Chapter 1: Flight for home.

The winds change, and life changes along with it. A thick mist lays low on the marshes of Grandoth to the very north of the Great Lands. Something vile is in the air and death makes a slow and steady path to domination. Darkness has not reached so far to saturate what good is yet left. Good for how long? How long before all of the One World is decimated? No one being can say or guess. Only time holds the fate of everybody at its mercy�.

The ground had been softened by the hard rain and Horam Bomar rode with a weary expression on his face upon a tall gray stallion. Farrunner was the name given to it. Not a finer horse in Ridormurk. Horam dressed in fine silk and a bright red jacket with ornate embroidery of metallic green and silver in the design of the stars and crescent moons of the Lunar Sign running up the jacket front on each side of a the buttoned line. Horam�s dark shoulder length hair was slightly curly. A clean shaven face, save a small yet very noticeable tuft just bellow his bottom lip. Horam was weary from days of traveling, stopping up at the odd farm or village inn on his way. Now he was only 4 miles from his destination. Home! Was it as he had left it nigh on 10 years ago? Horam was young. He left Barbacia at the age of 20 to train for the 4th Regiment of Quintara. Oh, the training was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. That was until the unfortunate and untimely death of his only sister, Gwendella. This day, a week out from her death, he had not been told the full of it, just a scribbled note from his mother, Saria. The letter was short but to the gut wrenching point.

My dearest Horam, something unthinkable and unjust has happened.
Gwen was found murdered and mangled in the stable yard. She was just off to feed the horses, Horam!
You must return as soon as you can. No delay will be forgiven.
Ride well, my dear. Be steadfast and ride well.

Murder in his family was unheard of! He never thought of such things. Didn�t believe it could have happen to his family! No one ever believes anything terrible could happen to their own family! The unbelievable was still sinking in after 10 days, and he rode on still not believing.
The sun crept high in the evening. The air was crisp over the lush green hills. Farm patches over the country side gave the appearance of a quilt of varying shades of greens and browns. Finally, after countless miles, Horam saw the first sign oh home.

Something else caught Horam�s eye from the corner of his vision. He turned, but nothing was there, so he swung his horse around. What was there? He was sure he saw something, certain for truth. �I am going mad!� He told himself ruefully.

A howl came from his right, then left, and right again. Nothing but howling and heart wrenching cries. What was going on?

Without a moment longer, Horam kick the flanks and Farrunner was racing toward the village. He didn�t care for anything else but to find safety and shelter. Urging Farrunner to gallop faster still, as the cries slowly faded. The village was close enough for him to slow to a steady trot.

The welcoming sounds of village life sprang into his ears. He suddenly felt all fear and weariness vanish, as if never being. He could visualize the welcome he would receive. A round man of middle years with a think gray beard and a receding hairline greeted Horam with a warm smile.

�Welcome home, boy� The man greeting Horam was Jarad Cecil, the chairperson of the village council. He looked much the same as he had when Horam left. He took no time in dismounting and exchanged firm hugs.

�You look great, Jarad. Your wife still feeds you well?� Horam asked jockingly. Jarad�s laugh was both loud but husky. Then his face turned serious with a hint of sadness in his eyes. �I�� Horam could not finish.

�It has shaken all of us, Boy. Your mother is waiting for you.� Jarad stated the obvious. Horam was going to be even more shaken when he saw the body of his late sister.

The house was the same dark oak wood he had known 10 years ago. The same door and windows, it was all the same. His mother was out the door running like a young girl to greet him. Saria was a head shorter than her son, but wider, though Horam would never remark about her weight � not where she could hear, in any case. Gray now covered every strand of her hair now. The last time he had seen her they were only streaks. They stepped inside the house. The sweet smell of lavender floated around him. Saria wore a face of grief like he had not seen her have before. �I am so glad you are back� she said as she took both Horam�s hands firmly, as if she held on to life itself. �You would not miss your sister�s funeral even if it meant me going after you!�

Horam stumbled on his words. Why was he stumbling? �I set my journey back the minutes I had received your letter, mother. You know I would never leave you to grieve alone.� That was true, and he knew that his mother would be fool enough to go after him if he had not. Saria was no fool, though. They sat themselves down on sturdy wooden chairs at a broad lacquered table that he had never seen before. Nothing has changed? Plenty had changed, in reality. And the reality of that change was the hardest to accept. Horam�s sister gone without why nor reason. He felt as if a hole had been dug out of him with a shovel. He regretted ever leaving then. Now he regretted it ten fold. He would avenge Gwendella�s death one day. It would not be soon enough for him. He would find the killers and skin them alive and burn their filthy bodies, smiling as he did so. Would he? The question came like a swift smack to the head. He may never find the killers. Was there more than one of them, and, were they still here?

After an hour of talking and grievance counseling, Horam stood from his chair. Saria never moved. �Where is Mr. Farhill?� he asked. �I wish to catch up with the man about a wager.�

Saria raised an eyebrow at him, the way mothers do. �I would like to speak with him also. I�ll come with you!� She made no bones about it, either. Mr. Farhill was a gambler who hated losing more than anything. He always won at darts at the village inn. Horam made a deal with him that he would make it into the 4th regiment of Quintara. He made it in and Mr. Farhill had lost this time. You don�t have the bones in you to be a soldier. Mr. Farhill had once said. Oh how he would love that old mans sly smile whipped from his face!

I'm amazed at how this story is so good, PAPPY. I'm also surprised nobody hasn't posted any comments yet... I want to know what happens next! POST POST POST.

As expected, Farhill was at the inn, not playing darts, but drinking himself silly and flirting with serving staff! Horam new the only way to knock sense into the man was to give him one swift clout around the ears. The inn was as busy as ever with many from out outside the village. Some looked like they had traveled along way to get to Barbacia. Music played and one young serving woman sang an old melody he had never heard before. The young woman had a beautiful voice that carried throughout the inn. People clapping and cheering and some danced to the toe tapping rhythm. One man who looked worse than Mr. Farhill had ever been fell over himself, spilling ale everywhere. The singing stopped abruptly. The man had too much to drink, the expression unanimous. The serving staff were there before anyone could blink, helping the man up. The innkeeper was a lanky fellow with narrow jaw and thin line of dark hair that framed his face. His eyes were sharp and face looking most displeased. He bound over to the drunk, almost knocking tables over, his rage showing in an obvious shade of scarlet. �You are barred from my inn, Covral! I warned you more than once. Now get out of my sight!� He snapped his fingers and two men built like houses picked the man up limply and literally threw him out! It was amusing. Raucous laughter filled the common room. Not a dry eye was to be seen. Horam waited for the noise to settle before requesting a glass of root bear. He gulped it down quickly then went over to the table Mr. Farhill was sitting at.

�Oh, very well, then.� Farhill sniffed loudly. He had lost the wager, and he didn�t like that. The man was old. In his 70�s with hooked nose, and eyes so conniving one look and all trust would disappear in a flash.

A quick change of heart from Horam surprised the old man, and he very nearly fell off his chair. �I don�t need the money, Mr. Farhill. Something more important needs to be done here.� He did not need to say anymore because Farhill understand and put a hand on Horam�s shoulder.

�It is a terrible loss, lad. I am sorry.� He really was sincere about it. One of the only moments where he was ever sincere about anything was a tragedy like the murder of a friend. Farhill was a friend to the Bomars far many years.

Saria joined them. She looked at Farhill as if she was about to box his ears. Than refrained and smiled. �You have been a great friend, Mr. Farhill. And you still are. Oh, Gwen loved the stories you read to her the night she stayed at your house. She would always ask for the one about the girl and the magic tree. I forget the name of it, now.�

�We need to give her a proper burial, mother.� Horam said, firmly. By �proper� he meant fitting, fitting for his younger sister, his only sibling. �Even with the sexton gone away on one of his hunting trips, I�m sure we can provide her with the service she needs alone.� He sounded glum, and he was. Funerals where never uplifting for anyone. He also knew that being her brother meant making preparations for speeches during the service. He was not a good speaker at the best of times. The three of them past the time with a game of kings and queens, which, as always, Farhill won with flying colours. He never looked like losing from the moment the cards were dealt out. Horam stretched his arms and stood. �I must see to the horses.�

Saria grabbed his arm and said with a grim voice, �Please be careful. That is where the murder took place, remember?� Horam needed no reminder, of course. He was aware of what going into the stables would do to him. But he had to push feelings aside for common chores. After all, he missed working with the horses at home. Especially Steelfoot. Steelfoot was a shaggy brown mare. Not as aggressive as Farunner, as far as Horam could remember, but just as reliable when she needed to be.

After saying his farewells to Mr. Farhill, he was heading for the door. The rain clouds were forming up again to the north. And ominous sign he did not need. Horam was allergic to rain, the smell of it, rather. Ever since he was a little boy it got to him. That thick musty smell made his eyes water and throat itch. Nothing could be done about it then, and not even now. It was like breathing poison to him. Well, at least he wouldn�t die from rain�Would he? With sigh, Horam moved his feet down into the narrow road. A merchant�s wagon rolled by with fresh supplies for an eager trade with locals. The merchant himself, a short fellow with cheery air that bode well for what he aimed to do here. The wagon was fall of all manner of everyday items needed for the sustainability of a small town village like this one. The walk to the stables was only a brisk 4 acres from the house, out in a good sized paddock just right for exercising the horses. The wind was picking up. All the more reason to hurry. How he managed to cope with the journey back home in the pouring rain never failed to amaze Horam. He though he was getting used to the rain at one point. He even remembered singing songs about rain.

The stables were just as he remembered. Master Luhan was there unloading hay from his cart. The man was so preoccupied in his work he never saw Horam approaching. Then Luhan looked up and noticed Horam. He didn�t look the least bit surprised to see Horam now. He knew the reason why he came back as sure as snow is white. He greeted Horam with a slow nod in an acknowledged gesture of commiseration over his younger sister Gwendella. �I know it is tough. I�ve been down the same road.� Master Luhan was not much older than Saria. Middle aged with still a touch of youth in his weathered face. His hair had not yet grayed completely. The horses whinnied as Luhan tossed the hay over the stable doors and onto the floor by the horse�s feet. Hay was just as good for eating as for sleeping in, if you were a horse.

Horam finished with the horses and went back to the house. The light was beginning to dim as the rain clouds rolled over. He would have a very good sleep tonight, he was sure; his bedroom at home was nothing like the dorms he stayed at in the Training Camp. The house was empty, except for Saria, who was working her self to the bone mopping the floor with a soap laden mop. Horam never gave his mother a second glance before hurrying upstairs and into his bedroom. His bed was already made with fresh linens. He undressed and was in bed in a hop. He picked out a book from his bedside case, �The lost kingdoms Of Geal� one of his favourites. He barely got past the first page when his eyelids started to feel very heavy � he was one very tired man, after traveling for so long. Sleep took him. A peaceful sleep, filled with pleasant dreams�..

Your doing really well on this story, Phill. Do you have the plot for it summoned out already? I'm enjoying this a whole lot. The names sound so lord of the ringish :P. post more! post more!