Earth Vein Saga: Volume I, Chapter I

Chapter 1

She ran until the burn was in her lungs and legs. The forest was hot and dry, and passed by her quickly. The twigs were like fingers that snapped at her limbs and tangled her hair, as if to hold her still for her chasers to catch up and snatch her away. They were dark figures in the woods, elongated and twisted, running as fast as their legs could carry them. She could feel the heat of their blood, sweat and breath on the back of her neck.

She was easily a dozen miles west of the Road of Marches, in woods that have been uninhabited for nearly three centuries. There were no sounds except for her heavy breaths and the cracking wood that split under her chasers’ feet. No birds sang and no woodland creatures stirred in Ghost Forest. They knew better. The forest was too unpredictable.

As she pressed further, the trees became wider and thicker. The canopies grew fuller until, like folded hands, they blotted out all sunlight. Her flight appeared to be something greater than an escape from the hounds and guards who trailed her - it was also an escape from the hours of daylight that still remained.

“First comes the darkness,” she could hear their raw, hoarse voices say. It happened in the morning, but it felt like ages had past. She couldn’t even recall now if it were a dream or not. They came to her in the morning as shadows that crawled up her bedroom wall. Not just shadows, but shadows within shadows, like oil slicks in the night sky, a sort of darkness so pure that she doubted their colors could be copied in nature.

The only people eccentric enough to believe in ghosts were children and the men and women in the south, yet the figure’s presence were so real, she could not help but heed their warning.

The barking of the hounds returned the young girl. Second comes the tightness. She could feel her quick pace slow as the trees grew wider and more condescended. She pressed forward until she had to cram herself between trees.

There were great pains feeling her delicate white skin rub against the coarse, ancient tree bark. It was like cheese to the grater. Had there been some light, she’d expect to see her skin rubbed as pink as a pig’s hide.

“Over here!” she heard a guard cry out in the distance.

More hounds barked. She could hear one very close by snap its jaws silently.

“Quiet these dogs now!” she heard a familiar voice call out. It was the Duke of Sunset, Lord Ivan Clarke. The trackers called out commands and grunts, until the forest had grown silent. The silence unsettled her. She had never heard such silence in the forests before. There were always animals singing and wind rustling. But not here, not now.

“Princess Dansil, we know you’re around here. Please come out now. Your mother is sick with worry,” Ivan Clarke called out.

Dansil was never a fan of Ivan Clarke. She felt that he was too stuffy. Had it been the handsome Duke Caine Hughes calling her name, the sixteen year old princess may considered surrendering herself. He could keep her safe.

She pushed further between the trees. Old wizened twigs snapped up her hair, catching her and causing her head to cock back in pain. The defiant jerks of her neck freed her hair, but the low crackling of dry wood snapping gave way to her location.

“Princess Dansil, please!” Lord Ivan Clarke pleaded. “This is no way for someone of high blood to act! Get back here right now so we can take you back to Hirest!”

The pressure between the trees made it hard for her chest to expand with air, but the long run called for long, relieving gasps. The burning in her lungs grew.

Third comes the sinking, she thought. She would breathe then.

“Can the dogs drag her back here?” she heard Ivan ask.

“They can,” said a tracker.

How dare he, Dansil thought. To send the dogs to snap at her heels. They would not catch her and bring her back to the castle, though. Dansil was sure of that.

The muted thumps of the hounds’ paws growing closer was motivation enough for Dansil to push through a dozen feet of condensed trees. She pushed until her skin was wet with blood. It was like a rebirthing, a hardy hoist between pressing walls, and Dansil was free from the thick trees. She took a moment to breathe in the cool Southern air. It tasted like spearmint.

The hounds were let loose to navigate through the trees, but it was only the rodent terriers who were thin enough to fit the squeeze.

The sinking had begun before Dansil could even replenish her breath. The ground had eaten her half way to her elbows, and her knees had vanished in the mud. The elders would say that these lands could consume anyone over one hundred pounds like a lake of water. This was one of the reasons the founders couldn’t fully finish the Southern Wall along the territory, although they saw no need to. The sinking fields could drink a hundred thousand corpses and still be thirsty.

Dansil fought to find her footing, but she held their words close to her. Don’t fight the muds. It’ll suck you down quicker. If you’re caught deep in it, don’t try to swim. Stay still and the muds will spit you back up.

She allowed the mint air to grace her tongue some more. The mud ate her up to her elbow, then slowly began to spit her out, until she was free wrist up. Steady.

It was like trying to stand in a slippery, sudsy bath. Her movements matched that of a tight rope walker. Every step she took sucked her down to the knee, only to slowly spit her back up.

Behind her she heard a frantic whine, and then a wet slurp. A look over her shoulder revealed the end of a hound’s snout being drank by the mud. Small air pockets bubbled up where the hound disappeared.

The polished ivory shoes that had graced Dansil’s delicate feet looked like abandoned eggs half buried in the mud. They were a present from Pagota, who must have saved every darning she earned during the Queen’s pregnancy to buy them. They were gone now, but Dansil shouldn’t have expected anything else. She had made a decision to leave the castle. That decision confirmed the acceptance of losing any or all of her luxuries.

Fourth comes the blood, she felt herself mouthing as she pushed through the thick tangles of black vines. In the distance, she could the light returning in slender cracks. She could even hear the faintest notes of a song bird’s call.

Her stomach turned to mud with the anticipation of the next obstacle.

She pushed through the last of the vines and allowed her skin a moment to drink up the warm sun. Her eyes were sore from the light; she felt as though she had been in the dark for ages.

Before Princess Dansil was a field the likes she had never seen, not even in the illustrated story books kept in Hirest Castle. There were dozens of different species of flowers, each with petals bigger than Dansil herself. Each flower held its own unique pattern, one more fantastic then the next. Spotted flower petals meshed with striped petals, creating a variation of vibrant colors that was dizzying to behold.

Dansil imagined what the Lords’ girls who partook in her lessons would say if they saw the flowers. They would swoon and rush to take the tremendous petals into their arms, no doubt. Dansil was grateful that she didn’t share many interests with other girls. She had no desire to touch a flower, but if she did she knew the blood would come, for beneath each tremendous petal hid a thorn sharper than an executioner's axe and just as big.

With arms tucked tightly against her chest, Dansil carefully stepped between each of the flowers, spotting the hidden thorns beneath each beautiful petal. A missed step caused her leg to just barely graze a thorn. Her skin split wide and the blood poured down her leg. Dansil cursed. She wanted to touch the wound to ease the bleeding, but she knew that to bend down would mean more unwelcome gashes.

From afar, the field looked like a plot of heaven, untouched and flawless, just as the gods had intended. But Dansil was too close to the field for it to appear divine. She knew its secrets. She could feel the polished bones, their meats long deteriorated, against the flats of her feet. The amount of bones knew no end, and the awareness of the hordes of death at her feet made Dansil’s legs go numb. She clenched her eyes and found her nerves.

I can feel the meat on this one, she thought. A hand covered in barbaric blue tattoos rested upon a white and yellow flower petal. The black blood had dried against the petal. It was a warning sign that had come too late.

Fourth is the blood. Then there’s safety.

Safety was just ahead. The Southern Wall that Dansil had known for as long as she cared to hear Lord Caine Hugh’s stories was just ahead. And what’s more, the wall gave way to an open area that blossomed with gigantic petals. The stories the old women told were true after all, yet Dansil never doubted them for a second. She bet her life on their tales.

She tip toed steadily until the flowers were behind her. At the first chance she had, she kneeled over and held her wound tight. It stung to the touch.

The Southlands and all of their treasures and dangers were ahead of her, yet she felt safer now.

She muttered a prayer for her parent’s well-being, and then wandered into lands she had never been before.