The figures slowly peeled away from the soaring column of smoke, which was becoming denser. They were different shapes and races but they all exhibited the same facial expressions which fluctuated between exhaustion, satisfaction and confusion. They clambered up the last few paces of the newly formed crater and turned around. They looked up for a while in silence at the pall of smoke, a good thousand paces in diameter, which rose smooth and dense, like a black wall in front of them. It hid the being within from the eyes of creation.

One of the figures asked in a tired voice, without looking away, 'will it suffice?'

'It must suffice', another answered. 'We cannot do more, so long as one of us is missing'.

There was a short pause before the voice continued, 'if everything goes according to plan, it will only be for a short time'.

One by one, the bedraggled forms turned away, leaving the pillar of smoke in their wake. It pointed towards the heavens like a warning black finger, defying the wind and the time.


It was the sudden croaking of an ogre frog that woke Ahren up from his slumber. Startled, he looked down at the creature, a good forearm in length, which had woken him so rudely. With a frown and a wave of his hand he shooed the troublemaker away, and with an almighty leap the frog found the safety of the river some distance from the drowsy youngster.

'Stupid frog', Ahren muttered to himself, as he reached for his fishing rod. It was only now he noticed the waning intensity of colour in his surroundings, which could only have been caused by the encroaching dusk. 'The three be with me!' blurted the youngster, now fully awake, as he suddenly realised he'd slept the afternoon away. A closer look at the rod revealed that a fine big creature must have taken the bait because the line had been snapped. With a sigh he imagined the splendid specimen and wondered how he had slept through the tugging of the fishing line. A look around him answered his question. Here, in the bend of the river, he was protected from the wind, far away from all the other villagers and their activities. The river was four paces in width and the willows, hanging low over it, afforded shade from the sun without covering him to the point that it would be cool. The sluggish stream lapped gently around stones that stuck out of the water and lulled anyone who was a good listener to sleep. The soft, grassy bank had done the rest, and so the idyllic surroundings had carried him away to the land of nod. Ahren stood up slowly. But now he was in for a rude awakening. As he stood there and looked around, he noticed that his bait box with its rare and coveted Godsday flies was lying knocked over, on the ground. These flies were used to catch the equally coveted and delicious blueshoal fish, which always fetched a handsome price at the market. Master Cossith always took one off him whenever Ahren managed to catch some and paid him with a large chunk of the delicious cheese he made so well. Ahren bent down to look for the flies and was startled to see tooth and claw marks on the wooden box. Martens had feasted on his bait! Unfortunately, these pests had just as much a weakness for the Godsday flies as the blueshoal fish. They were called Godsday flies because they only hatched on the Day of the Gods and died the same night. But if you caught them on the day and locked them away so they couldn't see moonlight, then they would survive until the next Godsday. Unless of course, they served as bait for blueshoal fish. Ahren realised with exasperation that his full supply of flies was gone, which would have provided him with another three days' fishing. Snorting with anger he flung the useless box into the river and put his rod on his shoulder. As he reached for his bucket with the day's catch, a despondency, such as he hadn't felt in a long time, came over him. His catch had been stolen too! He thought of what his father would say once he arrived home with no fish and no flies, not to mention a snapped fishing line, and felt a lump in his stomach. His backside was already sore at the mere thought of it.

With slumped shoulders he made his way homewards, a journey that suddenly felt terribly long. He beat his way through thick bush and came out onto a small path which led from his home village of Deepstone and ran through the Eastern Forest. This was a small, dense forest which snaked alongside the river like a green ribbon. While it took hardly any effort to reach the west side of the wood from the river bank in less than an hour, it took two or three days march to get through it by sticking to the river – that's what Falk, the Forest Guardian, said anyway. A feeling of imminent disaster, caused by his father's scorn, hung over him, and it seemed to the thirteen-year old that the wood was stretching itself out. An hour became a small eternity as he walked between the trees towards the sound hiding that was waiting for him. The sun set slowly in high summer and accompanied him on his return journey.

It still wasn't dark when he stepped out from the trees and paused on the edge of the village. Deepstone clung to the edge of the forest and mirrored the Eastern Forest in its form. It was more than ten times longer than it was wide. Each house was no more than a bowshot from the wood, for it hadn't taken long for the inhabitants to realise that the trees offered protection from the cold wind that swept over the hills of Eastland. A few had tried to build their wooden houses further away – with little success. In the best-case scenario this meant that twice the amount of wood was needed for heating in winter, and in the worst case, a family member would succumb to the Blue Death. Old Vera, the village Healer, said the winter wind would then no longer want to leave the afflicted person's lungs. And indeed, the howling of the winter wind could be heard again with every wheezing breath that passed between the blue lips of the victim. Ahren's mother had died in this way, shortly after his birth. Too weak, her body could offer no resistance to nor defy the Blue Death.

Not one of the Wailing Houses, as they were called by the other inhabitants, was in use for more than one winter. Each and every family abandoned the house the following spring and build a new one in the shelter of the wood instead.

And so, the little village resembled a small version of the protecting wood. The houses stood in a row, like a wooden pearl necklace along the edge of the forest in groups of no more than four or five houses together. The village population of Deepstone would never have amounted to its current two hundred inhabitants were it not for the fact that the land here was fertile and yielded a good harvest every year. Everything seemed still. It was high time for supper, and of course it would have been blueshoal fish on the table at home today, if Mother Nature hadn't kindly lulled Ahren to sleep with her peace and quiet, only to make him then pay such a high price.

The boy trod with a sigh to his father's hut and stood still. The house his father had built that time had a compact structure that reminded him of a gnarled, dead tree stump, and gave a general appearance of ugliness and depression. The windows were small and the wood almost black. The hut had been coated with such a heavy layer of tar that in the dusk it resembled more a withered root that had pushed its way up through the earth than a place you could call home. The villagers used to say that after his wife had died, Edrik, Ahren's father, had poured all his pain and sorrow into building this house. But later it became clear to Ahren, that his father's only aim had been to build a house that was completely wind-proof. He had succeeded in this and Ahren was sure that his house was the warmest in the whole village. Secretly though, he had to admit that the other villagers had a point. Ahren was young but he already knew that there was more than one kind of coldness that could trouble a person. This brownish-black wooden fortress provided no refuge. Shivering inside Ahren stopped studying the house and opened the door.

It was no surprise that Ahren was still in bad form the following day. His father had reacted as expected and used his belt. Sitting was not an option now and Ahren stole away from the house before his father thought of a more severe punishment than the woodcutting he had been ordered to do. At least that could be done standing up. He walked smartly into the wood to cut branches off one of the marked trees. Falk, the Forest Guardian, hunted the woodland animals, but he also knew which trees could be felled without damaging the forest. Unlike the practice in other villages, the Deepstone villagers could not cut wood willy-nilly. The protection offered by the forest was too important, and so the woodcutters often went deep into the forest to fell the trees that Falk had specially marked. He had singled out a small group of trees the previous week and Ahren made his way there. Even before he reached the clump of trees, he recognised the loud voices of Holken and his friends. Holken was the son of the local blacksmith and the strongest boy in the village. Ahren realised with a sigh that today was threatening to turn out even worse than yesterday. Although he wasn't particularly slight for his age, he certainly couldn't compete with that muscular bully. And for some reason, Holken always seemed to want to prove this. Naturally this led the other boys in Holken's gang to see Ahren as nothing more than fair game. He avoided the blacksmith's son as much as possible, but this was probably not going to be possible today. The next nearest group of marked trees he knew of was half an hour's march away. And he would also have to carry the chopped wood back to the hut. So he would have to make the journey four or five times, laden down with wood. If he didn't want to double his workload, he would simply have to make use of the clump of trees in front of him. Just as he was about to move to within sight of the young gang, he heard a familiar voice in the undergrowth.

'Psst, Ahren, over here'.

'Likis!' Ahren nearly screamed with relief but stopped himself at the last minute with a low-voiced exhalation. He gave a start, afraid that the gang had heard him, and with two quick steps to the left he was behind the bushes where his best and indeed only friend was waiting. Likis looked the same as ever. A half smile in his narrow face, and a cheeky sparkle in the blue eyes that flashed from under his black hair. Added to that, there was the dirty clothing, which had doubtless been new and pristine a few days earlier, but which was now torn in several places. No jerkin in the world could survive Likis' propensity to crawl through the undergrowth and hide. Ahren himself was of a somewhat lean build and a typical Midlander with his nut-brown hair and green eyes. But compared to Likis, he was stocky. And slow. Because if Likis was nothing else, he was certainly fast.

'I was hoping you'd come here today. I've been sitting in this bush for half an hour already, wondering how I can get my hands on firewood without having such backache tomorrow that I won't be able to stand', said Likis in a low voice.

'How did you know I'd be coming here?' asked Ahren, surprised. Likis smiled mischievously and Ahren's face turned bright red. Of course, his father hadn't exactly been quiet the night before as he vented his feelings regarding his son's failings. Likis' family were immediate neighbours and must have heard everything.

'Don't worry about it. Everyone can have a bad day. But you really do have to tell me later how it's possible to lose the fish, the flies, and the rod, all in the one day, without having been set upon by robbers', said Likis with a chuckle.

'Only the line, not the whole rod!' said Ahren defensively, which only provoked the usual half-smile from his partner. Sometimes Ahren hated him for that grin. It seemed as if his wiry friend would meet every situation with this crooked smile, no matter how serious or awkward things became. One time, Likis had gone so far with his pranks that the bailiff had seriously considered dragging him before the village council. This was one of the most humiliating things that could befall a person in a community as small as Deepstone. Likis had simply adopted this half smile and begun to talk the bailiff out of his plan. Half an hour later he was let go. Old Mara, who had seen the whole thing, had said to Ahren: 'that young boy has a gift, no doubt about it. In ten years, he'll either be sitting on the village council himself, or he'll have been banished'. She had shaken her head kind-heartedly as she watched Likis scampering away.

'I see, I see, just the fishing line. Then it's not so bad. That could happen to anyone', said the wiry boy, referring teasingly to Ahren's misfortune.

'Just leave it, will you? I'll tell you everything later', Ahren responded, giving in. He knew his friend would give him no peace anyway if he didn't. The word 'curiosity' took on a whole new meaning when you were in Likis' company. Maybe, thought Ahren, that was why he combined stealth and chattering so well. What the merchant's son couldn't find out through cajoling, he did through stealth. Yet he never used this acquired knowledge to his own advantage. Yes, he got up to tricks, but he never harmed anyone unless he was forced into a corner. Maybe that's why he got away with so much, thought Ahren to himself. He said to Likis, 'but first I need firewood, and preferably without being nabbed by Holken. Two beatings in two days are just too much' and with a grimace he rubbed his backside.

'That's exactly what I thought too, when I saw Hammerhead here', said Likis. Hammerhead was a nickname he had invented for the budding apprentice blacksmith because he was firmly of the opinion that the big bully wouldn't need a hammer for his handiwork, his head would do just as good a job – it was of no use for anything else anyway. The fact that Holken really did possess a somewhat angular head just added insult to injury. Likis relished picking the right words and thereby really infuriating the target of his scorn. Not that he was ever brought to book in this regard. Likis was small and slight, but beside his ability to be stealthy, he was also the best sprinter in the village and used his surroundings artfully to his benefit. Any time he was in imminent danger of being eventually hunted down and caught, he would find refuge among several sympathetic villagers. He would have plausibly convinced them that it was certainly not his fault that at that moment he was being chased by a gang of ruffians. That was just as well, Ahren thought to himself, for Holken would certainly tear the younger boy apart if he ever caught him.

Ahren valued his friend for these very reasons. His sharp humour, his quick-wittedness, and of course his fleet-footedness (which saved him from the consequences of the other two qualities) were a combination of all the things lacking in Ahren. For some reason his hands and feet were always getting in the way, and even if he never considered himself to be stupid, he never had the courage or the presence of mind to find the right words at the right time. Now Likis was grinning at him and formulating his plan on how they could get to the firewood as quickly as possible without having to do the heavy work themselves or without falling into the hands of the other youngsters.

'It's really very simple', he whispered. 'I'll lure them away from the clearing and you grab the firewood. Hammerhead is so hell-bent on getting his hands on me that he'll give chase as soon as he sees me. The other idiots will follow him for fear of getting a tongue-lashing if they don't help and then I'll give him the slip.'

'Yes, that sounds great. Let's go!' agreed Ahren enthusiastically. The thought of not having to spend hours on end cutting wood, but of snatching the fruit of the others' hard-earned labour, appealed to Ahren so much that he agreed without giving it a second thought. Yesterday's misfortune had wounded him deeply and the thought of outwitting the world in general and the village boys in particular, seemed to him in his present state of mind to be poetic justice.

'Good, get into position over there and grab the wood as soon as they're all gone. Best bring it to Safehold, it's not so far and you can easily hide there'. Safehold was a treehouse the two boys had built the previous summer. Falk was the only other person who knew about it – the pair had asked him about a suitable tree because they wanted to be sure that their treehouse wouldn't be chopped down one fine day.

'Sure, I'll do it. Just be careful nobody catches you'.

'They haven't managed it yet', chuckled Likis, and disappeared among the trees.

'That's exactly what worries me', muttered Ahren and stared at the place where he had just seen his friend. The day would come when fortune wouldn't smile on the crafty boy and then it could end in tears. Already Likis' plan didn't seem like such a good idea to him. But his nimble friend was already gone and Ahren crept into the undergrowth with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He pushed himself into the designated position and had to admire Likis' trained eye in such matters. From here he had a good view of the cluster of trees in question and of the four youths toiling away, without being seen himself. As long as he didn't draw attention to himself with sudden movements, he'd be able to lie here unnoticed for a good while.

He contemplated the scene before him. Holken dominated the picture of course, with his bulging muscles rippling under his sweaty skin as he worked on the thickest branches with forceful swings of the axe. With a derogatory snort Ahren observed that the show-off had taken off his shirt so that he could be admired more. He did this for the benefit of the four other youngsters. Besides, Holken was the eldest in the clearing so the others looked up to him anyway. Ahren was almost sick with envy as he watched them joking around. He'd have given anything to be part of their group, instead of having been chosen to be a whipping boy by a stupid twist of fate. Maybe that's why he couldn't stand Holken.

Before he could give this any further thought, Likis darted into the clearing, grabbed a few thin branches from the impressive pile that the five had already cut and crowed a merry 'thanks, you snails!' to the stunned onlookers, only to disappear again into the undergrowth. Ahren suppressed a laugh with difficulty and pressed himself hard into the ground to avoid being spotted.

'Right, he's done for, grab him!' screamed Holken, his face red, and he and the others gave chase to the timber snatcher. That was almost too easy, thought Ahren, as he slipped towards the clearing, after giving the mob a few seconds to head off. With his heart pounding and with sweaty hands, but also with a wonderful feeling of exhilaration in his stomach he strode quickly into the clearing and grabbed a big bundle of firewood. He quickly piled as much wood into his arms as possible until he almost collapsed under the weight and stumbled into the undergrowth, fearful that he would hear a scornful cry or feel a hard fist in his back. With relief he realised that neither had happened and after a short trot he reached Safehold. Panting, he hid the wood in nearby shrubbery and looked up at the one place in which he had really felt comfortable in his young years.

As always, he was filled with pride when he looked at the wooden construction, well hidden and studded with twigs, five paces high, concealed in the tree's thick foliage. In reality, Safehold was a wooden box, three paces by three, nestled in the crown of the tree and only visible through keen observation. The tree itself was ten paces high with expansive branches and carried the additional weight effortlessly, even in stormy weather. Falk had helped them with the complicated knots and lent them the hoist with which the youngsters had lifted the wood into the crown of the tree, but generally they had built it completely by themselves. Ahren would never have thought that the Forest Guardian would have been so supportive, but it seemed he understood their yearning for a hiding place and with a lot of patience and good advice he had given them regular feedback on their progress.

Frowning, Ahren thought back to the knots Falk had made to tie the main beams together. Although both Ahren and Likis had watched carefully, neither could say with any certainty how exactly these knots were tied and a thorough examination of them, after Falk was finished, hadn't shed any light on the matter. It almost seemed as though the knots had only one end, but that was surely only because of the clever binding. When Ahren asked him once about it, a thin but warm smile appeared on the Guardian's leathery face and he only said, 'every craft has its secrets, and this one is mine'.

The youngster wanted to climb the tree now – they had deliberately done without a ladder, so as not to endanger the secret location of their refuge – when a daring thought came into his head. Why not make another trip to the clearing? There was a good chance he would be able to take the same amount of wood again. Then the two friends would have a considerable amount of wood to boast of and the others would end up completely empty-handed. If he was going to risk it, he'd have to be quick! Without hesitating, he started heading back. It wasn't long before the pile of wood was in sight again. A quick look confirmed that no-one was there. Ahren picked up the rest of the wood with a triumphant grin when suddenly Holken leapt into the clearing, roaring furiously.

'You! I should have known that you and that little weasel were in cahoots. I'm going to give you such a belt in the face, you'll remember it every time you look in the mirror!'

Ahren was frozen to the spot but his mind was racing. Holken must have lain in wait for Likis, hoping to pounce on the nimble youngster if he came back, which was a surprisingly subtle tactic for a muscleman like him. But Likis had been far too clever to fall for something like that. Unlike me, thought Ahren drily, as he flung the wood at his opponent and spun round on his heels.

There were maybe three paces between them and Ahren's heart was in his mouth. He started running towards Safehold as fast as his legs could carry him; behind him both left and right, he could hear scornful shouting as well as the crashing of branches and twigs. The others must be right on his heels! It would end in disaster! Terrified, Ahren sprinted on through the wood. He could barely breathe. The roots of the trees were treacherous. One false move could be his undoing – and then he'd really be in for it! He ran on aimlessly through the wood for some minutes, trying to escape from the blood hounds' field of vision. He may not have had Likis' natural talents, but he had certainly learnt from his friend. Lowlying branches whipped his forearms as he protected his face and he could feel his breath beginning to burn in his chest. The cries of his chasers were still close behind and the young boy knew he'd better not slow down, even though he was beginning to see black spots before his eyes. Hurriedly he searched for a hiding place or some indication of his present location. He could see a fallen oak tree in front of him. Its bare crown was being held up by two healthy trees forming a sort of knotty ramp. With a joyful yelp he began half-climbing, half-running up the oak's rough bark until he arrived among the leaves of the other trees, and then fought his way through the crown of the tree towards the right. The others were also clambering up and shouting threats, thinking they had trapped him. But Ahren remembered the spot, having been there often enough with Likis. If you weren't being chased by an angry mob, you could have great fun climbing around the treetops! The additional branches of the fallen oak offered countless opportunities for holding on. To put it simply: it was a wonderful playground. Ahren climbed higher and higher into the crown of the tree and moved to the other side of it, and in his hurry, as well as because of his increasing tiredness, he grazed himself in several places – on his hands, his elbows and his knees. He prayed that none of them knew this spot, because it had one peculiarity: there was a little pond within reaching distance of the tree on the right as long as you sprang from one particular branch. Actually, it was perfectly safe – the distance wasn't great. But Ahren was tired, his knees were shaking and he could hardly breathe. He pulled himself onto the wide branch that always served as his jumping-off point, paused for a second in order to look down at the dark, murky pond-water at least ten paces below him.

A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the others were slowly clambering up the oak, turning their heads in search of him with their faces grimacing and full of scorn. It looked as if they'd lost sight of him among the leaves. This was his chance. Ahren took one more deep breath, filling his lungs with as much air as possible, and threw himself off. His tired legs protested and his jump was far from perfect. He flew through the air at an angle so that he landed in the water on his side. The left side of his body burned like fire, the abrasions and little cuts he had picked up as he had fled stung unmercifully, and he was also winded. He thrashed about rather than swam until he finally reached the surface. Breathing heavily, he looked back at the tree, then at the opposite bank which was edged with low reeds. Clearly, the others hadn't noticed him disappear. With a little luck he could vanish among the trees before anyone spotted him. He swam quietly to the bank and had just pulled himself onto dry land when he heard a chorus of surprise behind him. Ahren stumbled away – he was simply too tired to run any faster – but still managed to build up a sufficient lead, so that his chasers couldn't see him anymore. It seemed as though none of the blood hounds were willing to take the shortcut through the pond, which meant they had to clamber back down again. Feeling himself to be safe now, he made his way towards Safehold and prayed that the village boys would soon tire of the chase. He realized with relief that they too had run out of energy – their angry calls some distance away indicated that he had maintained his lead. After a short jog, Ahren, gasping for breath, touched the tree trunk, his place of safety. If the tree house had been only a hundred paces further on, he would probably never have reached it in time. With one last effort he heaved himself up into the safety of the den, lay flat on the floor and tried to bring his breathing under control. His legs felt like rubber and he was sure he couldn't take another step. As the noise of his chasers came closer, he turned on his tummy with a suppressed groan and peeked through a gap in the branches. One after another, three of the angry boys ran under his hiding place. After a few seconds he could hear confused and angry cries – they realized that their prey had given them the slip.

'He must be here somewhere!' shouted Holken and stopped, barely six paces away from Safehold. 'He must have hidden himself, look for him!' Cursing silently, Ahren watched how the boys began searching through undergrowth and in the trees for him. What had he got himself into? Now they'd find the treehouse too! Ahren closed his eyes and held his breath, hoping that the camouflage would fool the boys.

'Look! There's the firewood! He must be very near!' shouted one of them.

A feeling of hopelessness overcame Ahren. He saw Holken staring over at the pile of wood before beginning to search everything meticulously. The others followed his example and Ahren scolded himself silently. He should have put down the bundle of wood further away, or at least hidden it better. Terrified, he watched the commotion below him. Even if the boys were to give up, he thought it would be wise to stay put until the gang had calmed down. He hadn't forgotten the threat Holken had uttered in the clearing and he was in no mood to lose a few teeth by running into him on his way home.

After a while Sven went over to Holken and whispered something into his ear. The miller's son was no danger on his own and even rather quiet and shy. But he had the habit of pitching in if his victim was incapable of offering any more resistance. Holken never got carried away like that, but the unwritten rules of the village boys meant nothing to chubby Sven. It was rumoured that even the village elders had discussed the miller's son's bad behaviour. Ahren saw the coldness in the eyes of the miller's son from the treehouse and a shiver ran down his spine. Meanwhile a smirk appeared on Holken's coarse face as he listened to his companion's suggestion.

'Come here boys, we'll head back. Sven thinks he knows where we'll find Ahren's sneaky little friend. Then we'll give him his due'. They gathered together the stolen firewood again and disappeared into the forest as they headed for the clearing.

Ahren was terrified of what the boys had planned. What should he do? On the one hand, he didn't want to leave his friend in the lurch, but on the other hand, he just didn't have the courage to climb down and to surrender to the village boys. The adults were too far away and he had angered Holken too much. And anyway, there was Sven and his cold eyes. He always had the most vicious ideas. Not to mention excellent powers of observation. If anyone could root out Likis' hiding places, then it was him. Ahren sat there for a while, as if spellbound, and feverishly considered his options. He was torn between self-preservation and loyalty. The scene kept flashing in front of his eyes: Likis, discovered in one of his hiding places by the angry mob. Horrified, he imagined what Sven would do with Likis, once he had a chance to act out his darker impulses with nobody stopping him. Suddenly he was more afraid of the miller's son than of all the other boys put together.

'You can come down now, they're gone'. The deep, growling voice sounded from below. Ahren couldn't believe his ears. Falk! Relief came over him like a wave. Peeking down over the edge of the treehouse he recognized the weather-beaten face of the Forest Guardian. He was casually leaning against the tree-trunk and looking up at him. The boy hadn't been aware of his approach. Nobody in the village could hear Falk, if Falk didn't want them to. He made an impressive appearance, dressed as always in buckskin garments, with the long bow over his shoulder and the hunting knife on his belt – weapons of any sort being something of a rarity in the little village. The tall, broad-shouldered frame of the Forest Guardian with his closely-cropped grey hair and full beard completed the picture. A few heartbeats passed by with Ahren not daring to move. He simply stared at Falk until the latter finally boomed from below: 'now, come on down. Some of us here still need to earn a living!'

Groaning and red-faced, Ahren clambered down the tree and looked up at the Forest Guardian with a mixture of gratitude and anxiety. How much had he witnessed? Falk eyed him with a serious face and a questioning look. 'And? Everything alright with you?'

Ahren nodded but his opposite number's face darkened noticeably. 'What did they want from you? That didn't look like the usual teasing. Holken might be a ruffian, but today they were really angry'.

'Well, actually it was really quite harmless. Likis and I just stole a bit of firewood from them, that's all'. Ahren was trying to defend himself.

'Firewood? You stole it? I must be hearing things! You were too lazy to cut some for yourselves, and you robbed them of the fruits of their labour? No wonder they want to give you a hiding!' Shaking his head, Falk looked down at him with a serious look. 'Even if they often cause trouble, at least they've done their work and been diligent, two things that can't be said about you, if you ask me'.

During his short sermon, Falk's voice was growing louder and Ahren's face redder. His voice shaking with remorse, he could only utter a simple 'I'm sorry'. Falk had always been friendly towards him, and the fact that he was furious about something Ahren had done, weighed heavily on the boy. The Forest Guardian's summary of the events was right, of course, which only made it worse.

'What? Do you mean, you're only sorry when you're caught letting others do your work while you skive off. The Apprenticeship Tests are next week. Which master craftsman or woman will pick you as an apprentice now?' Ahren winced and the old man continued. 'And by the way, those boys you were stealing from are the sons of the miller, the blacksmith, the fisherwoman, the seamstress and the dyer. Five bosses who will on no account take you on. Likis will start as an apprentice with his father. He doesn't need to give it a second thought, but you…' Falk didn't finish the sentence, but Ahren could imagine the rest. His father had played his last sympathy card within the village a long time ago due to his constant drunkenness. And as he was only a labourer on Trell's farm, he couldn't train Ahren. Not that the young boy would have wanted it. The gaunt farmer Trell, who had more cows on his large farm than any of the other villagers, didn't employ apprentices either and paid all his workers an equally miserly wage. And, with the best will in the world, Likis' father, the only merchant in the village, really didn't need two apprentices. So, if Ahren was to learn a trade, he was dependent on one of the village master craftsmen and women. If news got out of what he'd done, even if it was only seen as a prank, he might be turned down by all of them.

'Master Falk, I…' he began, but the big man cut him off with a terse gesture.

'Alright. I won't say anything. The others will spread the story around anyway, but they're only young boys. If you're lucky, you might just get a few disapproving looks. I know your father. I know it isn't easy for you, but if it happens again, I will personally mark this tree here and then fell it. Is that clear?' Falk's piercing grey eyes now resembled two freezing mountain lakes and Ahren's heart became even heavier.

'Yes', Ahren swallowed, 'thank you for your understanding'.

'Oh, I don't understand your behaviour. But if I were to report you to the council, you wouldn't learn any more from your mistake, would you?' the Forest Guardian growled. 'And bear this in mind', he said, 'for the sake of two armfuls of firewood, you're now covered in grazes and cuts and probably aching muscles as well. Also, your clothing is ripped, that'll probably take you two hours to mend. Not to mention the load of trouble you're going to have with those other boys. If you'd just stuck to cutting your own wood, you'd only have the aching muscles.'

Taken aback, Ahren stared at the older man. This sober analysis made him realise how stupid and pointless his prank had been.

'I'd be better off going and cutting my own firewood' said Ahren, trying to get out of the conversation. Any more of Falk's unvarnished truths and he'd burst into tears. The last time that happened was years ago. His father had taught him one thing at least. Tears never helped. And anyway, thankful as he was that the Forest Guardian had protected him, he had a tiring day of wood-chopping ahead of him and had to hurry if he wanted to be finished by evening.

I don't want to renew my acquaintance with father's belt, he thought to himself.

'That's the right attitude', Falk nodded, pacified once more. 'Don't forget today's lesson. I've lost the track of a magnificent buck, and I don't want that to have happened for nothing'. The Forest Guardian turned and prepared to disappear into the undergrowth but then he hesitated and turned around again to face the cowed youngster. 'It's strange that the boys chased you so deep into the forest and are looking for your friend now. It seems a little…drastic. Especially as they have their wood again', he continued.

Ahren knew what the Forest Guardian meant. Even if the blacksmith's son was the undisputed king of the village boys and a complete ruffian, trouble with him would only ever amount to a few scuffles. A song and dance like this wasn't his way of operating. 'It was Sven. He goaded Holken on', Ahren replied, remembering when the situation had escalated.

'Well, that would explain it. Much as I don't want to get involved, I'm going to have to talk to his father', grumbled Falk. And without another word, he turned again and disappeared into the thicket. Thanks to his camouflaged clothing, he was invisible after a few steps. A silence descended on the clearing, leaving a thoughtful, crestfallen young boy who had a mountain of work ahead of him.

Ahren spent the rest of the day chopping wood and lugging it to his father's hut. His whole body ached, his cuts burnt like fire every time sweat ran down them, and he was so tired he could hardly walk straight. While he worked, he pondered over the morning's happenings and the Forest Guardian. This distracted him from the physical pain and helped him to keep going.

Falk was not known for involving himself in village matters. He'd been living in the Eastern Forest for as long as Ahren could remember. But nobody knew much about him, except that he was a blow-in. Which, in a village like Deepstone, meant anyone who wasn't at least third generation there. The Forest Guardian lived off the beaten track in the woods, liked to keep himself to himself, and lived by the motto: 'live and let live'. Hardly anyone in the village took any notice of him. Except for four years earlier, when for once he was the talk of the village. One of the five seats on the council had become vacant and he was offered the position. He had recently killed a particularly large Fog Cat called Grey Fang, who had been a danger to the village. There was great consternation when the Forest Guardian turned down the offer as no-one remembered anyone rejecting this honour before. Since that time this silent man was left to go about his work unhindered and they respected his solitary way of life. The villagers considered him austere and serious, so Ahren was doubly grateful for what he had done for him today.

Panting, Ahren dropped a heavy branch on the woodpile behind the house and went into the wood once more. He had picked a tree far away from this morning's clearing and so the journey was twice as long. The sun was low now, but he still had to bring back two more branches. He could cut them up into smaller pieces tomorrow. His mind wandered to the Apprenticeship Tests that would be taking place the following week. His prospects really weren't good and he had tried not to think about it for as long as possible. These tests were held every year among the thirteen-year-olds of the village. This made it possible to determine who would be suitable for one of the available trades. The master craftsmen and women might be looking for an apprentice or might wish to promote a particular talent. Being an apprentice had many advantages. You got a little apprenticeship money, you were allowed to drink alcohol, could go to dances, and of course you learned the basics with which you could make a name for yourself later. After some time you could work as a journeyman or even become a master craftsman. Plus, you belonged to the apprentices, no longer to the everyday village boys. Then Ahren would be free of his adversaries. Nobody messed with an apprentice – out of respect for the master.

No-one knew yet which masters had registered their need for an apprentice with Keeper Jegral, the village priest. Likis was thirteen too, so he would go to the test with Ahren, but it went without saying that his own father, Merchant Velem, would take him on. Holken too would be standing in the village square next week, but it was equally certain that his father wouldn't officially apply and simply claim him as an apprentice during the ritual. Making a claim in this way was frowned upon, as it meant circumventing the suitability test. There would be no risk of another candidate endangering the chances of your child getting the apprenticeship. Likis' father, on the other hand, believed his son had to earn the position. As he was a traditionalist, he made an official search, which didn't stop him from preparing Likis as thoroughly as possible beforehand.

That left only Rufus and Ahren as genuine candidates, as no girls were applying this year. Ahren could only hope that at least two more master craftsmen or women would officially register a search. Of course, it wasn't certain that a master who registered would necessarily pick one of the apprentices, but there was a very good chance – as long as you didn't reveal yourself to be hopelessly inadequate in the relevant trade. If you came away empty-handed, you'd be hired by one of the farms or businesses, from where it was almost impossible to get one of the desired apprenticeships. Deepstone was simply too small. Some of the disappointed candidates moved away in order to find work for themselves in a strange place, but most of them moved back within a short time. It was no better in the other villages. A few went off to the big towns, for example Three Rivers, and were never heard of again. A last resort was the army, but the recruiters were notorious for paying a miserable wage.

Hjalgar didn't have a traditional standing army – the country was simply too small, and surrounded by powerful kingdoms. No-one wanted to end up a soldier. One look at the dilapidated border stations and the bored faces of the few soldiers with their dull eyes and you understood exactly how the proverb 'useless as a Hjalgar soldier' came about. The fact that the small country in the Eastern Midlands had never been seized was down to its peculiar location. It was a buffer zone between the three kingdoms of the Midlands and none of its neighbours dared to invade as that would immediately start a war with Hjalgar's two other neighbouring states. No-one wanted this area to fall into the hands of the other and so Hjalgar had remained one of the safest places on the whole continent for the previous three hundred years. Also, because it had no army and so proved no threat. Lost in thought, Ahren brought the last heavy branch to the hut and admired the sizeable pile of firewood. Then he went in to prepare supper so his father's mood wouldn't worsen.

The next few days flew by. Likis burst into laughter when his friend told him about his little adventure with Holken and his gang. And he dismissed Ahren's worries about him. Of course, the wiry boy had had all the time in the world to safely bring his share of the wood from the clearing to the merchant's hut, and he had spent the rest of the day in one of his secluded hideaways on the river, hoping that Ahren would turn up again. Sven couldn't frighten the feisty young boy. In fact, he wasn't fit to hold a candle to him. The two friends enjoyed themselves with all sorts of silliness, knowing full well that the carefree days of their childhood would be over forever once they had completed the Apprenticeship Test. The children of the village only had to do a few jobs and usually had the full day to do them. If they completed whatever they'd been given to do quickly, then they had a lot of time to play. This would all change the following week. Likis was excited and his eyes shone when he talked about his forthcoming apprenticeship in the merchant's shop, while Ahren pondered his uncertain future. One afternoon the two friends were walking along, deep in conversation, on the main street towards the village square, when Likis tapped Ahren on the shoulder. With a wink and a little nod, he indicated to his friend that he should look around discreetly. Casually turning his head in the direction his wiry friend had suggested, he quickly understood what his friend had noticed. A familiar muscular back could clearly be seen protruding over the rough picket fence of one of the many vegetable patches found beside almost every house in Deepstone. Holken, it seemed, was trying to stalk them.

'Well, hiding isn't one of his strong points', Likis whispered quietly. Then he added loudly, 'am I glad I'm not in Holken's shoes. His father's been looking for him for ages. Called him a lazybones and is really furious. If Hammerhead doesn't make an appearance soon, he'll be in for a real hiding'. Suppressing giggles, he pair leaned against the wall of a hut, clearly visible but at a safe distance from Holken's hiding place, and pretended to be engaged in a quiet conversation. In reality, however, they were watching the ruffian with glee as he became increasingly nervous in his hiding place. Finally, the big boy jumped up and ran towards the blacksmith's, his face a picture of fear, while the two friends doubled over with laughter before running from the scene. They wanted to be gone before Holken realized he had fallen for one of Likis' tricks again. The blacksmith's son never stalked them again.

Two days before the test Ahren and Likis were lying on the riverbank, their fishing rods in the water. The weather reflected Ahren's mood. Dark clouds moved across the skies, the sun occasionally breaking through for a moment.

'Likis?'

'Yes?'

'Is it known at this stage which master craftsmen and women have registered a search?' asked Ahren, his voice a mixture of hope and fear.

'Father proclaimed his quest to the Keeper today. And he also asked who else had visited the priest. At my request'. Likis looked mischievously at his friend and continued, 'Master Pragur and Mistress Dohlmen were there. I don't think anyone else will turn up'. Mistress Dohlmen was the village shoemaker. It was true that Ahren had nothing in particular against shoes and the mistress had a good reputation. But he was also aware that Rufus was very poor at sewing so the selection wouldn't favour him. But Ahren too was clumsy with his fingers. Anyway, Ahren knew which Master he wanted to impress. Pragur was namely the village bailiff. A bailiff, yes, being a bailiff was something Ahren could easily live with. Everyone respected you, and your armour was made from cured leather. You also had a short sword and a truncheon. You trained with those weapons, and only the village council could set aside your rulings. Bailiffs enforced law and order and chased away bandits and other riff-raff. A bailiff was a hero in Hjalgar – or at least what was the nearest thing to a hero in Hjalgar.

As he lay on the riverbank, Ahren imagined himself outdoing Rufus in the Apprenticeship Test and eventually being picked by Pragur. That man was one of the few people in Deepstone who had time for Ahren. He was often called upon to lay down the law whenever Ahren's father became too loud. The peace keeper was always friendly and compassionate to the young boy on these occasions. If he were to become a Bailiff aspirant, he himself could perhaps make a stand against his father. This thought put Ahren into the best of moods.

Likis prodded him in the side. 'And? What do you think, shoemaker or bailiff?'

'Hmm, bailiff would be great', said Ahren. 'All I have to do is beat Rufus in Pragur's test. He isn't particularly strong or fast, so I should be able to manage it'.

'Oh yes, you as a bailiff, then you could always keep an eye on our shop. And your father would have to be nicer to you'. The two friends began building castles in the air and by the time the midday sun had won its battle with the clouds, they were imagining themselves as town council members leading Deepstone towards a glorious future.

It was the evening before the summer solstice, the day when the Apprenticeship Tests were traditionally held, and Ahren was so excited that he could hardly sit still at the supper table. Again and again he imagined his triumphal election to bailiff, persuaded himself that he alone was the correct choice, that Pragur had taken to him kindly, that…

His father, dark rings around his eyes and no longer quite sober, growled, 'stop fidgeting, boy. Tomorrow you'll be able to do your bit for our livelihood at last. I've had a word with Trell. You can work on his farm for half a crown a week and give me a hand. Good news, isn't it?'

Ahren froze. All his images of the following day vanished in front of his eyes. 'Bu…but the test tomorrow' he began.

'Yes? What about it?' his father interrupted. 'Do you think anyone will take you on with all the mistakes you keep making? You're useless as a fisherman, your shoulders aren't broad enough for heavy labour, and you're always in a world of your own. Just be thankful that I'm able to get you on to Trell's farm without fuss. So at least you'll be spared the humiliation of not being selected by anyone'.

The matter-of-fact way in which Ahren's father shattered his dreams filled him with a feeling of hopelessness. Not only was he condemned to working beside his father, but he'd be working for a pittance as well. The thought of having to spend days and years in his father's company horrified him but this made him bolder than usual. 'And what about the position of bailiff?' he ventured.

'I suppose you think you're better than I am? I get a job for you and this is my thanks?! If the work is good enough for me, then it's good enough for you. You're coming to the farm with me tomorrow and beginning your new job, understood?' The threatening undertone in his father's voice made it clear that any objection would result in a beating.

But Ahren didn't care, not this time, not with these terrible pictures in his head of himself, broken, sitting beside his father with a pitcher in front of him, both waiting in cold silence with bitter looks on their faces, waiting for another day of endless, monotonous work. Ahren was nearly in a state of panic. 'I'm going to be in the fairground tomorrow, and I'm going to take part in the test and become a bailiff and then you can look for someone else you can let off steam at'. No sooner were the words out of his mouth when Ahren recoiled. One look at his father and he knew he'd gone too far, much too far.

'Let off steam?' he roared. 'I'll show you what letting off steam is!' He threw over the table with a crash and grabbed his belt.

If he catches me now, the boy thought horrified, I won't be able to go tomorrow, never mind pass the test and I'll spend the rest of my life here. His eyes bulging with fear, he rushed to the door and pushed the heavy latch to the side. His father locked the door with it every evening and normally Ahren found it very difficult to push the heavy latch aside, but now he was possessed by a hot wild panic and with his first attempt it slipped open. Feverishly he tried to evade his father's drunken fingers while simultaneously opening the door. The whole hut suddenly seemed even darker and more threatening than before. The tar that filled in the joints seemed to be stretching out in an attempt to pen him into the house. He had just managed to open the door widely enough to slip out, when his father's hand grasped his arm and yanked him back inside. With a triumphant yell, the drunken man pulled his own arm backwards, holding the belt ready to chastise his son.

He's not even looking at where he's going to lash me, Ahren realized in shock. It was clear to him that the leather belt would hit his face. In a flash he raised his arm and with a loud slap, the leather strap hit his left hand. Ahren heard a crunching noise as a fiery red pain shot through his wrist. His father raised his arm again only to slip on a plate that had fallen to the ground with the table, and tumbled to the floor.

'The Three be thanked!' Ahren thanked his lucky stars, gathered himself up and quick as a flash disappeared into the forest. The coarse insults of his father rang in his ears as he pushed his way through the undergrowth, scratching his skin all over, and ran to the only safe place he could think of, his treehouse, his Safehold.

The cries of his progenitor grew ever fainter. But the final, babbling, tortured cry would remain with him forever. 'It's your fault. You're the reason she's dead!'

This cry echoed long through the night in Ahren's ears as he lay in a ball in his treehouse, his injured hand pressed against his chest, sobbing uncontrollably for a mother he had never known but whose death he had caused, however unwittingly.


Midsummer's day begin in glorious sunshine which provided a ceremonious invitation to the festivities. Every self-respecting person was there, spending the day mingling on the village square with the other villagers. The village innkeeper served beer and the miller's wife offered her famous little cakes, which were so tasty that it was rumoured the miller had only married her on account of these little delicacies. A look at the miller's portly figure and the plain features of his wife only added credibility to the rumour. The centre of the village community was dominated on one side by an enormous oak tree, whose heavy branches offered protection and shade. Deepstone's vast warehouse dominated the other side. The communal village supplies were stored there and it also served as temporary accommodation for festivities such as this. The two other sides of the village square were lined by the most important buildings in the community. Here you could find the tavern, the forge, the grocer's, the Village Hall, and of course the village chapel. It was the only building made of white stone, and it dominated the area. All the houses surrounding the square had been festooned with cloth garlands that morning and these were fluttering colourfully in the breeze. The Village Hall was the only two storied building on the north side of the square and with its hard-packed clay walls it lent the scene a certain grandeur.

Apprenticeship Day was always filled with laughter. Stories of past Apprenticeship Tests were told and the merits of the new candidates compared. One or two even placed bets on the possible outcomes of the day ahead, although this was officially prohibited by the village council. Everyone was finely dressed, in clothes they would otherwise only wear on the Days of the Gods, when they would stream into the chapel to listen to Keeper Jegral's prayer service. And indeed here he stood now, in full regalia on the festively decorated square, chatting with the council members before striding to the centre.

Three tall poles were rammed into the earth, on top of which were three wooden flags, the symbols of the respective guilds. On the first pole was a wheel with twelve spokes, a symbol of the twelve trading towns that were scattered around the whole continent and that made up the merchants' council. The second flag displayed a leather hunting boot with spurs, in front of a stylized coat of arms. These shoes were only worn by the nobility and only a guild shoemaker had permission to make them. And, last but not least, a short sword in front of the locked town gate, the bailiff's sign, which stood for protection and order.

The priest turned around and recited the opening formula. 'May HE WHO MOULDS hold his guiding hand over this Apprenticeship Test and show to all, what sort of people he has created out of the young members of this village. May the inner form he has given them enrich our community, and may it bring to light today, which calling they each should follow'. His tunic, woven from shimmersilk, glittered in all the colours of the rainbow and lent the thin, bald man with the friendly eyes the impression of constant movement. Every time Keeper Jegral moved and the colours were rolling like waves over his regalia, changing ever so slightly. Spellbound by the interplay of form and colour within the robe, even the smallest children remained still when they saw the traditional clothing of the priest. 'May the young men now step forward to give the future of this village a new shape.'

The three boys stepped forward, all in their best clothes. As if underlining the priest's words, they were quite different from each other in appearance and demeanour, as though the god of forms was showing the gathering how varied mankind could be.

But Ahren was nowhere to be seen.

Likis was cloaked in feast day clothing, which displayed the colours of the merchants' guild – yellow on blue. He stood there, small and slight, and glanced around with a worried look. His friend not turning up couldn't be good, and of course he'd heard the uproar the previous night and was now greatly worried.

Holken was standing beside him, his big, brawny frame forced into a robe much too small for him and which he was wearing with obvious discomfort.

And finally Rufus, with his nondescript face, stood shyly in simple but clean clothing.

The clergyman looked at the three youths with surprise. 'Well now, where is Ahren? There should be four boys here, ready to show the world their form'.

A snort could be heard from the beer stand. Edrik, who was celebrating in his own way and was already quite tipsy, shouted 'the young boy won't be coming. He'll be starting tomorrow as a labourer on Trell's farm'. With these words a murmur rippled through the crowd while Likis gasped in shock. An embarrassed Trell meanwhile, stepped from one foot to the other. The gaunt landowner wasn't very popular anyway and he really didn't want to play an unwitting part in this little scandal.

'Oh, well then, if he's already made his decision, I don't want to stand in the way of the Moulder's decision'. Piqued that his ceremony had been thrown into disorder, Jegral was just about to continue when unrest broke out on the fringes of the crowd. It was Ahren, who pushed his way through the crowd, until quite out of breath, he positioned himself beside Likis. He was filthy, full of badly healed scratches, and his left hand was terribly swollen. He had woken up late from an exhausted sleep, and with a pounding pain in his hand he had dragged himself to the village square. His friend looked at him anxiously. 'Did a carter's wagon roll over you?' Likis followed Ahren's eyes as he looked meaningfully at his father, who had made himself comfortable at the beer stand. Edrik examined his son with a suspicious look and Likis murmured, 'I understand'.

The villagers had recovered from their initial shock and were now whispering intently among themselves. Annoyance at the boy's unseemly conduct was mixed with pity. A feeling of cold contempt began to spread, for a man who hated his son so much that he would shame him in public.

'HE WHO MOULDS will now accompany these young men to achieving manhood. May out of them be moulded men of whom we may be proud', intoned Keeper Jegral, trying to keep the ceremony on the right track. 'Which master today seeks the advice of the MOULDER?'

Likis' father stepped forward. 'Master Velem seeks a boy who can be moulded into a merchant', at which point he looked steadfastly at his son and gave him a wink.

Then it was the shoemaker's turn. 'Mistress Dohlmen seeks a boy who can be moulded into a shoemaker'.

And finally, the bailiff stepped forward. 'Master Pragur seeks a boy who can be moulded into a bailiff'. Jegral made the sign of the THREE in front of each of them and continued.

'The masters and the mistress may step forward and present their tests'.

With measured steps the two masters and the mistress stepped forward and positioned themselves behind their respective guild signs. In unison they uttered the ritual, 'May HE WHO MOULDS guide our process'.

At this point Likis' father stepped forward. 'As merchants you must master the art of counting, so I shall give each of you three problems you must solve'. With a few short words he gave each of the boys three sums to solve. It quickly became clear that Likis was the mathematical genius in the group, as he answered all his questions quickly and correctly. Ahren needed a little longer, but he was surprised to see that he too could answer all the questions. Likis had helped him, of course, when they'd practised together. Every answer was a struggle for Holken, while Rufus could only answer one question. Yet he didn't seem too bothered.

Likis' father turned to Keeper Jegral. 'The boys Ahren and Likis can be moulded into merchants'.

The priest responded. 'Which should be your apprentice, so that he may be finally moulded into a merchant?'

The merchant gave Ahren an apologetic look and said, 'the boy Likis should be a merchant, by the mercy of the MOULDER'.

A cheer rose up from the crowd of villagers, even if the outcome of the choice had never been in doubt. Everyone had assumed Likis would be next in line, and today's ceremony was simply a formality that needed to be observed.

'Then, apprentice, take your place by the side of your master,' Jergal intoned and Likis, brimming with joy, went over to stand beside his father, who looked at him proudly as he positioned himself under the merchants' symbol. When Ahren saw this, his heart sank and he almost broke down. He stole a glance at the beer stand and saw his father staring listlessly into space.

A pity that the innkeeper wasn't recruiting this year, thought Ahren. After years of experience, the boy could tell by looking at anyone, how much beer they would tolerate before falling asleep. This black humour helped to cheer him up. He smiled sincerely at his best friend who beamed at him with joy.

Then Mistress Dohlmen stepped forward. 'As a shoemaker you have to be skilled with your hands and know how to handle the leather correctly. Each of you will now, to the best of your ability, put soles on the boots we have ready for you here'.

Three footstools were put before the boys, with needle, thread, boots and soles on them. Ahren struggled to clamp the boot between his legs and to feed the thread through the needle, and soon realized he couldn't hammer well with his bruised hand. Clenching his teeth and ignoring the pain, he did as well as his talent and injury would allow. He took even longer than Holken, and his boots were no great shakes. Mistress Dohlmen examined the boot with a frown and then shook her head. Holken's boot provoked the same reaction. Rufus' sample, on the other hand, showed even, clean stitching. Indeed, while the boy was working, he had been humming quietly to himself, moving the needle in a steady rhythm and everyone could see clearly that the shy young boy must have been secretly practising for weeks. After a few seconds the shoemaker gave a smile of surprise and said with scarcely concealed joy, 'young Rufus may be moulded into the trade of shoemaker'.

Great! Good for her and good for me, thought Ahren. If Holken's father steps forward and calls him to his side as apprentice, then I'll get the bailiff's job. Then I just have to pass the test, and there won't even be any competition. Full of expectation he glanced over at the blacksmith, but he only looked over to his son and gave him an encouraging smile. Crucial seconds passed by with nothing happening and a cold shiver ran down Ahren's spine as the realization suddenly struck him. Holken didn't want to become a blacksmith, but a bailiff! The terrible thought flashed through his head.

Suddenly, the bailiff stepped forward and spoke: 'he who wishes to protect this place and keep the peace must have the necessary skills in combat and be in the appropriate physical condition. As there are only two candidates left, they must take each other on, with wooden sword and shield, and put their abilities to the test'.

Gloomily Ahren observed how Holken nonchalantly took up the sword and shield and held both of them easily, although the shield alone must have weighed at least eight stone.

Now Ahren received his weaponry. Awkwardly he strapped the shield to his injured left hand, and with his right, he clumsily grasped the rough, wooden sword handle. Holken's sword, held with a firm grip, pointed steadily towards the skies while his own continually fell towards the earth. It took all his energy to raise it upwards.

He was in a cold sweat already. He thought of all the tales where weak but nimble warriors defeated mighty but cumbersome monsters. Now, standing opposite the blacksmith's son with the midday sun beating down and the whole village looking on, he didn't believe any of these stories anymore.

'Are you prepared?' asked Pragur.

Holken thundered a powerful 'yes!' Ahren, however, only managed a timid nod, which was greeted with a snigger from one of the village boys. Ahren glanced around once more, looked in the faces of the onlookers and saw pity in almost all their eyes. They had already written him off.

And then Ahren became angry.

They had given up on him, just as his father had given up on him.

Just as he had almost given up on himself!

He gripped his weapons more firmly, felt a painful stabbing in his left hand, and looked resolutely at Holken. His opponent was taken aback by his change of demeanour and gave him a respectful nod.

'He who first drops his sword or surrenders, either through defeat or agreement, is the loser', called Pragur. 'The victor shall be my new apprentice. And now, begin!'

The bailiff had hardly finished speaking when Holken sprang forward and swung his sword down on Ahren. He just managed to raise his wooden sword and parried the blow after a fashion towards the right. His right arm began to hurt with the force of the impact. The shield, Ahren thought, use your shield! The next blow was already coming towards him. Because his left hand was already in pain from just holding the shield, and his right was still slightly numb, Ahren instinctively ducked, and Holken's blade whizzed over him. For his own part, and quite instinctively, Ahren swung his sword towards Holken, just as the latter was preparing to begin a powerful swing of his own. With a loud clash, Ahren's blunt sword landed on his opponent's shield.

A murmur rose from the crowd. Nobody had thought that the delicate boy would last for more than a few seconds, never mind go on the attack. Even Holken seemed surprised and hesitated, giving Ahren the opportunity to hit him a couple more times. These blows were rather ineffective however, as they were repeatedly repelled by the other's shield. Nevertheless, a feeling of triumph grew in Ahren and he fired himself up by thinking: I can do it. I can beat him. I'm going to be a bailiff. I…

Holken brushed Ahren's last sword thrust to the side and rained down a series of punishing blows on the young boy's shield.

Ahren could see stars in front of his eyes. Something went out of place in his hand and suddenly the feeling of a thousand hot needles exploded in his arm, but strangely, his hand now felt totally numb. When he looked down, he could see that his shield was hanging loosely from his arm and his hand was dangling uselessly. The villagers around him were gasping. Another second passed and despite the shock, the feeling in his hand gradually returned. Panting he sunk down on one knee.

Holken took a step backwards. 'Do you yield?' he asked loudly.

An eternity at my father's side, echoed in Ahren's head, and he painfully stood up again. 'Never!' Ahren gasped. The pain was getting worse. 'I can stand. So I can fight!'

The first cries to abandon the fight could be heard from the crowd and Pragur was just moving into position, but Holken had heard Ahren's answer and shrugged his shoulders. He took two steps towards the injured youth and clipped him with his sword, a movement which Ahren wearily parried. But this was only a ploy.

For at the same instant Holken smashed the edge of his own shield with full force down on the injured hand of the stunned youth.

Ahren fell to the ground as if struck by lightning, while an overpowering darkness came over him and washed all sensation away.

He was in the pond again. In the forest and under water. Water which surrounded him and comforted him. It took away all his pain, all his feelings, leaving him comfortably numb. Time was unimportant in this wonderful, cool place. Then he noticed a movement in the pond. Something from below was coming towards him. Something that was bigger than him. The spectre became clearer as it approached inexorably. With horror he recognized the figure of his father, felt how he was being grasped and pulled into the depths. Ahren fought back. Fought with all the strength he could muster, floundered and raged and kicked and somehow tore himself away. But the figure of his father grasped him firmly by his left wrist and pulled him into the depths again. A fiery pain began to rage under his skin, in his hand, where his father was grasping him. Ahren paddled and floundered, but his father's grip was too powerful, the saving light of the surface too far away. The more he pulled, the greater the pain, but Ahren did not want to give up, did not want to go into the darkness his father had prepared for him. Pragur's face loomed on the surface and Ahren thrashed upwards with all his strength, fought his way up from the depths, his left arm in excruciating pain. Then he broke through the surface and opened his eyes.

'He's awake again', said Pragur and disappeared from Ahren's view. Ahren looked around him, totally disorientated. He was surrounded by faces. Holken, Dohlmen, Rufus, Pragur and several more. Dust tickled his nose and the sun stung his eyes. The one constant was the unbearable pain in his left arm. Ahren was afraid to look. To see what had become of his arm. Nightmarish pictures raced through his brain, of him as a cripple, fighting his way through life.

Keeper Jegral's voice intoned, 'Make room, make room I tell you, all of you!' He carved out a passage through the crowd with untypical aggression, and knelt down beside Ahren. 'You'll be alright, young man, you'll see', he said in a friendly voice and took Ahren's mangled hand in his own. 'This day is under the protection of HIM WHO MOULDS, and no-one shall come to grief, if it be not HIS WILL'. Closing his eyes, the gaunt man started to recite in a singsong voice as he manipulated Ahren's injured hand and pushed the damaged bones back into their correct position.

Ahren watched all this as through a veil. The priestly song seemed to vibrate in his head and no pain seemed able to penetrate the movements. The young boy watched with grim fascination how Jegral, with eyes closed, put all the bones under his skin to rights, as if playing with one of those wooden puzzles, where you always had to push the correct piece so that the next one would slot into place.

The priest finished his song and a profound silence hung over the village square, broken only by Ahren's heavy breathing. But that too began to ease off as the boy realised that the pain wasn't returning, although the Keeper had finished. Slowly, he tried to move his hand. To his amazement, it felt as if the injuries of the last two days had never occured.

While the boy was staring fixedly at his hand, Keeper Jegral stood up and spoke in a firm voice. 'HE WHO MOULDS has determined the hand of this youth be healed. Let us pray'.

The whole village intoned the litany of the THREE, and Ahren had a little time to recover. Of course, he had heard of the healing powers of the Keeper before, but he had never seen such a miracle healing, never mind experienced it on his own body. Following the death of his mother, his father had broken off all contact with the Keeper. He was bitter that the priest had not been able to heal her. Jegral had tried to explain that the Keepers could only put things into shape. Mend broken bones or re-attach limbs, for instance. The curing of diseases was beyond their competencies, however. An infected lung or a gangrene-infected leg was damaged in its substance, not in its form. But Edrik didn't want to hear of it. And for this reason Ahren had only spoken to Keeper Jegral about half a dozen times in his life, each time more or less by chance, and only briefly. There would be a beating if his father saw him with the charlatan, as he called him.

Can charlatans cure limbs? he asked himself. His hand was answer enough. He knew why his father hadn't stopped the healing. A quick glance to the beer stand confirmed that Edrik had fallen asleep long ago.

The villagers had finished their prayer in the meantime and Jegral began to speak again. 'Now, Master Pragur, what say you?'

The strong man with the steel-grey hair pushed himself forward and said, 'young Ahren and Holken can be moulded to the position of bailiff'. Ahren's heart jumped for joy.

'As, however, I need only one apprentice, and as I determined the rules beforehand, I select Holken', said the bailiff and turning towards Ahren he continued more quietly, 'you're a brave boy with an impressive will to fight. I would have taken you on as an apprentice too if I could have. But Deepstone is too small for so many bailiffs, and my apprentices would have to get on'. With a last apologetic look to Ahren, he grasped the law enforcer Holken by the arm and placed him by his side in the place of ritual beneath the bailiff's guild symbol.

Ahren slumped down as Jegral began to utter his closing words. Words that would seal his fate. 'HE WHO MOULDS has shown us today how the youths assembled here shall become members of our society…'

'Forgive the interruption, but we're not quite finished', a deep, full-bodied voice intoned from the edge of the square. Jegral looked angrily in the direction of the troublemaker but could see nothing, other than an unusual wooden shape that looked like a crooked sign. The construction started to move and then Falk stepped from behind it and into the middle of the square. He wore the cloak he had made from Grey Fang the Fog Cat. Ahren remembered the beast's reign of terror only as a succession of tedious days. He, like all the other village children, had not been allowed to leave the house until the Forest Guardian had killed the Dark One. He had only seen the Guardian wear this cloak on one other occasion – when Telem, a farm labourer had been sent into exile for robbery. The Guardian had worn the same clothing that time as he led the banished man a day's march to the east and left him there. For weeks after he didn't make an appearance in the village. There were rumours that Telem had tried to win him over and this had really bothered Falk. Yet this somehow didn't fit into Ahren's picture of Falk – the man was simply too stern. A frightening thought struck him. What, if he wants to lead me into exile. Maybe the village council had judged our prank to be robbery, and as I was the only one to be caught…have I really made so many enemies? He looked around furtively while fear ran through his youthful veins. But he saw only curiosity in the faces of the others – with the exception perhaps of Jegral. His attitude veered between surprise and annoyance.

'What does this mean?' he asked firmly. 'Why are you disturbing this sacred ceremony?'

'Disturbing? Surely not. I'm lengthening it, in fact'. With that, Falk spun the wooden construction around. It was clear that he had taken his spear, attached Ahren's practice shield (which looked quite the worse for wear) to it, and painted a bow and arrow onto the shield. Ahren saw it in a flash. The Forest Guardian's symbol!

Falk walked briskly until he was beside the bailiff, rammed the spear into the ground and stood in front of it.

'Master Falk seeks a boy who can be moulded into a Forest Guardian', he said in a festive voice before continuing in his normal grumpy tone. 'Apologies for the delay but I had to improvise a guild stake first'.

Jegral gathered himself together after this unexpected entrance while a wild hope sparked within Ahren. The priest began to speak. 'You didn't register your search beforehand. Technically this may not be absolutely necessary. However, it's quite…unusual. What has made you change your mind?'

Falk snorted. 'You can't pick a Forest Guardian over one afternoon, I've said that many a time. We are the one line of defence if a Dark One wanders our way'. As he said this, he stroked his cloak and the villagers shivered. 'With all due respect to the bailiffs who look after security within the village', Falk shot Pragur a look, 'chasing a Grief Wind or a Swarm Claw alone in the wilderness is quite different from throwing a drunkard out of the tavern'.

The Keeper interrupted him brusquely. 'All well and good, but you still have not answered my question. So far you have only repeated the reasons you give every year to justify your refusal to take part in the ceremony'. Jegral sounded annoyed and Ahren hoped that Falk wouldn't goad him any further or his chance would be gone and he'd have to work the fields with his father.

'This year I have found a suitable candidate', Falk continued calmly. 'He has proven to me that he can climb, move swiftly through the wood, and that he is a very competent swimmer. He understands how to camouflage a shelter, and he has shown great stamina and tenacity here today. He has also exhibited valour in taking on a larger and stronger opponent, even while injured'. He turned and looked directly at Ahren. 'There is only one thing missing. The supreme Forest Guardian discipline is archery. And I thought this would be a fitting test for this ceremony'. He bowed slightly towards the Keeper.

Jegral looked like the cat that got the cream. With a delighted look and a friendly voice he said, 'Well, that being the case…set the test!'

Falk approached Ahren and gave him a hunting bow and a quiver with three arrows. Then he called out, 'archery is a difficult art and so I will give the boy three chances to hit the target. It is the alarm bell sounded by a Forest Guardian if the village is in danger. Hopefully, after today, we will not hear it for a long time'. With that, he pointed to the large bell, positioned three paces high in front of the Village Hall. Only the bailiff, the Forest Guardian and the town council could sound this bell. No others were allowed, on pain of severe punishment.

A young boy had sounded it a few years previously as part of a prank. His punishment had been to sweep the village square at the first cock crow in wind, hail or snow. Everyone had steered clear of it since then. Even walking under it meant bad luck. All this went through Ahren's head as he took the bow in his left hand. He placed the arrow on the bow string with his right.

An eerie silence descended on the village square. But there was an almighty racket in Ahren's head, so great was his fear. His young spirit had gone through so much already today. He raised the bow awkwardly as if in a trance. Trying to keep his trembling hand still, he aimed at the bell, twenty paces away. As soon as the arrow left the bow string, Ahren knew it wouldn't hit the target. The arrow bored into the ground three paces short of the Village Hall. A disappointed groan went up from the crowd. Ahren stood there in a cold sweat and Falk looked thoughtfully at him. Then he turned towards the Keeper. 'The young boy is terrified and exhausted. May I have a word with him?'

'Certainly', said Keeper Jegral, giving an understanding nod.

Falk placed his hands on the young boy's shoulders and fixed his eyes on him. 'I know you're afraid, you're tired, and to top it all everyone is looking at you, but you must concentrate. You already shot with a bow, don't you remember?' Falk asked quietly so no-one else could hear.

'Only during the Autumn Festival', Ahren answered shyly. The Autumn Festival took place once the harvest had been brought in and the village prepared for the winter. The adults and apprentices would dance while the children would take part in all sorts of games of skill such as sack races, running competitions, climbing, apple-bobbing or wrestling. During the last three Autumn Festivals, Falk had set up a target range on the edge of the fair. He would let the children shoot with a short bow and practice arrows with cloth balls attached. Ahren had spent a lot of time there, far from the beer stand where his father would make himself comfortable. And far from Holken and his gang. That was how he had first met Falk. But it seemed so terribly long ago now.

The Forest Guardian shook him and whispered, 'it's perfectly natural to be afraid. Everyone is afraid of something. When I encountered Grey Fang, I was afraid too'.

'You were afraid?' Ahren was stunned.

'I'll show you a trick now. Where do you feel safest?'

'Why?' asked the young boy, confused.

'Trust me and do as I tell you. You'll have to get used to obedience anyway, as soon as this is behind you, so you may as well start now'.

Ahren tried to concentrate on the Forest Guardian's question. Where do I feel safest? He immediately thought of the tree house. It was quiet and peaceful there at night and his father couldn't find him there, as he knew nothing of its existence.

'Safehold. The tree house I mean', responded Ahren.

'Good. Now try and imagine how you feel when you're there. What it smells like there, what it feels like. What you hear and see whenever you're there and how safe it is there'.

Ahren closed his eyes. His thoughts were whirling around. The hurtful words of his father, the danger of a future on the farm, his injured and now marvellously healed hand. All these thoughts swirled around his mind and he found it impossible to concentrate. He tried thinking of the tree house, looked at it with his inner eye, but the memory of Holken's raging face kept pushing through. No, no! It's safe there, thought Ahren. He clung to the thought. Imagined how it felt when he was there at night. He thought of the late summer breeze wafting from the east, how soft it felt on his skin. Felt it as it passed through the exposed walls. He heard the nightly concert of the forest creatures, as they moved around in the dark. Felt the silence that only a place empty of people brought forth.

'Right, boy, now you have it!' said Falk. 'Now breathe in, hold your breath, draw the bow and shoot'.

The crowd was silent and concentrated completely on the young boy, but he hardly noticed them.

Ahren raised the bow, this time more calmly, though still clumsily, but now not shaking. He drew the bow. He shot.

The arrow ricocheted with a dull clack off the door of the Village Hall, barely a pace from the bell.

Ahren's veins ran cold with panic once again. Not even Falk himself could flout the ceremonial rules. Were Ahren to fail again, it would all be over. Falk would not be able to take him on as his apprentice. The images and fears were tormenting the young boy again. Falk carefully took the bow from his hand and asked him something. But Ahren was in such a state of panic and there was such a roaring in his ears he couldn't understand him. The tree house, think of the tree house, he kept repeating to himself, as if it speaking to another person. Slowly the image of Safehold, which had only now been smashed and scattered, formed itself again in his mind. With clenched fists he forced his fears away until they existed only on the outskirts of his consciousness. He could feel his legs shaking. Even if he were allowed to take a fourth shot, he sensed he only had reserves for this one last attempt. He was on the point of bursting into tears and knew he wouldn't be able to calm down and hold it together for another attempt.

Falk continued to speak quietly to him and this time the words sank in. 'You did everything correctly, in fact. The shot ought to have hit the target'. Falk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was like somebody trying to solve a complicated puzzle. 'Which hand do you use for buttering your bread, boy?'

At first Ahren thought he'd misheard. The question was absurd. So pointless. His mind must be playing tricks on him. He was hearing things. But no. His mind was calm. The picture of the tree house was still intact.

Peace and quiet. A grasshopper chirping.

'Which hand do I cut my bread with? My right, of course. My good hand'.

'Your good hand?' Falk's voice had an edge. 'Have you always cut with that hand?'

Ahren was confused again and then he remembered something. Normally it would have embarrassed him. But he was way beyond embarrassment now. After all, this would be his last attempt. 'No. When I was very small, I always used the dull hand', and he raised his left hand. 'But I haven't done that for years', he added quickly. He may have had to make this admission in front of everyone but he could at least reassure Falk that he had been brought up properly. His father had driven out his tendency to use the dull hand through much scorn and endless beatings. As was only right.

But Falk was angry and let out a curse.

I shouldn't have said that. Now he'll think badly of me and won't want me anymore. This thought flashed through his mind. Quickly he concentrated on the inner peace that the picture of the tree house brought about in him. But the picture was beginning to fray and wear away. He could already hear the sound of the other thoughts that wanted to carry him away.

'Damn superstition!' cursed Falk and grabbed Ahren by the shoulders. 'Ahren, this is very important. Now listen to me very carefully. Hold the bow with your right hand and place the arrow on it with your left'. Falk was smiling now. 'Trust me. Everything will be fine'.

Ahren was beyond all emotion now. Nothing made sense anymore. Mechanically, he took the bow that Falk handed to him with his right hand and placed the arrow on it with his left. It felt strange but somehow more fluid. He gathered together all his strength once more and conjured up the tree house in his head. He suppressed all other thoughts. A peaceful calm descended on his spirit. He inhaled and held his breath. Not even his breathing disturbed the inner silence. Everything seemed far away somehow, and unreal.

He raised the bow, tautened it, aimed and let the arrow fly. All within two heartbeats. Then he closed his eyes and breathed out.

The ensuing silence was broken only by the clear sound of a solitary bell toll.