Chapter 1
K orel could not believe his good luck. Down in a draw, a razorback picked its way through rock and scant tundra towards the leaves of a thorny warnoth bush. These bushes, once plentiful, were rarely seen and thought extinct this side of the Mount of Instructure, but this forlorn plant did not seem to beckon so much as stand as an isolated reminder of what once was, a reminder of old vitality and glory now fading with the distance of memory. Its leaves had medicinal purposes and were known to give visions to those who consumed them, perilous visions containing truth, future, past, present, and even possibility within their mental twistings . . . and sometimes the slow spiral of consuming madness. Yet the boar seemed undaunted by the plant with its dormant powers sleeping just below the surface of its tender flesh. Deliberately, the boar neared the plant to taste one of the few remaining sources of moisture in all this great plain of Decaneth.
A razorback wandering out of a plain nearly devoid of life and heading straight toward his sleeping place was indeed good fortune for Korel. He had camped in the rocks of a slide that stretched well above the warnoth bush. This was fresh meat, meat of a creature almost erased from the earth since the Decline of Days and its attendant wearying of the plain. It had been many days since his supplies had run low and he had taken to eating what he could of the grasses, finding drink in the hidden watery places. He had only a bow (fashioned from stone through the arcane skill passed down through generations) and a few arrows he had made from an aurora tree he encountered before crossing the mountains into the plain. He had been allowed no formal weapons upon the embarkation of his journey, but he had been trained in all the arts, including those of war, as was the wont of his family and upbringing. The bow had taken him several days to fashion using a stone he had sharpened, stone against stone, until he had a suitable tool for the task. Even the stone tool had been taken from the spine of the mountain, the same living rock which Veruden had given to Ferrion upon which to lie the organs of the world, and the gift of Ferrion was said to still live within the stone of all high places, but even more so upon the mountains of Orden.
Korel had been careful in his approach, but even as he crept closer to his quarry the razorback bolted, as though the leaves of the warnoth had given it some primitive sense of future danger. But Korel was swift and strong, calling upon reflexes developed only after years of training in the arts of war, training that was a part of his earliest memories, even as a young boy in his father's house. He raced after the boar with incredible speed, easily pulling an arrow from its makeshift quiver, knocking it to the bow midstride, and letting the arrow fly. Yet, as if the effect of the leaves instilled rudimentary foreknowledge to the boar, it ducked the arrow suddenly and escaped injury. Korel, surprised at its tenacity, sprinted after the boar, drawing rapidly up from behind to clutch its tail with both hands and pull with a teeth-clenching grunt.
At first the boar staggered under a sense of primal fear, thrashing wildly at the ground and lashing out at the air. But then, as Korel released it, the boar spun, its squealing screams of existential panic turning instantly to guttural grunts of fury. The boar charged. But Korel, anticipating the attack, had wrapped his leather tunic around his left forearm, and as the beast hurled itself at him, tusks lunging and mouth gaping, he threw his tunic-covered hand into the boar's open maw and down its throat, obstructing its windpipe. The boar struggled to chew through the leather and the tender-fleshed forearm that lay beneath, but to no avail. In a desperate gambit to live, the boar planted its hooves and pulled backward in corkscrewing undulations, desperately struggling for breath. But Korel was too strong, and the
K orel could not believe his good luck. Down in a draw, a razorback picked its way through rock and scant tundra towards the leaves of a thorny warnoth bush. These bushes, once plentiful, were rarely seen and thought extinct this side of the Mount of Instructure, but this forlorn plant did not seem to beckon so much as stand as an isolated reminder of what once was, a reminder of old vitality and glory now fading with the distance of memory. Its leaves had medicinal purposes and were known to give visions to those who consumed them, perilous visions containing truth, future, past, present, and even possibility within their mental twistings . . . and sometimes the slow spiral of consuming madness. Yet the boar seemed undaunted by the plant with its dormant powers sleeping just below the surface of its tender flesh. Deliberately, the boar neared the plant to taste one of the few remaining sources of moisture in all this great plain of Decaneth.
A razorback wandering out of a plain nearly devoid of life and heading straight toward his sleeping place was indeed good fortune for Korel. He had camped in the rocks of a slide that stretched well above the warnoth bush. This was fresh meat, meat of a creature almost erased from the earth since the Decline of Days and its attendant wearying of the plain. It had been many days since his supplies had run low and he had taken to eating what he could of the grasses, finding drink in the hidden watery places. He had only a bow (fashioned from stone through the arcane skill passed down through generations) and a few arrows he had made from an aurora tree he encountered before crossing the mountains into the plain. He had been allowed no formal weapons upon the embarkation of his journey, but he had been trained in all the arts, including those of war, as was the wont of his family and upbringing. The bow had taken him several days to fashion using a stone he had sharpened, stone against stone, until he had a suitable tool for the task. Even the stone tool had been taken from the spine of the mountain, the same living rock which Veruden had given to Ferrion upon which to lie the organs of the world, and the gift of Ferrion was said to still live within the stone of all high places, but even more so upon the mountains of Orden.
Korel had been careful in his approach, but even as he crept closer to his quarry the razorback bolted, as though the leaves of the warnoth had given it some primitive sense of future danger. But Korel was swift and strong, calling upon reflexes developed only after years of training in the arts of war, training that was a part of his earliest memories, even as a young boy in his father's house. He raced after the boar with incredible speed, easily pulling an arrow from its makeshift quiver, knocking it to the bow midstride, and letting the arrow fly. Yet, as if the effect of the leaves instilled rudimentary foreknowledge to the boar, it ducked the arrow suddenly and escaped injury. Korel, surprised at its tenacity, sprinted after the boar, drawing rapidly up from behind to clutch its tail with both hands and pull with a teeth-clenching grunt.
At first the boar staggered under a sense of primal fear, thrashing wildly at the ground and lashing out at the air. But then, as Korel released it, the boar spun, its squealing screams of existential panic turning instantly to guttural grunts of fury. The boar charged. But Korel, anticipating the attack, had wrapped his leather tunic around his left forearm, and as the beast hurled itself at him, tusks lunging and mouth gaping, he threw his tunic-covered hand into the boar's open maw and down its throat, obstructing its windpipe. The boar struggled to chew through the leather and the tender-fleshed forearm that lay beneath, but to no avail. In a desperate gambit to live, the boar planted its hooves and pulled backward in corkscrewing undulations, desperately struggling for breath. But Korel was too strong, and the
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