The forest was screaming. Jarlek could
hear it - he'd been able to hear the forest as a young boy, much
younger than the others in his village. He heard the whispers through
the tress, showing him paths to wonder, warning him
against danger, and teaching him the ways of the ancients. The voice of
the forest was always gentle, calm and peaceful. But now it was
screaming.
Jarlek rushed from bough to
bough, leaping like a frantic beast. He landed in a crouch on a tree
branch, dark skinned hands and feet grasping the solid tree before
propelling him forward to the next. Anything that
could disturb the forest like this would be dangerous, but all Jarlek
could think about was the cries of his beloved forest. He would find the
source of the forest's pain. And whoever was doing this would pay.
The scream got louder and
louder, and Jarlek strained against it to keep his grip on a branch. He
failed, and dropped ten feet to the ground. As he sat up, the screaming
stopped. He saw a strange figure in a white
and gold robe turn from a great scale-bark tree to come towards him -
the figure's finger was smoking, like a smoldering stick. Past the
figure Jarlek could see strange symbols burned into the tree. As
he watched they began healing, grey ash turning back to
healthy bark. His eyes widened even more, and the figure stopped his
advance to look back, and sighed.
"Now I shall
have to start all over. But first, foolish primate, you will know the
mark of Empire." As he said this, the figure lifted its hood to reveal a
middle-aged man with expressionless
eyes. Upon his forehead was a strange symbol, burned in place just as
the marks in the tree. The smoldering blackness spread from
the man's fingertip to the rest of his hand, and he stretched that
gnarled, smoking claw toward Jarlek's face. A symbol similar
to the one on the man's head glowed fiery red on the man's palm.
Realization suddenly dawned on the youth, and he tried to scramble back
on all fours. His limbs seemed to be frozen - he couldn't move, only
stare at the dead-faced man with the burning hand..
Just then, Jarlek heard a
voice to his left. "Move, boy! This man is nothing to you, a slave of
someone far away. You are here, in the Ancient Forest! You have the
power of your ancestors all around you. Move!" At
this shout, Jarlek's head darted to the left, where stood one of the
guardian spirits of the forest. A translucent figure, dressed in the
leathers of a hunter in the forest. His wild white hair and beard framed
his dark face like a lion's mane. Jarlek's mind
drifted to the elder who taught the names and faces of the ancestral
spirits. This was Korenak, a defender of the forest, he remembered. And
then he recalled his predicament. The youth was up in a flash, running
through the forest as fast as the spirits' guidance
could take him.
Jarlek stopped a few minutes
later to catch his breath. What had happened? Whoever that man was, he
was hurting the forest. The forest was life for the Guardians, the
tribes who lived here for centuries, and drew
on the life within for their magic. This dead-faced figure had to be
stopped. And though he may have some sort of magic of his own, he was no
match for the might of the Ancient Forest embodied. Jarlek knew the
rites to channel the power into himself, though
he hadn't used them since his naming day ritual. He stood with his back
against a great oak, breathing heavily and trying to recall the words
to the ritual. Then Korenak appeared.
Jarlek dropped to his knees,
hands over one another in front of him. "All honor to you, Great
Ancestor!" the youth squeaked. This time, at least, he would observe
traditions.
The spirit absently waved
the greeting away. "Enough of that, boy," it said, looking back in the
direction of the dead-faced man. "you've got heavier rocks to haul.
You're from the, what, Raven's Feather tribe?" The
spirit looked toward him, and Jarlek felt insignificant. This man had
served the forest for centuries, protecting it in death as he had in
life. He had a commanding presence even in death. As one of the Ancestor
Spirits, he had incredible powers, and could
grant them to living Guardians he deemed worthy of the honor. Many
young warriors dreamed of becoming the Chosen of the Spirits, wielding
the might of the Ancient Forest against outside forces. Maybe he
appeared to Jarlek to-
"Don't even think about it,"
Korenak laughed, guessing easily the route the boy's thoughts had
taken. "You're good, don't get me wrong. Eyes sharp enough to see me
clearly and good ears to hear the forest's signal.
But you've got years of training ahead of you before I just hand over
any powers." The youth's cheeks turned red, bright against his dark
skin. The spirit reached down to ruffle Jarlek's hair, though all he
felt was a slight warm wind. "Don't worry, you've
a part to play, boy. Your tribe, it's the Raven's Feathers, right?" the
spirit asked again.
"Yes, Great Ancestor" Jarlek manage to meekly reply.
"Then run to them. Find an
old man by the name of Tor Blacknail. Tell him the old fox sent you.
Explain everything. the calls of the forest, the hooded man, everything.
Lead him back to the screaming tree. And if
you don't find that blank-faced man, dead on the ground, tell him I did
all I could." Before the youth could even protest, the spirit of
Korenak, ancient defender of the forest, had faded
away. Jarlek hesitated for a moment more, then took off through the
forest, climbing a tree and leaping from branch to branch back to his
village.
As he leaped, the young
guardian's mind raced. Tor Blacknail was an old shaman, estranged from
the rest of the tribe and living on his own. Jarlek had seen his hut
many times, and been warned away from visiting. Sometimes
he and the other boys would throw a stone at it and run - The one who
threw last was the bravest. Jarlek had been taught to stay away from the
mad old shaman, but he'd been given a command by one of the great
ancestor spirits! He knew there was no shirking
this responsibility. Suddenly, the cries of the forest began again. He
had to bring Tor Blacknail as fast as possible!
