threshel
First Post
Introduction Part One
The fact that it was a unanimous decision comforted none of them. Winter was coming early; they could all feel its snap in the air and see its herald’s colors coming rapidly to the trees. To make the colony site in time to build their homes, it would be hard days through this as-yet-unnamed wood rather than the relative ease of weeks going around. If the trail held they could make good time. Brenjar, their guide, had done well thus far. His path through the tall trees had been wide enough for their wagons and his fords had been well chosen. With little to delay them aside from the occasional broken wagon wheel, the settler’s caravan had made good time. Today would see them pass the halfway point by Brenjar’s reckoning.
Halfway in is halfway out, Hurgen thought as he guided Bula, his ox, at the rear of the line of carts and wagons. The wood unnerved him, although he saw beauty in it. The day was clear, and bright sunlight shafted through the canopy - columns of light between the tall, straight trunks of the trees. The light had a name, Brenjar had said, the Greengold. It wasn’t to be trusted, as it drew the eye and made the dark places darker.
“Mind the light, Arik, lest it trick your eyes.” He told his youngest boy, sparing a glance back to ensure his boy was perched in his place on the wagon, his back frontward, keeping watch at the rear of the line.
“I will, Papa.” The boy called without looking front. His voice held no irritation, even if it was the hundredth time his father had given that advice today. Hurgen turned his eyes back to the trail in front of him, trying not to let the pang he felt at seeing his youngest child’s slight frame creep into a worried line on his brow. He failed, but there was no one to see it. All of Hurgen’s boys (four of them, bless his late wife) had grown as large framed as he was, and thick muscles had quickly formed on their limbs. All had followed Hurgen into careers as artisans, choosing crafts that benefited from strong backs and limbs. Hurgen was himself a carpenter by trade, his eldest, Tojon, a blacksmith (“Someone has to make the nails, Papa”), second was Carild, a stonemason, and Hurgen’s third boy, Ilan, had followed him into carpentry. They all chose trades that would let them return to their home, and return they did, although home had changed.
Arik was no different from his brothers until the age of eleven winters. He had been a stout boy, and was likely to fill his tall frame with muscles, but fell prey to the Wasting instead. The disease struck without warning: Hurgen and his wife had watched their baby boy wither to skin and bones, nearly too weak to breathe. He hung on like that through a winter and spring, but he survived, although not before the stress of his care had worn Hurgen’s wife to nothing. The next winter took her.
Arik recovered slowly and regained strength of a sort. He remained painfully (to his father’s eyes) thin, and the hard labor of his family wore him before the highsun meal. He had fallen ill at the age of apprenticeship and was not able to secure a master in trade. None of Hurgen’s boys were dunces, however, and Arik seemed the brightest of them all. Maybe it was necessity owing to his weak frame, but the result was a will to succeed, to not disappoint the memory of his mother, coupled with the same calculative nature that led his older brothers to choose their trades. Whatever the reasons, Arik found his trade. Wherever he found those with the skills, he begged, bargained, and bartered for lessons. Arik was a bowyer and fletcher, and although he never had a proper master in trade, he also never learned a mere one man’s way. He took his lessons from a variety of instructors, including a few elves his town had seen pass through. While not a journeyman yet, more than one hunter had praised the straightness of his arrows and the strength of his strings.
Tojon, and then Carild a year later, returned from apprenticeship to a changed house. The empty places their mother had occupied seemed deep, and although Hurgen provided a good home and business thrived, the emptiness was pervasive. Ilan of the three had not left home, being apprenticed to his father, and when he became journeyman he longed for time away. It was he that found the colonists, and he was quickly offered a place among them. When they asked if he knew any other artisans, it was Arik who said it first: “Why don’t we all go?” And so they had. And so it was that nearly four winters past Arik’s wasting Hurgen found himself staring at an unfamiliar trail in an unfamiliar wood, taking his turn at the back, his eldest three sons’ carts somewhere ahead of him in the long line.
Which had stopped. Hurgen grunted with effort, reigning Bula to a quick halt. He looked back to his son, who looked front to him, creases of puzzlement mirrored on their brows. That’s when they heard it. It came sinuously and many-headed through the trees, dancing in the places between the greengold columns of light. The rhythm first, then a sad melody that settled over everything. Hurgen felt all the pain of his lost wife fall on him at once and his throat tightened. He dropped Bula’s reigns and sank to his knees as his face sank into his calloused hands. His breath came in ragged sobs as the music bathed him in grief. He didn’t know how long he was lost to it, but he was roughly pulled back to himself as he felt the odd sensation of cloth being stuffed in his ears. Strong hands (the hands of an artisan) pulled him to his feet and brushed his blond-gray hair from where it had fallen in his face. He found himself looking into Arik’s tear streaked face, bits of cloth sticking out of his ears beneath his shock blond hair. He grabbed his youngest son in a bear hug and pressed his mouth to his ear.
“It wasn’t your fault, boy,” Hurgen said, his breath still hitching between his words, “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, Papa, I know.” Arik’s own breath was only slightly calmer, their words muffled by the wads of cloth in their ears. Arik pulled himself away and looked at his father. “We need to help the others.”
Hurgen slumped against their wagon, still shaking, but gaining more control by the second. He nodded and turned to the wagon, pulling out some rags and after a moment of wrangling, his maul. He turned to see his son had strung his longbow.
“Arik, stay here and watch the back. Help Gunild and Tairia if you can,” He said, a bit loudly, indicating the next two carts up, “Pull the carts as even as you can get them. Mind the light. I’m going to fetch your brothers.” Arik just nodded, still tearing up but under control. Hurgen became suddenly aware that the woods had become a cacophony of sadness accompanied by that strange panging music. Were all his boys kneeling in the loam, lost to undeserved pain? He swallowed his rising anger and shouldered his big maul. His face set in grim lines; Hurgen went forward to collect his sons.
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