taken by the cousin of Alder, the fey had adapted to
change, often seen among woodlands and forests, the
fey of Arktos and Volnot were desert dwellers. Red
sand and rock dominated the lands, fresh green fields
were used for the farming of sheep and cattle. In the
south west was Volnot. The tribe of Volnot took his
people there, his kingdom was named after him, the
people of Cammbour had never stepped on the lands
of Volnot or Arktos. The land was covered with fresh
conifers, evergreen fir trees, their kingdom was built
on shingle rock.
The south west lands were the mighty lands of the
Draco stretch. Domain of the dragons and only the
dragons. They did not wish for power, especially from
the man who had taken so much from them already.
The boiling lands of Thrasia were taken by the dark
fey. The dark fey were different to the fey of the north.
Their skin was darker, but still as pure. The land was
filled with the most ferocious beasts but the dark fey
held mysteries on taming them.
The land to the southeast was taken by man,
Xencliff, a place of everlasting pleasure, sex was the
oldest trade the world knew, and those of Xencliff
blood were sure to exploit this. The fishing trade had
made the kingdom grow to bursting. The few Romans
who did survive were spat to the cliffs of Xencliff.
The smallest of the kingdoms was that of the tiny
folk of Cammbour, Bourellis in the North East. The
order that man and fey had brought suited them, their
purpose seemed to grow the day that their new kin
came to their shrinking world. The two superpowers
remained, Sonnin, taken by Alder and his tribe of two
thousand, and Cronnin, taken by Artnou, and his four
thousand followers.
The Atlanti were given nothing. Shunned for their
greed, the Atlanti formed a bond with those who were
outcast with them. Their armies grew with the help of
a creature as despicable as them, the gobgee. Their
settlements remained scattered, the borders of Elmoor
and Sonnin, parts of Thrasia and Cronnin and a small
island in the north were all they were allowed.
The ggelf’s remained a secret to the world around
them, they wanted nothing but knowledge. The
merrow did not care for power, territory or kingdoms,
the waterside settlements were more than enough to
keep them, all they wished for was privacy, and
respect.
Five hundred years passed, and the Atlanti
remained volatile. Their numbers still grew in the
towns and villages they had taken as their own.
Cammbour remained a world where change was
deemed as dangerous. The right to evolve had been
removed from the people there.
The fey and man settled side by side, they
cohabited and soon became feyman. Settlements of
the fey remained pure of blood, such as the mabeara,
but the bloodline of man remained only with the last
remaining Atlanti. As a result of their cohabiting,
feyman had much longer lives. Whilst the fey could
live to be three hundred, the feyman would live to the
ripe age of two hundred. They healed quicker and
they tended to be shorter than man.
Cammbour had become frozen in time. The
people were farmers, fishers, builders, tailors,
butchers, blacksmiths, foresters, the ancient lands
remained at the heart of the people. The world also
held room for the gentler of people, the artists,
musicians, engravers, alchemists, book binders,
writers, and story tellers. The brutal careers also
flourished, the soldiers, warriors and mercenaries
would always be busy.
As they years had passed, the Atlanti did not forget
the other world, although it was becoming a place of
distant myth, many still believed it existed. War again
consumed their lands, but this time Sonnin was ready.
With a war brewing the fey and man had to work fast
to bring it to an end, but the Atlanti were strong, for
nearly fifty years the deep valleys of Grenhilda rang
with the sound of swords. Cries of terror spread
streams; one side had to give. The leader of the Atlanti
made his proposal, Kaynum proposed a fight to end
the wars, an army was chosen by each side, one
thousand strong, the last army standing would win the
world around them, but the fey were cunning in their
knowledge of the world where they now resided.
So many secrets surrounded their world, so many
lies were waiting to be uncovered and the fey knew
them all. A trap was set. Their army of a thousand
Atlanti troops fell. Queen Grenhilda Oakenwood of
Cronnin, ruler of Cammbour made a deal with death,
to open the gates of Tataria and allow the Atlanti
through, trapping them forever in the lands of the
dead.
In exchange, the gods ordered that every piece of
knowledge of the world beyond Cammbour was
destroyed. Memories were wiped; books were burned
and buried in the merciless oceans. The world of
Earth was lost to them. Not a single shred remained of
the world they once knew, instead, they remained in
their unspoilt parallel of Cammbour.
Chapter One Finding Hope.
ord looked to the treeline in front, her neat
braid of black hair fell perfectly between the
M shoulders of her armour, she squinted her
aging eyes towards the trees, pinching her nose she
could smell the stench of burnt wood, straw, and
burning hair. Her slender frame did not hold her
armour well, but she was not a fighter.
Mord called out to her commander, “It’s not far
now, sir!”
Crunching gravel hurt their ears as the hooves of
the horses hit the ground. The trees were slowly dying,
ready to enter their winter slumber. A smell of
stagnant leaves seemed to reach to them from the
quiet woodland in front, the birds seemed silent as the
small army passed.
The commander was tired, he had seen many a
war-torn land, his eyes were weary. A greying beard
and protruding belly had seen him struggle of late.
They were used to the pains in their heads from the
smoke, having experienced it so many times. Their
commander turned; he gave a satirical look to her.
“I’m aware,” he deeply replied.
Mord still did not know what path they would be
taking. She called out to him, “Which way are we
going?” They came towards a crossroad, and she
could see it. A cloud of scattered black bellowed into
the sky.
“Farhope,” he replied, his mumbling voice was
often hard to hear. The winter was quickening, the
long journey had almost taken his voice. “It’s the next
part of his plan, take the villages. The towns are next.”
The commander awkwardly turned. His voice was
hau
nting. “This will not be the last, this is only the
beginning.”
“Have we heard from the council?” Mord knew
the word of the council was law.
His masterful tone filled her commander as he
replied, “Not since the last turn, we take this path to
lessen our journey north.”
She shook her head, looking down to the cold
gravel she replied, “The king will be displeased,
knowing the army moves this far north.” He gave a
huff, knowing she was right, but not wanting to agree.
“Kairne seems more bent on destruction than ever.” A
smell caught her; the smell of smoke filled the bitter
cold air. “Farhope is a village.” She could see the
commanders slow blink, a descent into depression had
caught him. “This will be the third village in just as
many turns.”
They entered the small, fenced village; they each
alighted their horses, sounds of awkwardly clanking
armour echoed. A vision of filthy mess lay in front of
them. Arms, legs, and heads lie in the filthy trodden
mud of the village rotting on the ground, the summer
flies had returned for a feast. Dead wolves and horses
lined the streets. Chickens and sheep were slaughtered
within their paddocks. Burning homes still
smouldered. The village stood silent with only a
crackle of flames. The bodies were now a feast for the
circling crows and ravens who followed the army.
The air was thick with smoke. Mord made her way
through the village, in search of hope. Her footsteps
seemed to squelch as she stepped through, the
uncomfortable thought remained with her, ‘it had not
rained in a while there, it was not water she was
treading.’
Making her way through the death and chaos, she
entered the only house left standing. A small, thatched
cottage, a small holding to the side, lie in cinders.
“I hear something!” she shouted. A familiar cry
called out to her. She stepped over the rubble which
lay in the doorway. The roof still smouldered. The
structure of the building covered the floor. She heard
a sound which she had missed for a long time, the
sound of a baby’s cry, and oh what a sound it was.
She ventured further in; a burnt cradle of hay lay
beyond a small doorway. She stepped towards the
baby’s cry. Crisp clean linen shrouded the tiny infant.
To Mord, it was the most beautiful sign of hope. Mord
gave a look of confusion towards the tiny infant in the
dark smoke-filled room, softly she asked, “How did
you get here?” Outside, the others began to gather, to
see what she had found.
A gasp was heard from the onlooking army as they
watched her immerge.
“Commander!” she called as she stepped from the
ruins. She held the small bundle in her arms.
Thundering towards her, the commander barged
the onlooking soldiers out of the way, his heavy frame
bowled them to the side, as he called, “Is it alive?”
She lifted the bundle towards him, a smiling face
of a baby glared back at him. “Very, sir,” she held a
confused grin, “I don’t know how though,” she turned
to see the ruined cottage, “the roof was collapsed
around it, I don’t know how it survived,” she looked to
her commander.
His tone was soft, “Luck.” He asked with wonder,
“Perhaps it was hidden in the rafters? Either way, we
need to get it checked, make sure it’s healthy before
the camp.” He lifted his arm and directed her to the
field medic.
Usually, the medics would consist of the Sharma’s
from the temples, well trained in the art of nursing and
medicine. They, however, were stuck with Ulthar, well
versed in the art of medicine, his age spoke of a
lifetime of war seen. His retirement had proven boring
to him, he now tagged along with the search and
rescue; in hope of finding some prospect of the wars
ending. Long grey eyebrows stretched over his pale
blue eyes. His long beard accounted for the years it
had taken to grow it, like an old willow tree his face
held knowledge, but his body bent under the weight of
such knowledge. Stepping towards Ulthar, Mord
seemed reluctant to hand the infant over. She knew
Ulthar’s hands were somewhat weak, old fingers were
like the knuckle of an oak tree.
Ulthar saw Mord approach. “What’s this?” his
withering eyes seemed to spark as he looked to the
infant, “bring it to the cart,” he nodded slightly, “we
can take a good look.”
An old wooden cart served as a table, Mord placed
the infant down. Slowly, Ulthar began to inspect. His
long grey beard was soon grabbed by the baby who
seemed to cling on for comfort. “Well done, soldier,”
he said with a widening smile, “it’s a girl.” Ulthar
looked back and began to check for cuts, bruises, and
any form of injury. The infant was perfect. Not a
blemish, not a single sign of even being in the village
when the Atlanti attacked. Checking the infants back
he suddenly stepped back with a gasp. His old
croaking voice called out, “Commander!”
Mord felt her stomach twist. Her eyes widened. “Is
something the matter?”
Ulthar had his brows pulled down, he seemed
confused as he shook his head. The commander came
thundering over. “Look,” Ulthar softly said, he turned
the infant onto her front. On the back of the child her
shoulder bones were protruding. A strange image to
see.
“Is it torb?” asked the commander, he looked to
Ulthar, baffled.
His eyes remained fixed on the child. “Torb’s are
born with wings,” Ulthar replied, he nodded and held
a strange look of bewilderment, “but I understand
your meaning. It’s strange,” he said with a wonderous
tone. “The skin of this child is fey, you can tell, her
ears have a point to the tip, like mine,” he held a small
candle towards her skin, the skin seemed almost
translucent, “she has fey in her, but I don’t understand
why she would have those.”
Mord stepped forward, nervously she asked, “But
the child is well?”
With a soft smile Ulthar looked to the worried
eyes of Mord. “She will live,” he tried to reassure her,
“we will be passing a war camp soon, in the north,
close to Bourellis, we can take her there.”
Her face dropped to a look of sadness. The
commander soon noticed this; he did not take kindly
to shows of weakness.
“It’s a fucking baby!” he loudly said, “don’t look so
bloody upset, do you plan on taking her on the road
with you, Mord?”
“No, sir,” she immediately replied. Her voice
became soft, “apologies, I simply think I’ve had too
much time on the road.”
“Haven’t we all,” he abruptly replied. He came
close to her ear as he grumbled, “welcome to war.”
As she watched her commander storm back
towards the carnage of the village, Mord shouted, “I
finally found what I came for!” The commander
turned, Mord softly said, “Hope. Maybe, it’s my time
to hand in my papers?”
The infant remained in Mord’s arms as they
journeyed towards the northern camps. The wet snow
hissed as it settled on the ground, the winter was
mocking them. Mord spoke to the child on their
journey, each time she did the infant seemed to listen.
She longed to be a mother, but age was no longer on
her side. She had seen a world torn through war; she
would never be willing to bring a child into that.
Coming towards the northern pass, the infant’s
new home was finally in sight. The stone bunker
buildings of the war camps stood uniform on the dull
cobbled paths. A misty green woodland to the north of
them sheltered the camp from the wind and harsh
weather. To the side of each building, a wooden staff
hut sat, the crude and often draftee buildings were a
stark reminder of what the Atlanti were doing to their
world.
“I don’t like it here,” mumbled Mord as she trailed
along at the back.
The commander turned, “It is the best place for
her,” his orders were clear. The commander still had
some compassion. “Mord, regardless of what you
choose to do, the child would be better off following
her own path, that begins here.”
Mord looked down, she hated the camps. “I know,
I still don’t like it here though.”
“If it makes you feel better, Bourellis is not far
north from here,” he could see Mord was struggling.
“For ten years I have known you, Mord, in that time
all you have searched for is hope,” the commander
jumped from his horse; his age was showing as his
belly almost pulled him to the ground. “The pooka
gather in these woods regularly, that’s why hunting is
banned this far north,” he explained, “besides, it isn’t
your choice.” He took the infant from Mord, she
willingly passed the infant over, knowing her chances
were greater in the care of the mystical pooka.
The day the child arrived at the camp; everything
began to change. As the small girl with the strange