The Squires of Aerenvale
N. A. Mitchell
The Squires of Aerenvale is published under Imagine Books, a sectionalized division under Di Angelo Publications, Inc.
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The Squires of Aerenvale. Copyright 2021. N. A. Mitchell in digital and print distribution in the United States of America.
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The Squires of Aerenvale ISBN: 9781942549673
The Squires of Aerenvale
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1. Fiction -- Action & Adventure -- Fantasy
2. Fiction -- Fantasy -- Dragons & Mythical Creatures
3. Young Adult Fiction -- Action & Adventure
United States of America with int. distribution.
Chapter One The Village
The Present
Grey light slowly entered his consciousness. William struggled to open his eyes and blinked several times. He did not remember where he was, and he could not process what he was seeing. Something cold and sharp pressed against his back. His neck hurt, and he could not move his head. He closed his eyes and saw his parents’ farm. Pale, yellow sunlight seeped through the grey sky. His friend, Rowan, stood before him, swinging a wooden sword back and forth, laughing. Their parents’ farms bordered each other, making William and Rowan neighbors, playmates, and friends—despite their occasional clashes. As children, William and Rowan played together almost daily. Both dreamed of being knights when they grew up, so playing at being knights was what they must do.
“Someday, I’m going to slay a dragon,” Rowan said.
“Me, too!” said William. Their swords clashed and clashed again, for a knight is a master of his weapon. William cried out as Rowan’s blade raked his knuckles. He dropped his guard as Rowan swung a backhanded stroke that hit him in the ribs. It
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hurt so badly that his breath caught. Rowan grinned widely and opened his mouth to laugh. Yet it was not a laugh, but a roar that filled the air. William looked at him, puzzled, wondering at his friend’s sudden savageness. Then the light faded. Dark clouds shrouded the sun, smothering its feeble radiance. A piercing cold filled his consciousness. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes. His ribs still hurt, but Rowan was gone and, in his place was… something else entirely.
The Beginning
Aerenvale. Bordered on the north by forest and on the other three sides by hills which were green in the spring, yellow in the summer, brown in the autumn, and white in the winter. It was the last outpost on the edge of the frontier. The village stood in the center of the valley, a castle a league to the east, with farms and pastureland surrounding.
They were children of the earth, William and Rowan, and children of peasants. Their parents were descendants of an ancient people who had farmed the isolated valley for generations and had long ago carved a home out of the earth. They built a village and did their best to hold the forest at bay. The folk of Aerenvale were a harried lot, generally a bit more worried than happy, and not so eager to be neighborly. The farms and livestock produced just enough food for the villagers to live—but not thrive—and living was something they had to earn
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The Village through much toil. Clothing, shelter, fodder for the animals, and wood for the fires were all the products of hard labor. For all the beauty of the valley and the woods and the mountains beyond, the villagers felt rooted to their village in a way that was more suffocating than comforting. They wilted under the warm days and shivered under the cold nights. They felt as if the air were too thick to breathe or the sunlight too unfriendly to bring health to their homes. This fixed feeling made the villagers generally weary with their work instead of satisfied with it.
A few of the old ones remembered a day when things were different. Many years before, the villagers enjoyed village life. The work was still difficult, but they performed their tasks to the best of their abilities. They tried to keep their village clean and beautiful. They were neighborly and helped each other and, eventually, the village began to prosper. They built a mill and a church and an inn, but somewhere along the way, succeeding generations stopped finding joy in their work. They no longer put much effort into making the village beautiful. The villagers seemed to grow less happy with each passing year.
Their small village was considered most insignificant to the kingdom, but because of its proximity to the wildlands, a king from years past had built a garrison nearby and stationed a band of knights there to guard the frontier from bandits that roamed the wildlands and from beasts that occasionally preyed upon the border towns. The more adventurous boys of the village often aspired to be knights, for knighthood was the path to honor and glory. The dream of becoming a knight made them feel less fettered. And there was always a war to be fought, it seemed. The tales of the kingdom could not be separated from the tales of wars, as if the kingdom were birthed by war and was now sustained
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by it. Tales of war were as ancient as the kingdom itself, but the battles of late always took place in faraway places over the sea, in lands characterized by strange topography and populated by strange people.
In between wars, the knights occasionally rode out to confront bands of brigands robbers who took advantage of the peaceful villagers and tried to amass power in the wild places. The knights provided enough protection to keep the subjects of the kingdom from getting so unhappy that they would rebel against the king and instate a new one. Many of the subjects did not like the fact that the kingdom always seemed to be at war, but better a war abroad than a war at home, or so the saying went. So the knights went abroad to fight for the kingdom, or for whatever cause the nobles were concerned with at the time.
It was said that, in ancient times, the bravest of the knights had fought dragons that lived in the forest and had driven the fiery serpents up into the mountains. As long as the boys could remember, they had been told stories of fearsome dragons that had, at one time, terrorized the village; although, as far as they knew, none of the villagers had ever seen one. Yet, for all their invisibility, the presence of dragons could be felt as plainly as a dream—or a nightmare.
Where the village farm plots ended, grassy pasturelands began; and the pasturelands, where the animals grazed, ended at the edge of the forest. The villagers never ventured very far into the forest, which was dark and thick with ancient trees. Wander in too far, and one might become lost in towering, rocky crags or fall from a concealed cliff. At most, they would go a short distance into the tree line to cut firewood. The woods were a place where
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The Village
life invited death. The harshness of the elements made life in the valley difficult enough without adding the peril of the forest to one’s life, not to mention the wild beasts which were known to roam the woods. “The beasts for the wood and the wood for the beasts,” some of the old men would say.
In the olden days, the villagers would venture into the forest in search of game and lumber. They developed skill at arms and confronted the wild beasts when they had to. They defended their homes and their farms. For many years, the roving bands of brigands avoided Aerenvale, and the village became known as a peaceful place. But those were the olden days. Now, the villagers shunned the forest. They had lost their skill at arms. Their existence became one of fear and misery. The more fearful they felt, the more miserable they became. And, of course, the more miserable they felt, the more their fear grew.
There was the world of the village and the world of the wildlands, and the two were kept quite separate. If they were allowed to overlap, the world of the forest would almost certainly swallow the world of the village. Although life in the village was far from being heaven on earth, it was better than the hell that lurked in the forest.
Twelve Years Ago
“Keep up, young one.” The man’s voice was encouraging and not at all irritated. The man carried a large bundle of
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firewood across his shoulders, which he occasionally stabilized with his left hand. His right held a heavy axe. The split logs were lashed together with a coarse cord. To the boy following behind, the bundle looked impossibly heavy. He hefted his own bundle of sticks back up onto his narrow shoulder and struggled to keep pace with the man.
“Dad, Rowan says there are dragons in these woods. Is it true?” the boy queried, without a hint of concern in his voice. The man stopped and stared straight ahead. He inhaled deeply through his nose and squinted as he surveyed the path ahead of him. The boy picked up his pace and came alongside his father, who resumed walking.
“No one has seen any dragons in these woods for many years, Will,” he said, his voice low and serious.
“Have they all been killed, then? Or are there still dragons?”
The man looked down at the boy walking beside him. The boy’s innocence and sense of wonder amazed him and, for some reason, made him pull his shoulders back a bit further and walk a bit taller. He didn’t answer for a long moment, ignoring the inquisitive gaze of the boy.
“Aye, there are still dragons,” the man finally stated, weariness creeping into his voice.
“Where do they live? What do they look like? Why don’t the knights slay them?”
The man laughed softly at the barrage of questions from his son. “There are many kinds of dragons,” he said. “Not all of
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them can be seen with the eye.”
“Did the dragons bring evil to the world?”
“The dragons did not bring evil to the world. But they feed on evil. Just like they did not bring darkness to the world, but they feed on darkness.”
“But the knights! Why don’t the knights kill the dragons? Someday, I’m going to be a knight, and I’m going to kill a dragon! They say that dragons keep gold in their lairs. When I kill the dragon, I shall bring the gold back to you and Mum.”
The man didn’t answer. The boy’s chatter faded to a murmur as the man’s thoughts drifted to a time long before and a place far away. The muscles in his right arm rippled as his fingers flexed and wrapped more tightly around the axe handle. His left hand unconsciously reached up to his face and felt the remains of a faded scar, which started at his brow, traveled up his forehead, and disappeared into his thick brown hair. He lowered his hand and shook his head as if to clear it, and the forest reemerged before him.
“…and sometimes the dragons keep princesses in their lairs. Have you ever met a princess, Dad?” The boy looked up, his blue eyes expectantly searching his father’s face.
The man reached down with his left hand, ruffled the boy’s light brown hair, and smiled. “Yes, lad. Once. Long ago.”
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The Squires of Aerenvale
“Mum, why is our village named Aerenvale?” the boy asked. The woman smiled at her son and handed him a broom.
“Sweep the floor for me and I’ll tell you the story.” William began to sweep dirt and bits of grass and leaves from the wooden floor, which had been worn smooth over the years. It was cold as ice in the winter but better than the rough ground.
His mother continued tending the small iron stove. A tall woman with long, straight hair, she brought a sense of warmth and stability to the home.
“They say that many years ago, long before your greatgrandfather was born, an evil king ruled the land. A small band of townsfolk dared to defy the king, and he drove them from their homes. They fled to the north, crossing wide rivers and high mountains.
“They wandered for a long time. Some gave up and returned to the south. The ones that remained pressed on, knowing that if they returned, they would either be killed or forced to serve the wicked king. The little group had young children and few posessions. The journey was harsh, every day a struggle. The farther they traveled, the thicker and darker the forest grew.
“Finally, one morning, they broke through the forest and discovered a valley that stretched to the horizon. They built homes there and called the new settlement Aerenvale: the valley where the sky meets the earth.”
“I’m glad they found the valley. I like it here!”
The woman smiled again. “So do I,” she said. Her eyes,
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always serene, crinkled with mirth.
“When I get older, I’m going to explore the forest, too, and find new places!”
“The forest can be a frightening place,” his mother said. “Will you explore the wildlands even if you are frightened?”
The boy thought for a moment.
“I think I will,” he said. “Why do things have to be scary?”
The woman turned and took her son’s face in her hands.
“Sometimes,” she said, “things are scary just so we can practice being brave.”
17 The Village
