive them into the arms of the Shakaree... or to the more merciful fate of a cold death in the black water. A land that was as deadly as its inhabitants.

Ayala shivered at the thought of the horrors that surely happened in the border region. She had heard others talk about the fighting and couldn't or rather didn't want to imagine what might be going on there in detail. But since Marilo joined the army two years ago, every so often her thoughts wandered to those fearful things she used to push aside so easily. Marilo, a few years older than her, had always watched out for her when she was a little girl. Now he was far away and might never come back.

Ayala reprimanded herself. Of course he would come back.

Looking up to the summit once more, Ayala hurried to cover the distance to the hollow. At close range it didn't look as green and inviting. The plants she had remembered actually struggled upwards scantily amidst sharp stones and barren ground. But they were still there. Bending to the ground, Ayala made her way through the rocks and snatched up as many maranfas as she could get.

A few moments later she was on her way down into the valley, taking the small bundle of maranfas with her. Even if Jara was going to be mad at her, it didn't matter. She'd find her way, she thought with a little smile.

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Tamaril smiled. He wasn't aware of it, but in truth it had been a long time since his features had last worn an expression different from the everlasting sadness in his eyes.

This strange girl had entered his story some weeks ago. Given that he had only written about the fates of great lords and commanders in the war between Falamar and Shakaree so far, he had been quite surprised. So what was a young girl doing in his recordings over the Great War?

Tamaril realized he actually didn't care as long as he could still write about her, experience her carefree life, and maybe even be a little happy with her.

Tamaril smiled.