The Harvest Wars - Part 1 - Awakening

CHAPTER ONE - The Last of the Thirteen

10,220 Years Later...

The Monger's Path, Cemnok Mountains

Age of Prime

Autumn, Year 1887

Like a brooding beast, the night hung heavily over the Cemnok Mountains, their snowcapped peaks towering upward into the black fabric of the sky. It was unusually cold, even for this time of the year, and the icy air froze the tears the sky wept, turning them into stinging snow and ice. One could hear the relentless howling of a wolf through the vast chasms, joining in with the moaning of the bitter wind, which sounded as if the ancient mountains groaned in pain.

Yet in this land, there lingered a presence that marred its desolate beauty. A camp of wagons had been erected in an enclosed hollow between two foothills, guarded by a small wood of tall, shaggy firs that tottered in the wind like old, drunken men. Voices and occasional laughter drifted from the circle of wagons, while the radiant glow of a bonfire, as well as the smell of simmering stew, teased the senses of the six mercenaries who had the ill luck to guard the outer perimeter of the camp.

Aaron was the most unfortunate of these men. His assigned duty was to guard the trail to the road, an area that provided only minimal shelter from the elements. Still young and new to a mercenary's life, he had never traveled through a territory as hostile as the Cemnok Mountains. Now he suffered for his lack of experience. His brown coat and clothes were too thin to shield him from the biting chill, and his boots had been ripped open by the sharp stones of the Monger's Path. Feeling miserable, he paced to get some warmth into his body, cursing his lack of foresight, when he suddenly saw something moving through the falling snow on the road ahead.

In a heartbeat he lifted his bow and drew an arrow from his quiver, nocking it on the string. Holding his breath, he waited, his green eyes piercing the darkness where he had spotted the movement.

He saw it again—a dark figure against the snow-covered road. Pulling back his arrow in the bowstring, he shouted, "Ho! Who goes there?"

The figure stopped, as did the laughter and noise from the camp. After a few moments, the black phantom staggered toward him. Aaron tensed, yet he was reassured by the voices and footsteps of his comrades closing in on him. Just as the first mercenaries arrived, the gray clouds that had hidden the moon ripped open, and its pale light flowed over the surroundings like spilled milk over a table.

It was a man. A thin, tall man who stumbled through the snow like an intoxicated soldier, and who only seemed to be standing because he was supported by a long wooden staff. The wind had blown back the hood of his gray cape, and a flood of white hair whirled around his head. Apparently having heard Aaron's shout, the figure made a few steps in his direction, then slipped, dropping his staff, and fell face down into the snow. Lifting his head, he extended his right hand pleadingly toward Aaron, then slumped down again as if all life had left him for good.

"You there, go and help him!" barked Captain Daerto from behind Aaron, and three of his comrades walked cautiously toward the fallen figure. The lead one, Leonard, bent over and placed his fingertips on the man's neck. A few moments later, he shouted, "He's alive!"

"Bring him back, then!" replied the captain, who had stepped next to Aaron, placing his hand on the younger man's arm so he would lower his weapon.

The mercenaries were quick to follow the command, Gerhard, the strongest of them, lifting the fallen man and throwing him over his broad shoulders. The other two, Leonard and his brother Bernard, kept a watchful eye on the darkness beyond the road. Slowly they retreated. When they passed Aaron, he saw that the stranger was well past his prime; his tanned skin was wrinkled with age, and his hair and beard were as ashen and thin as a spider's web. Seeing the empty left sleeve of his gray robe flopping like a dangling rope, Aaron also realized that the graybeard was short of his left arm.