Dusk was falling when the messenger reached Égarol, the village of the Daeros, deep in the lost lands of Áder. He was a boy of about thirteen, wrapped in a dark green mantle and a long, wide cloak of the same color. He approached, panting, his feet numb from cold and exhaustion, to the massive wooden gates that towered twice his height. It was the only entrance in the great wall of uneven stones that surrounded the village like a defensive belt. He thought that if they denied him entry, all his effort would have been in vain and he would collapse right there. His provisions had run out the morning before, and although he was used to fasting, he feared that urgency had driven him to demand more of himself than he could endure. His stomach growled and his heart pounded in his ears. He knocked a few times and called out, his voice broken with fatigue:
– Hello! I—I bring a message!
The temperature was bitterly low, and a small cloud of vapor escaped his mouth with every breath. He rested his hands on his knees, waiting, and was surprised to notice the childish scribbles and drawings carved along the lower edge of the wall. The intimidating barrier was just another playground for the Daero children. He glanced down at his worn black boots caked with dirt and the patches of dried sweat staining his mantle. He tried to smooth his clothes a little and brush off the dust. He wondered if Denjirl and Khas looked as filthy as he did. Part of him hoped they did—it wouldn’t be fair if their journeys had turned out easier. The three had departed at the same time, and he could still see, with frustrating clarity, the condescending look on their faces when he was assigned the closest and least dangerous destination.
Shadows moved atop the wall, lit by the flicker of torches.
– Who are you? What are you doing here at this hour? –asked a man watching him from the other side of the gates through a small slit nearly two meters above the ground.
– I’m a Yuru. I bring important news for Fágarten –the messenger urged.
– A Yuru? You’re nothing but a boy. Go away –the voice growled.
The boy straightened up and let the hood fall back, revealing his shaved head. From a fine silver chain around his neck hung a protective medallion, which now slipped out from the folds of his cloak and swayed with his quickened breath, casting faint glimmers in the dark. His appearance made it clear he had been traveling for days with almost no rest.
No answer came. The messenger waited a long minute and was about to insist, but there was no need. A metallic, rusted sound broke the silence—the gate opened, and the sentry stepped aside with a respectful bow, his long white hair catching the torchlight. The boy thought he would hear a crack and see the old man fold under the weight of the heavy fur he wore for warmth, but his movement was swift and steady. The boy returned the greeting with a half-bow and hurried on without further explanation. He had no time for formalities. The darkness betrayed him, and in his haste he stumbled over a soft bundle that let out a sound halfway between a whimper and a sharp bark.
– Careful, boy –the old man caught him by the arm, saving him from falling, and spat on the ground– or it’ll tear you to pieces.
A skinny dog, barely bigger than a rabbit, was jumping around, baring its teeth and snapping at the stranger’s cloak.
– I’m sorry –muttered the messenger, awkwardly backing away.
He walked on between the huts, scattered like elements added at random, lacking any possible sense of order, like mushrooms that had sprouted over the years. The village, once small and well organized, had grown too quickly in too little space, forcing its inhabitants to build wherever there was room instead of where it was proper. It was useless to try to establish paths or defined trails leading anywhere. The young Yuru realized this after finding himself once again facing the wall, after a long stretch of walking straight ahead, dodging homes and trees. Irritated, he retraced his steps impatiently toward the entrance, where he found the sentinel smiling at him and—he could have sworn—waiting for him.
—Have you already delivered the message?—the man asked, his grin widening to reveal more gaps than teeth.—That was quick. I imagined you’d at least stay for the night, but it seems you’re in quite a hurry—he added, stretching his hand toward the lock.
—No, I’m not leaving yet. It’s just that... I haven’t been able to, I mean... I’m having trouble finding the way—he murmured, embarrassed.
—Oh, well, don’t worry about that. It’s rather common. It happens to everyone who comes to Égarol for the first time and thinks they can walk around as they please.
—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I just thought that if I was able to reach this far on my own, the rest wouldn’t be so difficult...
—It’s fine, boy. If you want, I can guide you. Come, follow me.
The old man moved without the slightest sign of confusion, dragging an almost imperceptible limp. He turned left or right without hesitation and without taking even the smallest detour. Those they passed greeted him politely and stepped aside; no one turned to stare at the visitor, and no curious onlooker came to question him. Nor did he sense the furtive glances that usually pierce through any stranger in a village. It wasn’t that strangers were common there, but no one could overlook the green cloak and the circular stone medallion.
This was a race of warriors; the Yuru thought the physical build of both men and women proved it. In case of doubt, a glance around was enough. For every nine or ten houses there was a forge. Though one could distinguish pots, tools, and what seemed like curious musical instruments, it was obvious that their main craft was weapon-making. So far, he had counted seven forges and assumed there must be twice or even three times as many in total. Shields of varied and fantastic designs were spread across rooftops or hung from the walls; axes, clubs, knives, arrows, and the like were piled up outside. At first, he found it odd not to see the wondrous Daeran swords, until he noticed they were stored inside huge chests within the forges. Those sacred weapons were not meant to be left outdoors—they deserved special treatment. After a long walk of turns and detours, they made one last left turn and the sentinel finally stopped.
—Very well, keep going this way without turning and you’ll reach a cabin slightly larger than the rest. It’s right in the center of the village, you know? Because for the Daeros, the leader is the heart of the people. You’ll recognize it when you see it—he said, pointing ahead.—I must return to the gates now. Farewell, boy. Good luck.
—Thank you. Goodbye.
The boy took a few hesitant steps and clenched his fists; his palms were damp with sweat. The decisive moment had come—he couldn’t afford to fail. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel worthy of looking his masters in the eye again. He swallowed hard, recalling the moment of their departure, laughing together with Denjirl and Khas, and went on. He smiled at the memory of Denjirl riding off at full gallop, shouting, “The last one to return will wash everyone else’s clothes for a month!”, while he and Khas shared a farewell embrace. As if he didn’t know how irritable Khas was about his things—he’d never risk someone ruining one of his garments.
The two guards who watched over the entrance didn’t move at all as he passed by them without slowing his pace. He wondered if they might actually be asleep standing up. He knew it was possible—his own grueling years of training had included long hours of vigilance, and more than once he had fallen victim to sleep himself. Such admirable security, that of the valiant Daeros, he thought.
The interior of the hut was pleasant and spacious. There weren’t many pieces of furniture; the floor was covered by the pelt of a massive brown bear, and the dim light gave the place a cozy touch. The boy stopped and bowed respectfully as soon as he glimpsed the figure watching him from the other side of the room. Despite the shadows surrounding him, it was clear that the man was of immense proportions. The figure made a barely perceptible nod, and several more torches lit up immediately. He was, without a doubt, a huge man—even for a Daero. He sat on an imposing oak seat that seemed to have been carved directly from a tree that had once stood rooted in that very spot, as it still preserved the roots binding it to the earth. That detail, along with its rough aspect, gave it an even more majestic air. His hard, unyielding features came to life in the glow of the fire. Ísamer wondered whether the light in those eyes was merely the reflection of the flames or the glimpse of an almost untamable spirit. He heard the door close behind him and only then noticed the two children standing beside the torches, like miniature bodyguards.
—Greetings—he said.—My name is Ísamer. I have been sent by the Yuru Council on an urgent mission.
The man did not answer. He remained still for a few moments, his gaze fixed on the unusual visitor, then spoke:
—Ísamer, I am Fágarten, leader of the Daeros. Please, sit down and rest a while; you look rather weary.
—Yes, thank you.
—Aila!—Fágarten called.
A woman appeared from one of the side doors carrying a jug of water and a polished wooden cup on a beautiful silver tray. She placed everything on a small table before Ísamer and withdrew.
—Drink slowly—it’s cold—said Fágarten.—Tell me, was it hard to get here?
—Not that much...—Ísamer replied, though his appearance suggested otherwise.
Fágarten fell silent again. He simply observed the young messenger without making the slightest gesture.
—The roads aren’t easy, but I didn’t find too many difficulties, though I did have to quicken my pace through those woods—Ísamer added.—I think I nearly fell into an ambush... Anyway, I’m here now.
—Yes, you are. But you’ll have to be a bit more careful—said Fágarten, adjusting a bloodstained leather strap that wrapped around his left forearm.—My men weren’t going to ambush you; they only had orders to watch you.
—Your men?
—You see, Ísamer... once you venture too deep into the lands of Áder, you’re never truly alone. The Daeran archers see everything and act according to my orders. In your case, I decided it would be best to provide you with an escort, just in case. They followed you up to the wall to make sure nothing happened to you. I knew of your presence in the village even before they allowed you through the gate.
Ísamer couldn’t help feeling both embarrassed and irritated—mostly with himself—for having been careless and for his proud attitude toward the guards. But when he spoke again, his voice was calm and even, betraying none of the shame and surprise running through him:
—Ah, so that was it. I’ll keep it in mind next time I travel through the Lost Lands.
Fágarten leaned heavily against the backrest and pressed his bare soles against the packed earth floor. He took a wooden bowl resting on a side table and drank deeply from the steaming liquid it held. It was bitter and smelled of resin; a few drops splashed onto his rough, unkempt beard. He waved off an insistent fly with a flick of his hand and clicked his tongue in annoyance.
—Very well. Tell me what this mission is about, boy.
The messenger cast a brief but noticeable glance toward the two children, then back at the Daero leader.
—Don’t worry about them; they know when it’s wise not to listen... and to forget whatever they imagine they heard.
—I’d prefer to speak in private. The message I bring is very important and must remain secret—at least as much as possible.
—That hardly needs to be said. It’s not every day I receive an exhausted Yuru apprentice. In fact, I think this is the first time I’ve seen one outside the Temple. Aren’t you forbidden to leave until your training is complete?
—Yes, but the members of the Council decided it was necessary to break that rule and allow me—and the others—to leave, just this once.
—You and the others? Are you telling me several apprentices have left the Temple?—Fágarten asked, frowning, for the first time truly intrigued by the conversation.
—All of them, to be exact.
—All of them?—the man repeated, trying to mask his surprise.—Well, I don’t know what’s going on, but you’d better explain it to me at once. Forget about these children and tell me what you came to say.
Ísamer hesitated for a moment. He didn’t feel comfortable disobeying his masters’ instructions, and they had been very clear about the need to keep the message secret. But it was evident he wasn’t going to win that argument, so he shrugged and said:
—Coen the Old has decreed an open session of the Council, to be held in a few weeks’ time. He requests that all the peoples of the world send before him a representative of his choosing.
Fágarten’s face tightened slightly, his nostrils flared, and his eyes seemed to darken. The massive seat creaked under the tension of his muscles. No one could remain unmoved by such news: the Yurus were admitting they needed help.