AS the sun wastes in the west, turning the grey clouds orange, red, and purple, a tall man with leafy walking stick and brown road-stained robes and a boy of ten years walk a single-track deer trail that cuts through the thick undergrowth and skirts the great oaks of the Witchwood.
“Tell me about the Vale,” the boy says quietly.
“You will see soon enough,” says the man. He relents when he sees the boy’s crestfallen look. “What would you know?”
The boys beams but considers before speaking. “Is it very large?”
“Mmm. ‘Tis perhaps eighty leagues or more in length from the Westdeep to the Golden Plains and is bound by mountains North and South—The Giantshield and The Wyvernwatch—with perhaps twenty-five leagues between.”
“Have you been to the Westdeep?” Asks the boy reverently.
“I have,” Says the man. “And to the plains and mountains and the Marth, and the Blackfens, and the Thornewaste.” He looks at the slackjawed boy beside him and smiles. “And all over these woods with you. But look, now.”
The trail emerges suddenly from the shadow of the tree line and affords them both a view of the sloping fields, the river, and the town beyond.
“What place is this?” The boy asks shielding his eyes even in the dimming light.
“The river is the Elsir; the town, Drellin’s Ferry.” Says the man grimly.
The boy inhales though his teeth , “Then this is where—“
“—Yes.” Says the man, “This is where it all began some ten years ago when the Red Hand marched on the Vale.” He adds with some sadness is his voice, “When you were born. The war drums sounded through the Witchwood, and the Hand issued from this very spot to attack Drellin’s Ferry.”
“You were there?” Asks the boy as he shivers a little.
“I was.”
“You said the Heroes made their first stand against the Hand in Drellin’s Ferry.” Says the boy, looking into the man’s eyes.
“They did.” The man responds.
“Did you see them, Jaroo?” Asks the boy. “Did you know them?”
“I did,” says the man, Jaroo, as he looks down upon the town in the fading light. “I knew them well.”