Chapter 1: Lost Innocence

It was the Year of the Fallen Sakurath, or so it came to be known. Sakurath was the name of the giant cherry tree that marked the entrance to the Northern Territories of Vogel. Loose pink petals cascaded down, showering the land for miles. Under its innermost branches, a large log house stood, its roof entirely covered with blossoms. It was the house of Alin, greatest of all the Northern scholars. His great house, a library in essence, was followed by many other wooden houses, smaller in stature. Such was the abode of the Northmen, the tall strong lads and lasses who had long ago tamed the wild Northern territories.

The ancestors of the Northmen had been the fiercest clan of all Vogel, the Hegel. They were tall and solidly built, with flame red hair for which they had been christened. Not a man or woman of that band could easily fall in battle. They had been bred for war, and had lived for combat all their bloody lives.

But the Northmen had grown softer as their originally harsh domain grew easier to manage. Many forsook the Way of the Blade and took to farming, tilling the fields with their scythes and plows, their weapons of war hung above the hearth. In less than a century, the warring Hegel Clan was little more than a straggle of farmers, scholars, and homemakers. They chose to forget the bloody past of their people, and embrace a life of peace and longevity.

But not all chose to forget their heritage. The two sons of Alin, Helshin and Gavin, had learned of their glorious ancestors through the scrolls of their father. The thought of bloody battles and glorious deeds snagged the heart of Helshin, the eldest, and his younger brother soon succumbed to the gallant dream as well.

The two brothers soon found a fellow aficionado of the Way of the Blade, one that happened to have several old swords in his possession. His name was Torwyn, an outspoken young man from the Far North. He welcomed their friendship, and graciously gave each one a blade.

In that Year of the Fallen Sakurath, as the winds of change began to blow, and Fate began to shine down, the three lads sparred under the cherry tree. It was late morning, the dew was soft on the grass, and the first pink petal of the day settled on the ground.

“Come on, Torwyn!” Gavin cried as Torwyn and Gavin’s older brother, Helshin sparred, the blades of their broadswords glittering in the morning sunlight.

“Why do you cheer for him?” Helshin complained, blocking a blow. “I’m your brother, the one who loves you and protects you!”

“And that is exactly why I cheer for Torwyn,” Gavin called back, smiling.

“Difficult little ingrate!” he called out. “Just try to eat at my table tonight, brother! You’ll- ah!” He cried as Torwyn easily broke through his defense and slammed the flat of his sword into Helshin’s side. Gavin laughed hysterically as his brother fell, his face red with embarrassment.

“He did that on purpose,” Helshin murmured to himself angrily, rubbing his sore abdomen. “He just wanted to distract me.”

“It was a good fight. You do need to keep up your guard, though,” Torwyn said, offering his hand to Helshin. Grunting, Helshin took it.

“Maybe I should get a bigger sword. I know I have the strength to bear a two-handed blade, but father says that he will not hire anyone to forge it.”

“It is a good sword for you, Helshin, for it requires little technique,” Gavin replied, grinning. Helshin lifted his hands to the sky in exasperation.

“Why did Fate give me a little brother? Why couldn’t I have had a sister?”

“Because then you wouldn’t have anybody to train with.”

“I could train with Torwyn,” Helshin countered, motioning towards their quiet, dark- haired friend. Torwyn smiled faintly, for he was not a man who readily showed his emotions.

“I suppose you could, but he only challenges your talent. Not all men in this world are quiet, kind-hearted fellows like Torwyn. Most will mock you and try to anger you.”

“And I suppose you know all of this from experience, right?” Helshin asked sarcastically. Gavin glared at Helshin angrily, defeated.

Helshin smiled, clapping his brother on the shoulder. The two were similar in appearance, nearly identical, with long red hair and dark green eyes that set them apart from their father, Alin, who had brown hair and blue eyes. Alin claimed they were the dead spit of their mother, Herin, who had died when both brothers were very young.

“She was the Crimson Flame,” Alin would say, his azure eyes swimming with memory. “Loveliest of all the flame-haired lasses.”

Their lost mother, however, was far from the two lads’ minds as they ran toward their father’s house. Breakfast would soon be ready; Helshin could smell the hot porridge his father was renowned for.

“Oh, lads, there you are!” Alin exclaimed from the steps of his house. He wiped his damp hands with a stained towel. “I was just about to call you. Will you be joining us, Torwyn?”

“If you do not mind, sir,” Torwyn said quietly. Alin laughed, and took the young man by the arm joyfully.

“Torwyn, my lad, please do not be so formal. Call me Alin, Father… anything but ‘sir.’ We’ve known each other far too long to be on such terms. Besides, you are like a son to me.”

“And like a brother to us!” Gavin added cheerfully. Alin smiled and ruffled his youngest son’s hair. Though seventeen, Gavin still looked like a child in the company of his brother, father, and best friend.

“Father…” Helshin’s voice suddenly trailed off. Alin turned to his son, startled by the sudden anxiety in his eldest son’s voice.

“What is it, Helshin?” Alin asked. Gavin’s smile disappeared as he gazed at his brother’s paling face.

“Do you see that? On the horizon?” Helshin said, pointing southward. Alin scanned the morning horizon and saw what his son saw.

“Fate protect us,” he whispered, the blood draining from his face. “Get inside! Now!”

Gavin’s heart skipped a beat as he realized what his family saw. Coming towards them, on the backs of thundering horses, were over three hundred men. Even from the distance, he could see their unsheathed blades glittering in the morning sun.

“Father, who are they?” Gavin asked as the foursome raced inside the house. Alin did not answer.

“It is too soon,” the older man muttered to himself, making his way though the kitchen to the massive library. “I have no time!”

“No time for what, Father?” Helshin asked, panicking.

“Do not bother your father with questions, Helshin!” Torwyn snapped suddenly. Both Helshin and Gavin stopped, caught off guard by Torwyn’s sudden burst. “There are warriors invading your land. Now is not a time to ask questions.”

Alin disappeared into the library, slamming the large mahogany door. Gavin jumped, startled by the noise. He swallowed hard, fearing gripping his very soul. Who were those men who approached so quickly? Why did his father act so strangely?

“Draw your swords, Gavin, Helshin,” Torwyn said brusquely, his blade singing as it slid out of its sheath. “Your father obviously needs time for whatever it is he’s doing. We must stall these men.” Helshin nodded calmly, drawing his own sword.

Helshin turned to his brother, who now held his sword, shaking. He took Gavin’s free hand, squeezing it gently.

“Do not fear, dear brother. You are a good swordsman. And I will die before letting you so much as sustain one wound.” Gavin nodded, though his shaking did not cease.

“Come, friends. Let us go to war!” Torwyn said, smiling grimly.

Alin scrambled though his chaotic collection of scrolls, his eyes swiftly scanning every piece of parchment. He had to find it, he had to!

Alin could hear the war cries of the warriors approaching. He knew they were coming for the Hanor Scroll. It was the greatest treasure of all Vogel, far more valuable then any jewel hidden in the houses of the weakened Northmen.

And then he found it. He recognized its tattered edges, its smooth, worn feeling. Many a time, he had read the precious document, carefully examining the ancient inscription. How he would read it over and over again, as if he would gain new knowledge with every glance. Alin had the words of the scroll written on his heart.

But his memorization would be for naught. Fate whispered to him, whispered of the mortal danger that would soon befall him. Alin knew he would die that day, but he was not afraid.

Alin of the North knew his sons would prevail.

And so, grasping the prized parchment, Alin went to greet Fate in its most sinister form: Death.

Torwyn greeted the dark warriors first. Helshin was surprised by his friend; the quiet and peaceful demeanor had faded the very first moment the thunder of horses’ hooves could be heard. Now, Torwyn was ghastly and grim, a cold-blooded warrior, like those of the ancient Hegel Clan.

But before Helshin could ponder more on the curious change in his friend, war was upon him. His first quarry had leapt from his black horse, spear in hand, his eyes wild with the glee of war. The warrior’s face was hidden by a black helm, but Helshin could feel evil eyes filled with hate burning into his very soul.

Helshin could no longer think. He could not feel; he could not breathe. All he could do was thrust his unblooded sword forward, a cry of inchoate fear and fury on his lips.

The blade pierced the flesh of the man’s belly, blood blossoming instantly. Helshin froze in shock as the man screamed in mortal pain, his blood splattering Helshin’s face. The dying man stumbled forward, spear abandoned, and crashed hard into Helshin.

Helshin stumbled backward, tripped, and fell to the ground. The weight of the man’s leather armor pressed hard into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for air, panicking.

“Helshin!” Gavin cried. Helshin could hear the utter fear in his brother’s voice. Gavin needed him.

Helshin pushed the corpse away, and rose, though he still could not breathe. He caught sight of an enemy to his left. In his condition, there would be no way to defend himself.

Helshin would die.

But as the youth prepared for Death to claim him, Fate interfered, in the form of Torwyn. Helshin flinched as the head of his would be killer disappeared in an eruption of crimson.

“Go to Gavin!” Torwyn ordered tersely, his bloody blade elevated in cold defiance. Helshin nodded, realizing that he had found his breath again.

“Gavin!” He cried when he saw his brother.

Many of the mysterious warriors had continued past the great house and into the village nearby, leaving only a handful at the gates of Alin’s home. The majority of those warriors had fixed their baleful gazes on the one creature between them and the entrance to the house: Gavin.

Gavin had managed to successfully ward them off, defensively blocking any attacks, but had not dealt one offensive blow. While this conserved some of his energy, his need to block numerous attacks simultaneously was rapidly draining him.

The broadsword in Gavin’s hands grew heavier; sweat drenched his body. He could not hold on for much longer.

“Son!” Suddenly, the door behind Gavin swung open. Alin appeared, a sword in hand, and he placed himself between his son and the deadly blades.

With astonishing speed and strength, Alin drove back his attackers, snarling curses and drawing blood. Gavin watched, stunned. His father, like Torwyn, had transformed into a terrifying warrior.

“Come on!” Torwyn hissed, grabbing Gavin by the arm. Alin had driven the mysterious warriors far enough for Torwyn to reach the youth. Gavin’s legs responded, moving with Torwyn’s rapid pace, but his eyes remained fixed upon the spectacle of his father.

The spectacle did not last longer, much to Gavin and Helshin’s horror. One of the remaining quarries managed to land a blow on Alin’s arm. The scholar stumbled back, his flesh ripping, blood thick in the air.

“Father!” Helshin screamed, running to his aid. Gavin began to follow suit, but Torwyn stopped him, seizing his arm.

“Let me go!” Gavin cried, struggling with Torwyn’s iron grasp. “Father needs me!”

“Your father is going to die. There is nothing you can do.” Torwyn’s grey eyes were as hard as the steel of his blade. Gavin shook his head, desperately denying the truth of those words.

“Get the horses from the stable. Your father would have wanted you to survive this day. Now, move!” Torwyn shoved the younger man towards the stables. Gavin considered rebelling, but the withering gaze of his friend deterred him.

What has happened to you, dear Torwyn? Gavin wondered as he stumbled towards the stables.

Meanwhile, Helshin had reached his father. The warriors had deserted their enemy, and had run towards Alin’s home, with strange ululations of joy upon their lips.

“Father,” Helshin whispered, tears blurring his vision. He cradled his father’s body gently.

“My… son,” Alin gasped, blood staining his chin. After wounding his arm, one of the men had cruelly thrust his blade into the older man’s belly, a wound that would drain slowly and painfully, had the victim been a younger man. Alin had spent sixty years on the green lands of Vogel, even though his acts that day had the strength of a man in his prime. He could not survive such a ghastly wound for long.

“You… you must take this,” he groaned, pulling from within his shirt a carefully rolled scroll. Helshin took it carefully.

“Go to the Center of Vogel, Helshin. Seek the Seven Hanor.” Alin coughed weakly, bringing forth more blood. His skin was salt white, and his hands shook violently.

“Father, please,” Helshin begged, tears flowing freely. “Please don’t go.”

“I go to… your mother…” Alin muttered, his blue eyes bright with pain. He no longer stared at the world of Vogel; rather, he gazed into the Afterlife, where he could already feel the warm embrace of his dear Herin.

“I am not ready, Father. I need you to guide me into adulthood. Father, please…” Helshin’s voice trailed off, as his father silenced him with a slight shake of his head.

“You have always been ready, Helshin. Embrace your fate, as I embrace mine.”

Then the blue eyes of Alin unfocused, his breath ceased and his crimson blood stopped flowing.

“Father?” Helshin called. “Oh, Father!”

Tears flooded down his cheeks as his body was wracked with sobs. Helshin felt a sudden emptiness in his soul, a void that had once been filled by Alin. The pain that followed the emptiness crashed down upon Helshin, and he could not bear it.

“Helshin.” The voice was soft, comforting. Torwyn’s hand rested gently upon the grieving man’s shoulder.

“Come, Helshin.” Torwyn’s voice was stronger now, more authoritative. “There will be time for mourning later.”

Helshin nodded, rising. His father’s lifeless body flopped to the ground, its support gone. Helshin did not look at the corpse, but turned to face Torwyn. He heard the screams from the village, the smell of smoke in the air. The foreign warriors were burning everything. He could see smoke rising from his home, and realized that the men who had killed his father were returning to kill him.

Wiping the tears from his face, Helshin ran with Torwyn to meet his brother. Gavin held for horses by the reins.

“Where’s Father?” Gavin asked, looking past the two. Helshin shook his head, and embraced the youth tightly.

Wordlessly, Torwyn mounted one of the horses Gavin had provided. He had seen such destruction before, had felt the anguish of losing a loved one. Torwyn had lost his innocence long ago, and now Helshin and Gavin suffered from the same loss.

“I’m sorry, Gavin,” Helshin whispered, gazing at his brother’s tear-stained face. Gavin nodded, sorrow and guilt consuming his heart.

Then the cries of the warrior’s reminded the three that they were not out of danger yet. Helshin waited until his brother had mounted, then clambered up onto another horse.

“We shall head South,” Helshin said, surprised by the new strength in his own voice. He turned to look once more at the shambles of his life, watching as the pink petals of Sakurath rained down, falling on the bloody corpse of his father, and the burning house that had once been his.

Torwyn nodded in agreement, and spurred his horse forward. Gavin and Helshin followed suit, leaving behind their home, their father, and their innocence.