Chapter 1: Fallen
Khalvir ran through the trees. The forest was dark, pressing in all around him as the sounds of the night roared in his ears. He was careful to keep his wits about him as he plunged through the restraining undergrowth.
This forest was not safe, filled as it was with elf mischief and magic. He could feel it, hazing across his latent inner senses, his own hated elf blood rising in answer. Khalvir quashed it viciously, before realising the sounds of his men running behind him could no longer be heard over the din of this accursed place. He had outpaced them. He gritted his teeth. It would not do to be separated. Coming to a stop beneath the overhanging branches of a thick-bodied tree, Khalvir reluctantly took a moment to steady his breath and await his fellow raiders.
He chafed at being still. It gave him too much time to reflect on the failed raid. The elf settlement had been empty, and he cursed his bad luck. His Chief would not be pleased. Each time, the Chief would send Khalvir and his men out into the forests where elves had been sighted and each time Khalvir would return empty-handed.
The Chief had made it clear that this was Khalvir’s last chance and that if he failed, his displeasure would be immense. Khalvir winced beneath the spear cat skull covering his face. He had failed.
The old resentment he felt for his Chief stirred inside his chest, and he was quick to stamp on it. Khalvir struggled to understand the irrational hatred that he felt when he met those dark eyes at times. It was a feeling that had existed since their very first encounter, when he had awoken in this very forest, lost and confused, his memories stolen by the elf-witches. Khalvir blew out a breath. His Chief was hard, even brutal, but without him Khalvir would have been dead long ago. Dead at the hands of the very creatures he now sought.
True hatred blazed within his heart as he thought of the witches; murderous wood sprites that they were. He did not understand his Chief’s need to possess them. Their magic was nothing but evil and trickery.
At least this raid had not been a complete waste of time. Stores of the elf-witches' food had been abandoned along with the settlement. Khalvir had ordered his men to gather as much as they could carry away, hoping such a gift would appease his Chief. The roots and fruits the elves grew in these forests were far more sustaining than anything that could be foraged out on the Plains.
Khalvir shifted uneasily beneath the tree as a prickle ran up his spine. The elves may be gone, but he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that he was being watched. It was as if their ghosts lingered, cursing him with their unseen eyes. He tightened his grip on the long curving knife in his hand. The familiar weight in his palm was reassuring. Khalvir longed for clear open spaces of the Plains where an approaching enemy could be easily detected.
At last, his men arrived. The muffled sound of footfalls and rustling leaves came first, then the puff of breath in the cool air. One by one, they emerged from the shadows and joined Khalvir under the tree. Their tense movements betrayed their own unease.
“What are we going to do, Khalvir?” Galahir’s low voice sounded from beneath the great oxen skull that concealed his coarse features. Khalvir's most trusted companion’s query was heavy with concern. “The Chief will not be pleased.”
Khalvir sighed. “There is nothing to be done. The elves are gone. Perhaps there are no more to be found. I will be the one to inform him of the failure. No one else need share in his displeasure.”
Galahir shifted as though he was about to protest, but Khalvir silenced him with a warning glance. It would be foolish to speak ill of their Chief in such company. Not all here were friends.
Khalvir glanced to where Lorhir lurked upon the edges of the group, dark and lean. That jackal would relish any opportunity to sour Khalvir’s favour with their Chief. It was Lorhir’s greatest ambition to see Khalvir fall from grace. Khalvir gave a soft snort. It seemed Lorhir’s prayers were about to be answered.
“Rest,” he told his men. “I want to be out of this forest by daybreak, and it is a long way to the borders. I dislike the feel of this place.”
He was not alone in his assessment. Weary as his men were, their shadowed eyes darted beneath their varying skull masks as they sank to the ground. Khalvir was sure half of them would like to forego the respite and run until dawn, run until the trees no longer crouched over their heads, cutting off the sky, but it was unwise to deplete their energy reserves. A warrior must always have strength enough left to fight. One could never know when it might be needed.
Khalvir had just lowered himself to his haunches when it happened. A sudden snapping of wood from above shattered the silence.
Khalvir shot back to his feet, his men moving as one around him, as a high-pitched cry cut through the air.
