Reave: Chapter 1

This is the Draft of the first chapter of my novel entitled Reave I am looking for Critique and feedback as well as consistent readers. The next chapter will be posted weekly, please recommend me to friends and give me advice. This is by no means the final copy. Reave is my child, my discovery, and with your help, maybe it can grow.




Night Fell over the valley, a shade of comfort an sleep enveloping the small village of Reziehl in a warmth, a chilling one. The valley offered not much as to protection from wind as it did protection from anything else. In the night, the valley became a sink hole, you could not see a thing from atop the hills and mountains that surrounded, at least, not with inexperienced. The blackness of the valley was a repellent. Fear would build with each step towards, anxiety would mount and with it, a sense that this was the threshold of no return. One step forward would become a journey through the infinitely empty.

The villagers, with time, had become adept at spotting the dark clay and stone, showing no reflection of the dull moon glow. The walls had become the key to seeing the village. From afar the outline was opaque and almost without visibility. Following the line created the village. See it often enough, and Reziehl would be more vibrant than the autumn trees. The brick houses, exposed in a resounding red, roads became a dark brown, small gardens, a pale green, like that of the persistant leaves that refused to join others in the transition forward, one still lingering within its summer glow. It was a grand and beautiful sight to admire, that is though, to those who could see it.

Of course, knowing nothing of Reziehl would reveal a wasteland of cold and baren field, not a bit of life to be seen. Even what looked like grass would be stripped of every bit of life. Harshness among the likes of which none would dare venture into created another barrier to Reziehl. Winds swept in and out of the valley with such a force that often a man would be swept into the darkness, not to show up again, but rather lost in the legend. The day was when one would have to travel. Whilst some might say, in travel, the high sun is something to avoid moving during, here, it was quite the opposite. Had one wanted to travel, the highest point of the sun would be the ideal time to.

The people of Reziehl knew how to protect themselves from the bitter cold. The sheep bore wool so strong that not even the coldest of nights could lift the feel of a warm hearth and a good meal. This was made into cloaks, each villager wore the black wool. This too prevented them from being seen at night. With time would come the innate sense of where the village was, this of course was if you had ever been to Reziehl. The village was quite unknown, even to the traders and merchants who passed by. They would do their bidding at the temple at the peak of the south west hill. The temple was scarcely visited despite it's uses and it's convenience as a trading center. The villagers had a strict belief. If you alter anything natural, you had no place in the village.

Everyone at the temple had once been, or were descendants of villagers. They were outcasts, law breakers, magicians. To practice magic, to bring forth that which was not there before was punishable by exile. Those found to practice were sent up the road to the temple, where they would be taken in, like refugees they were cared for and helped to recover from the path to exile. This made the temple a place most avoided, despite the convenience of trade. All throughout the spring, the summer, and the fall, merchants would come with their pricey relics, their shiny jewelery, and whatever other foreign items could be sold for a profit, but not now, not this season. It was winter, dark, cold winter, but safe.

News came daily of Vherkain soldiers advancing southward. The neighboring country was large enough in origin, but now, with it's expanding borders, fear swept into all but those of Reziehl. Winter months kept them safe, as did the absence of sun.

"They travel by the moonlight." said the whispers, "They make sure that the blazing flames jump towards the abyss of night. They have not a lust for blood, only ash in the pale light of the moon." These myths could be heard walking through the square, the stories of undying soldiers and the myths of the night backed flame were commonplace amongst the gossiping women, but none were afraid of being struck at night.

* * *

"Yyral?" came a voice in the pitch, "Yyral are you still awake?" the voice was gentle, yet urgent enough to evoke some kind of reaction from the heap of flesh and grunts that shifted in it's place.

"Reave?" came a second voice. This one belonging to Yyral, now woken up. Had a candle been lit, his face would be contorted into a mixture of confusion, anger, tiredness, and general disinterest. His pale brown eyes would be half open, surrounded by bags of a light purple. His hair, short and the same color as his eyes would be sticking out in all different directions. It would suit Yyral, to look so sleep deprived. When he did sleep it was often in a wrecked state anyway. His pale skin would be shining with days of not washing. After hours and sometimes days in the library Yyral would come back, looking sickly all over, even his face seemed to have less angles than any other time. "Reave what the hell are you doing? It must be passed the first hours of morning. What can be so urgent?"

"Listen!" Reave shouted in a hushed tone.

"To what?" cried Yyral, now lighting a candle and getting to his feet, clad in not more than a few tattered robes. Reave was no much more kept in his appearance. His long black hair fell back in a messy braid, starting at his shoulders, and stretching in a thick, single weaved braid down to the small of his back. The hair frayed out, giving him a similar impression as Yyral. The long hair framed Reave's gentle face, not curved, which would make it looks as if he was quite young, but not sharp, like that of Yyral. It had edges, soft ones that fell back into his hair.

Standing up, Reave pulled on his thin black cloak over his slim figure, fitting it snug around him and letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. The walls of the temple shone a brilliant copper color in the light of Yyral's single candle. The intricate carvings of images from tales of old, tales of great magicians and sorcerers, tales of feats beyond imagination's invention. Them walls were lined with these images, and had always been, at least, as long as Reave had been there.

"The wind!" Reave grew impatient with Yyral, as did Yyral grow so with Reave.

"I hear not a thing!"

"Exactly!" in Reave's voice there was an urgency none like Yyral had ever heard before, "Come with me to the tower, something must be wrong." And as if another candle had been lit, this one within Yyral's head, the severity of the situation overwhelmed his body and without delay, thew his cloak of Reziehl sheep wool, as did Reave. Within minutes the two were running silently to the tower at the center of the temple, "Yyral?" Reave asked again, getting his attention this time without more than a first try.

"Yes?" replied the frantic boy beside Reave.

The both crept out of their room, slinking through the halls as fast as they could without waking the other spell casters. "We are either both out of our minds, or something awful has just happened. That is what's going on right?" whispered Reave as they rushed toward the tower. Yyral nodded, not willing to donate any more energy to speech. "I do so hope we are both out of our minds..." Reave trailed off, now reaching the landing of the tower stairs.

Silently the two raced up the stone steps, each one ringing out with the padding of their bare feet, each step up getting louder with more urgency to reach the summit. Within moments the both were at the top, gasping for breath, each near tears when they looked out and towards the valley to see what was thought to be the impossible. Reziehl, the village that the both had once called home, the village where their families resided, the village that should have been regarded as the untouchable was burning to the ground in the black of night. Ignited. Livelier than ever. Engulfed within scorching and terminating flames. The entire village was burning to the ground with not a wisp of wind to blow out the smallest of flames.

To Reave, it was not the lack of wind nor the flames, that were the most frightening factors. The lack of screams was. There was not a day when the village was ever empty, not a moment when every inhabitant was not milling around the square, bargaining in the shops, or safe within their own homes. Reave knew that despite the distance, the valley should carry the calls for help, but with none brought to his own ear the worst was to be assumed. The village yielded no more than the crackle of life taking flame. Each and every man, woman and child had burned to death in their sleep.