PROLOGUE

The cold, dewy setting of the morning was another of these magical moments that you would rarely expect to uncover.  Usually the forest was full of life, bursting with bird songs and animal growls during the day, and then an excited sort of silence arose during the night.  But at the gateway of light and dark was a precious moment as the former would lay to rest and the latter soon awake.  Like a falling raindrop, a robin descended down to her nest.  She observed them for a moment; her chicks were sleeping – a rare thing to find when you expected to uncover a threesome of ravenous young birds or a clutch of bright turquoise eggs.  This was neither – as quiet as a clutch of eggs and as alive as a handful of baby robins, the early spring morning began like this.  The mother robin jerked her head up in the way that all birds do, and scanned the area around her.  Then she shot up beyond the boughs of this evergreen forest, triumphant to be the first living thing to burst into the morning air.  The forest spread out before her like a shallow bowl lined with broccoli while half-existent shadows of mountain ranges surfaced in the distance, was smiled upon by sweet rays of the sun which cast little sparkles on the wet leaves of trees. She returned to her nest, satisfied with the way things were going in her world.

Below the robin’s nest was a clearing that had been burnt clean.  It wasn’t a normal wood fire – it was carefully controlled so that every piece of debris was reduced to ashes and every plant within a fifteen-foot diameter had been incinerated.  It was indeed an anomaly in the forest’s million-acre expanse.

Then a thundering rat-ta-tap-tap exploded beneath her, and she blew out tree once again, this time like a rocket fueled by panic.  She wasn’t the only creature to be disturbed.  Thousands of birds exploded from the surface of the treetops, and animals on the forest floor jerked awake instantaneously.

The drums that made the rhythmic racket beat out in the fashion of armies to battle – stiff, loud, and triumphant.  Drumsticks here were held by a twelve year-old boy.  He had entered the clearing just as abruptly as the drum roll commenced.

The first man entered – his eyes were hard, his hair was dark and shaggy, he was dressed in flexible armor, armored boots, straps bound on his hands for protection, and an impressive broadsword strapped across his back.  His clothes were all in a dark shade of blue, and there was a faint outline of a six-pointed star on his breast.

Moments later a second man arrived at the clearing.  He was slimmer than the first, light brown hair tied back in a ponytail, calculating eyes, dressed in shades of red, and with a swirling pattern imprint on his arm.  He was also dressed in the same kind of armor as the first, but instead of a sword he carried an immense longbow and a hefty quiver of arrows.

For the next few minutes, parties that supported the blue and red arrived.  The boy continued to beat his drum, calling the rest of the crews to approach the clearing that had been chosen. 

Rat-ta-tap-tap, rap-ra-rap, rat-ta-tap-tap.

Exactly a dozen formidable men stood on either side of the clearing.  Five people were clothed in the fashion of the man wearing blue, and five stood behind the man in red.  They muttered a bit among themselves as their leaders geared up for battle.

The boy continued to beat his drum, now increasing in rhythm.  A fast consecutive string of ra-taps commenced the blue and red to draw their swords.  Blue unsheathed his broadsword.  Red pulled out twin cutlasses. 

A single bam signaled the beginning of the duel.

Only for a moment they circled, before Blue brought the heavy sword in a magnificent swipe at his opponent’s head, but Red sidestepped in the nick of time.  He clashed his twin swords together and sliced dangerously like an advancing crab.  Blue brought up his sword and deflected all the blows, which was an impressive feat for a heavy broadsword matching speeds with the two lighter cutlasses.  He jabbed at Red’s chest, but his armor deflected it.  Red nicked Blue’s face and left a thin scar on his cheek.  They continued to attack while the drum kept on beating.

Within a minute, which seemed like hours, Blue had another bleeding scar on his cheek, and the armor-pads on his arms resembled tatters of leather.  Meanwhile, Red had a remarkable hack-wound on the side of his ribs; he was bleeding badly but he did not seem to notice.

Minutes passed.  The fighters seemed more ravaged instead of exhausted.  They were ferocious now, now attacking with blunt brutality instead of the skill and strategy they had started off with.  Within the eternity of five minutes, it was clear that this was a fight to the death and not an illusion of bitter battle.  But the onlookers knew that from long ago.

Red suddenly charged like a rhino, barreling forward like a crazed man – he knew his opponent’s belly armor was already weak.  Blue was too exhausted to lever up his sword to block the attack.  With knowing gasp, he knew that it was over.

A moment later, twin swords were protruding from Blue’s body, metaphorically like hands buried to kill the life in Blue’s body.  He fell back like falling timber, and began to die.  Red stood over him for a moment, wearing a grim and bitter expression on his face until Blue’s eyes shut.  He disengaged his weapons. 

The rest of the Red crew turned and filed out of the clearing with their bloodied victor bringing up the end.

The drummer boy would beat his drum until everybody left.  It was his duty. The defeated crew left in disarray, some stomped off sullenly, some with a backward glance, and one stopped to say a prayer.  The beating of the drum - the racket that commenced, saw through, and completed the fight - ceased.

The boy quickly took off the neck strap to his drum and lay down the drumsticks.  He stepped up to the dead body, which was reeking of blood, sweat, and filth.  He stared at it.  His face wasn’t one that of the trouble or horror that usually came with witnessing death.  No, he did not seem to heed the body at all.  His face was impassive and calculating, clearly battling the conscience in his mind.

With a quick look over both shoulders, he bent down and decisively rifled through the dead man’s pockets.  He pocketed four coins, a small bronze medallion from around the dead man’s neck, and a smoking pipe.  Eager to leave the scene the boy got up quickly.

He ventured into the forest for a minute and came back holding a bundle of highly flammable brush and dumped it on the chest.  He removed the leather flask hanging from his shoulder and dumped ale over the head and legs.  With expertise he lighted a match and tossed it carelessly on the leaves pile on the body.  It burst into flame and began to consume the alcohol-soaked clothes.  

The boy knew there was no need to take precautions to prevent the risk of fire.  The old ash that covered the ground and mixed with frozen dirt would not help spread the flames.  So, he picked up his things to leave without a backward glance.  But, on second thought, before the body was thoroughly bathed in flames, he went back to drag the heavy sword off the fiery, smoking corpse.