Beginning of Young Adult Fantasy Novel

Prologue:

The Wind arose in the peaks of faraway mountains, mountains yet to be seen by man. Its thrust blew the wind through the glacial peaks of its origin, sending it in the direction of the sea. Harsh wind it was, and it brought with it ice as sharp as steel. Castings the ice out into the blue-gray sea, the Wind continued on its journey. The Wind swept out over the ocean, its gaze taking in the rough waters crashing against each other in all directions. Sea life was tossed through the air at the mercy of the sea.

Abandoning its glare, the Wind pushed over a rocky cliff, a direct vision of death along the ever-deteriorating shoreline. The Wind spared not even a casual glance. Its journey was not yet finished, and it knew better than to stall and disobey its master’s orders. It trekked on, scaling a small mountain range—a distant cousin of its home—before flying over a barren desert.

A small gathering of birds attempted to rest within the Wind’s strength and glide over the wasteland. The Wind would have none of that. Increasing its velocity, the wind pushed the creatures beyond their limits, and then paused to admire their quick descents to the earth—to their deaths.

Pleased with its work, the Wind resumed its usual pace, yet it was not one of comfort. Exiting the sands, the wind grimaced as it took in the scene before it, as it viewed the green hills of the plains. Trees dotted the ground in all directions, giving the land a look of illustrious life. Beauty.

The Wind hated beauty. It much preferred the freezing gray of the north, the arctic blue of the storm-ravaged sea. Maddened to a point of blind exhilaration, the Wind swept through the land with reckless abandonment, baring all the trees of their leaves, all the ground of its grass. When the Wind finally exited its momentary rage of insanity, the land was but a shell of its former self. The ground was dry and black. Scattered everywhere were the skeletons of the oaks and pines that had been there only moments before.

Slowing from its exertion, yet laughing wildly at its destruction, the Wind continued on its way, sweeping through the land like the uncontrollable wind that it was. Stone, rising high above the mountain peaks it was encircled by, greeted the wind. Along the tops of the stone, men stood at the ready, armed with crossbows, bows of yew, and spears. Ballistae, strategically placed in the towers of the castle, were manned by soldiers in chainmail. Inside the castle walls, legions of soldiers were gathered. Maces stood side by side with lances. Swords shared terrain with horses. The roofs of the houses were occupied by yet more archers. All in all, the castle seemed to be well protected.

So the men were ready. They knew more attacks would come. No matter. The Wind was surprised by men’s knowledge. Mankind always seemed to be smarter than the Wind gave it credit. Building a stronghold in this high valley was a stroke of brilliance within itself. How could creatures, burdened by bodies, come to be so intelligent? Yet the master never underestimated them. That was why he had sent the Wind.

The Wind chortled at the idea of arrows and blades attempting to obstruct it. It could destroy all of them in a moment if it wished, but that was not its goal. No, the master had been very specific. The Wind had to be careful, or it risked alerting the Wizard to its presence. The Wizard. The one who had repeatedly stalled the master’s plan. The so-called savior of mankind.

Some wizard, the Wind thought, sending men armed with weapons to halt the advance of his master, commander of the elements. Yet the wizard had defeated so many of his brethren, prevailing again and again. Fire, cocky as it was, should have been able to consume mankind with little effort, but the wizard extinguished Fire before it could claim even one life. After Fire’s unexpected failure, the Wind had been sure that Water would be able to wash the humans out. For weeks, rain had spilled upon the castle—ocean’s worth of water had been poured onto the men, yet the wizard had taken the water and distributed it among the seas, even creating a lake where a desert had been.

Water continued its attempt until it had exhausted all of its energy, and with that it was destroyed. The other elements had been shocked, yet the master had seemed unsurprised by the outcome. The other elements had thought for sure that mankind could be easily destroyed. Yet the master continued to be thwarted.

Next, he sent out Ice, an offspring of water, the most powerful of the elements controlled by the master. Ice could rain hail the size of small children among its prey, and it could lower temperatures so low that none but itself could survive. Surely, Ice should have been able to destroy the castle, the last stronghold of men. The master had been confident of Ice’s potential for success. Yet Ice had gone to that valley in the mountains, rained what should have been destruction among the populace, and had been defeated. The wizard had somehow thawed Ice, reducing it to the water that it had been composed of.

The master had been furious. The wizard’s consecutive victories were really weighing on him, so he turned to the last element that he controlled. With the destruction of Fire, Ice, and Water, the Wind was the only element the master had left at his command. He was yet to discover the ability to harness Earth or Air, and Ǣther was beyond even his comprehension. The Wind was his last chance, his last opportunity to strike at mankind.

The Wind knew of its importance, and it would do everything within its power to please the master. The Wind may not be as powerful as Ice had been, but it had its own strengths. The Wind was the stealthiest of the elements, with exception of its cousin, Air. It was invisible for one thing, and for another, it was incredibly fast. Fast as the wind. The Wind knew of its importance, and it also knew of the benefits it would reap if it were the element to complete the master’s task.

Beginning its assault, the Wind scaled the walls of the castle. Finding itself amongst the archers, it crept down the stairs, avoiding the touch of the all the passing soldiers. The Wind slowly made its way around the soldiers and buildings within the castle, gradually edging towards its destination. Passing the barracks, where a legion of swordsmen stood attentively listening to an officer, the Wind finally saw where to go. The master had described it as a small shack, likened to look like it had seen countless winters. The home of the wizard. According to the master, the wizard slept during the day, resting so that he could unleash his powers with the aid of the moon and stars. The Wind, satisfied with his success so far, pondered about his next move. How do you kill a wizard? The master had never really explained how to go about it.

He just had to do it. He would go into the little shack and rip the wizard apart. Pausing for a moment to consider what he was about to do, the Wind thought about what he had to lose. All of his fellow elements had been defeated by this Wizard. Why would the Wind, obviously the least powerful of the elements, be able to overcome what his betters hadn’t been able to do? The master had sent him last. Perhaps, the Wind was his secret plan.

The Wind shook off any doubt that he had, and then without any more hesitation, the Wind rounded up its entire supply of gust and sprung open the door. Filling the entire one-room building with its high-speed winds, the Wind wreaked havoc in the wizard’s shack, destroying everything within the walls. Internally smirking at his work, the Wind slowly swept through the wreckage, searching for the wizard’s corpse.

After a few seconds of inspection, it became evident that the wizard wasn’t amongst the refuse. Startled, the Wind quickly blew outside the house. Scanning the castle streets around the ruined shack, the Wind couldn’t see the wizard anywhere. Panicking now, it swept through the streets glancing in every direction in search of the wizard. He couldn’t leave without killing the wizard. What would the master say? The Wind, having run out of ideas, decided he would have to do something to get the wizard’s attention.

The Wind started gathering its entire supply of wind gust in preparation of blowing the castle town apart. If the Wizard wouldn’t confront it when in ripped apart his house, the Wind would just have to arouse it through other means. By killing his people. Having swelled to its furthest extent, the Wind released its rage—nothing happened. Instead of decimating the entire area, the Wind was frozen in place. Confused, the Wind began to panic, only it couldn’t move.

Chuckling in a bemused manner, the wizard stepped out from behind the wreckage of his house. With a snap of his fingers, his shack resumed its former shape. With his head raised to skies, the wizard kept laughing. “Did your master really think that I wouldn’t be able to overcome the Wind? The Wind? Ice is a more worthy opponent, and I dispatched it with ease. Well, I guess we’ll see how well your master can do without his elements.” With the culmination of his speech, the wizard pulled open his robes. From within its depths, he collected a flask. Opening the flask, he initiated an ancient magic, sucking the element into its depths. With a shrill cry that pierced the air, scattering the ravens that had gathered in on the scene, the Wind was collected in the wizard’s flask. The wizard, smiling satisfactorily, collected himself and walked into his home.

Chapter One:

“Is that really how it happened, grandpa?” asked a young man. A tall lad for his age—just into his teens—he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace that was gradually getting to its last embers. A short beard upon his face and chin and light moustache above his grinning lips, he was a handsome man. A forest green cap covered his unruly dark brown hair. His composure embodied a confidence bordering on arrogance, yet his smile showed that it was merely swagger. Below his appealing face were shoulders as broad as any woodsman, and his muscular arms were exposed under the tight white shirt he wore. He wore a vest that matched his cap over his shirt, and he wore tan pants above his boots. Boots with character. Boots that had seen many hours in the forest.

Chuckling, the elder man responded. “That’s what the stories all say, lad. But who’s to know if the legends are true or not? That’s for every man to find out for himself.” Then noticing the pint-sized girl at his knee, he added, “or herself.” The small girl smiled up at her grandfather, and he winked back at her, his eyes twinkling beneath his brow.

Bran, always curious, sat befuddled across from his grandfather. “What’s wrong, Bran?”

Shaking his head slowly, Bran said, “Nothing. It’s just that, well, what did the master do after the wizard defeated the Wind?”

“There’s no shame in that question, my boy. It’s one that’s been asked for ages, or well, since the wizard defeated the Wind. As far as my knowledge goes, I have come to some conclusions myself. I personally believe that the master is still out there, biding his time. I believe he is either trying to resurrect his defeated elements, or worse, he is attempting to harness the ability to control the other elements. If the master were able to control Air, Earth, or the gods help us, Ǣther, he would be able to attack a very vulnerable land. No one has seen hide or hair of the wizard, and most think him dead, which leaves our land undefended. Man alone, as strong as he is, cannot overcome the power of the elements.”

Taking in what his grandfather had just told him, Bran paused for a few moments, his eyes revealing his thought process. “Grandpa, what do you think happened to the wizard?”

A bemused look spread across the old man’s face, and his eyes shone with a sense of knowing. “Now, that my boy, is a tale for another time.” With that, he gathered himself. Ethan rose, accompanied by the sounds of his cracking bones. Yawning as he rose, he addressed his grandchildren. “Well, it’s well past my bedtime, so I know that means it’s past yours, too.”

“But grandpa, I want to hear another story. What happened to the wizard?” pleaded the young girl, gazing into his eyes with her hazel eyes.

“Now, now, Juliet. If I tell you all of my stories tonight, then I shall have none to tell you tomorrow night. Besides, as tired as I am right now, I won’t be able to give any story the justice it deserves. Be patient, dear one. Tomorrow is not so far off as it seems.”

“Grandpa is right, Juliet. And anyway, I know you must be as tired as I am, so you’d fall asleep midway through his story even if he did tell it.” Then scooping up his little sister into his burly arms, her brother began carrying her to the staircase.

“You listen to your brother, Juliet. He’s a bright one, Bran is. Now, you two get some sleep. Bran, we’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow, so make sure you get some rest. Give that book a rest for a night. It’s exhausted, it told me so itself.”

Turning back to his grandfather, Bran gave him a smile, and wished him a goodnight. Juliet had already begun her journey towards to sleep in his arms. Her little eyes were closed, and her long eyelashes rested upon the top of her cheek. Smiling at his little sister and then giving his grandfather a final nod goodnight, he turned and began to ascend the staircase, avoiding those stairs that would creak and awaken her. After Bran had climbed the stairs and softly shut the door to his room, Ethan reclined in his wooden, rocking chair. Creaking softly as he rocked, the chair’s frame held the old man in its reliable arms. Thinking soundlessly to himself, Ethan contemplated the next day’s activities. He would send Ethan into the woods with his bow, for their meat supply was getting dangerously low. He would have to go to the town for supplies, and he would have to take Juliet because she was still too young to stay at home by herself.

Sighing at his burden, he wondered when his son and his wife would return to their rural home. It had been over two months since they left for the capital, carrying with them a letter. A letter intended for the prince himself. A letter illustrating the impending danger of their land that all the folk seemed oblivious to. Ethan feared the worse. Knowing the prince’s character, he worried that their news would not be accepted warmly. The prince had always been a hero to his people, and he would not want to cause them any panic. Ethan feared that his son would be imprisoned for his letter—imprisoned for the truth. Yet the prince was naive enough where he would turn his cheek to the truth if it were not a truth he wanted to hear.

Ethan wondered how much longer he could wait before he took action. Sooner or later, he was going to have to investigate the circumstances of his son’s whereabouts and conditions. Sooner. He would need to leave soon—as soon as possible. He would take Bran with him; he could use a strong, young man like him, even if he did lack experience. But what would he do with Juliet. He couldn’t take her with him, but where could he leave her that was safe. Sighing, he knew the answer: nowhere. Nowhere would be safe in only a few weeks’ time. Rumors of it had been murmured across the countryside for months, even years in some areas, yet he had always dismissed them as idle gossip. Yet now even he could ignore the signs. Even if the prince failed to acknowledge it, the master had resurfaced, and no one could predict his next move. It was time for the Wizard to come out of hiding.

Chapter Two:

Bran woke just as the sun was breaking the dawn. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, yawning at the exertion. He unraveled the blankets that were tangled around his body and rose to his feet. Pulling a clean shirt from the dresser over his head, Bran fumbled around for his boots. Locating them, he pulled them on and walked out of his bedroom. He descended the staircase in relative darkness, groping the railing as he went. He worked his way gently down, so as not to disturb Juliet, who would be asleep for many more hours.

Creeping across the wooden floors of his living room, Bran made his way towards the kitchen, curious as to the whereabouts of his grandfather. Ethan always seemed to be awake before Bran, no matter how early he rose. Scanning the kitchen for signs of the old man, Bran released an icy cold breath. The fire had gone out some hours before the dawn. It was cold. Bran hoped that his little sister was warm enough in her blankets, for it would surely be just as cold in her room upstairs. It was cold enough that Bran could see his breath linger in the air each time he exhaled. He hoped that his grandfather would not need him to work outside for too long.

Bran examined the kitchen, searching for any sign of the old man. He knew he had to be around here somewhere—he had not been in his chair in front of the fire, and if he were still sleeping, he certainly would not have let the fire extinguish itself. More likely, he had awoken and put out the fire himself. Bran always wondered what his grandfather did in the mornings; there had to be some reason that he awoke so early, hours before the dawn. What work could he be doing in such darkness? Bran was sure that he read a little bit; his grandfather always had a nose in one of his books. Bran had gained his appreciation of reading from his grandfather, who always stressed that reading gained its reader knowledge, and nobody ever had too much knowledge. But what else could he be doing at such an early hour He usually prepared a breakfast for Bran and Juliet, but he had to make Juliet’s much later, or it would get cold. Surely, it didn’t take Ethan hours to cook his breakfast. What else was he doing? Maybe he was doing some chores that Bran didn’t know about, or maybe he was in his study adjourning the living room. Maybe he did just read the whole time.

It was frigidly cold in the kitchen. Where was his breakfast? His grandfather would always lay his breakfast down on the kitchen table, yet the only contents on the wooden table’s surface were a few books, a quill, and a collection of leaves that Juliet had gathered the other afternoon. Juliet was always fascinated with nature, no matter what the season. In the spring, she would enthusiastically run around the house, gazing at all of the plants that were just starting to bloom. She would pick the prettiest flowers she could find, and she would decorate the house with her findings, much to the delight of their parents. In the summer, Juliet would relish the opportunity to lie in the blaze of the sun, delighted by the warmth. Then when she got too hot to continue lying there, she would get up and run to the little pond in the forest. The pond was small, and in most areas it was shallow enough where Juliet could stand without having to swim. The water was cool, as little sun could warm its depth through the trees above it. Juliet would splash in the water to her little heart’s content, and most of the time, her grandfather would join her, or he would watch her from the trails aligned with the pond, smiling at her joy. In the winter, when the snow covered the ground with a soft layer of its gift, Juliet would bundle up in her sweater, mittens, and hat—all knitted by their mother—and she would make forms with the snow. She’d build little houses with the snow, making her own little village, decked out with church, granary, and houses. When she was feeling especially ambitious, which was most of the time—Juliet was always an energetic child—she would build palaces with the snow. She always imagined that she was a princess, so she built herself castles worthy of her majesty.

Now that it was fall, Juliet loved to collect all of the colorful leaves that fell from the trees around their home. She was saddened by the hibernation of all of the plants, yet she was old enough now where she knew that they would be back in the spring. Smiling at his little sister’s collection, Bran sat himself down at the table, taking up one of the wooden chairs that his father had made a few summers back. He drew a deep breath, inhaling the crisp cold of the fall air, and hoped against hope that his day would consist of light chores that were in close proximity to the house. He envisioned a day with a few hours of chopping wood then building an efficient fire that would warm the whole house, leaving his family comfortable. Then he would play with his little sister, engaging in her simple activities that brought her such enjoyment. Bran sighed. He hadn’t been able to have a day like that since his parents had left on their mission. He brooded over the very real potential of a long, cold, miserable day.

“Not afraid of a little cold, are you lad?” Bran jumped clear out of his seat at the words of his grandfather. The old man stepped out from the shadows of the ancient hutch, a mere five paces from the table, chuckling aloud.

Easing out of his startled state, Bran’s breathing began to resume its normal rate. He sometimes wondered if his grandfather could read his mind. Then he shook his head at the absurdity of the thought. “Of course not, grandpa. Why would you think that?” Bran asked as he sat back down in the chair.

Flashing that knowing smile of his, the old man, his gray-silver hair tinged with a few streaks of black, relaxed into the high backed chair opposite Bran. “Oh, no reason,” he said, his face expressionless. “It just looked like you were examining your visible breath with an air of apprehension. But of course, I should have known better. A strong, young lad like yourself—you’re practically built like an ox. You’re obviously not afraid of a little cold, which is excellent considering what you must do today.” He spoke with but a small smile on his face, yet his eyes seemed to be hiding a significant amount of glee. Then he added, “You might want to bring that coat of yours though, it’s pretty cold out even for someone like yourself.

Sighing at what he knew would be the long, cold day he had predicted, Bran asked, “What do I have to do today, grandpa?”

“Don’t look so down, my boy. It’s not like I’m sending you to muck out stables or anything like that. No, you’re going to hunt for some game today. Some venison would be nice, and a boar would be even better though I’m not sure that you’d be able to take one down.” A twinkling in his gray eyes revealed that he was challenging Bran. Bran knew better than to get into an argument with his grandfather. The only way to beat him was to do what the old man though he could not. So Bran’s face reddened a little bit, but he didn’t respond.

Ethan paused his speech for a moment, measuring his grandson’s poise. “Not to put any pressure on you, lad, but I’m not sure where our next meal is going to come from if you don’t catch anything. Our meat supplies are dangerously low, and I don’t dare risk allowing Juliet eating any of it. We haven’t had fresh meat in some time. If you are unsuccessful, we’re going to have to sell some things in town to buy food. My books or something, if we can find a buyer.” His expression had dimmed significantly since he’d started the conversation. Ethan had set a fairly grim mood with his ultimatum.

Feeling his grandfather’s sorrow, Bran attempted to cheer him up. “You really think I’m going to have any trouble getting us food? With my aim? I know you’ve seen me shoot a bow before, grandpa. No one in town can shoot anywhere near as good as me, not even father.” His confident smile lingered well after he finished his claim.

Chuckling, Ethan grinned, revealing a cheerful smile. A welcoming smile despite his chipped tooth, his grandfather’s smile always brightened the mood, and it made Bran’s heart smile when it was because of him. “Your confidence will be the end of you, boy. But I admire your spirit. I truly do. We could do with more people like you in the world right now.”

His last few words confused Bran. What was wrong with the world right now? Shrugging away his confusion, Bran thanked his grandfather, a satisfied smile upon his face. Pausing for a second, Bran uttered with a bit of uncertainty, “Uh, grandpa?”

“Yes, my boy, what is it?” asked the old man with sincerity.

“Well, uh.” Thinking silently to himself as he formed the words he would say next, Bran’s face revealed his worry.

“What’s wrong, my boy? Are you nervous about the hunt? You seemed pretty sure of yourself only a short time ago.” Ethan spoke with a hint of a smile on his lips, yet when Bran shook his head, Ethan paused for a moment. “It isn’t the cold, is it?”

Bran shook his head again. He took a deep breath, and then he spoke his mind. “I was just wondering. Well, when do you think mother and father are going to come back? They’ve been gone for a long time, haven’t they?” Bran finished his question by closing his eyes for a moment.

Ethan cast his head down for a moment, having noted the redness in his grandson’s eyes. He felt Bran’s pain, for he missed his son and daughter in law very much. He slowly brought his head back up, having thought of an appropriate response, and took in the view before him—his grandson distraught. “I don’t know, Bran. I truly don’t know. But worry not, we’ll help them soon enough. For now though, clear your mind and concentrate on the hunt. Just think about feeding Juliet. I am sure that that will motivate you to keep going if you are struggling.” Ethan paused for a moment, then smiling at his grandson, he added, “We need to eat and refuel ourselves if we are to help your parents, my boy.”

Bran, smiling through his welled up eyes, nodded to his grandfather. He rose from his seat, and moved towards his grandfather, the old man moving at the same time. They met in front of the table, and they embraced. It was a lengthy hug, and before they broke apart, Ethan looked up into his tall grandson’s eyes and said, “Bran, we will help your parents, don’t worry. I have a plan, but I need some time to work on it.”

They separated, and Ethan continued. “By the time you are back from the hunt with your deer, I will fill you in, and we can get started.”

Chortling softly, Bran said, “A deer? Who said anything about a deer? I’ll be back with a boar, and a fully grown one to boot.”

Ethan smiled at his grandson, his eyes a little red, as well. “Yes, you will, lad. You certainly will.” Then glancing around the room, he noted the leaves on the table. Feigning anger, the old man shouted, “Now, what has Juliet been up to? What did I tell her about respecting where we eat?”

A clamor came from the staircase, and a few moments later, a small girl came into view. Wiping sleep out of her eyes, she said, “But grandpa, aren’t they pretty? I thought they’d make our breakfast prettier.”

Ethan smiled adoringly at his granddaughter. “Of course they did, little one.” Juliet responded by leaping into his frail arms. Frail arms that held a lot more strength in them than Bran had thought. Bran had always thought that his grandfather’s strength had waned significantly with age, but sometimes it seemed as if he were as strong as Bran. The old man could still swing an ax through a tree as well as anyone else around, and he could do it quicker than anyone else, too. Where the strength came from, Bran was unsure. It certainly didn’t come from his skinny arms. Ethan never ceased to amaze his grandson.

After swinging the little girl in a circle for a minute or so, he placed her on the kitchen floor. Then smiling at both of his grandchildren, he said, “Now, let’s see about some breakfast. I don’t know about you, but I feel like I could eat an entire boar right now.” Then he glanced down at Juliet, “or maybe a little girl.”

Squealing, Juliet shouted, “Grandpa, you can’t eat me!” Then she jumped back into his arms.

Chuckling aloud, Ethan said, “Of course not, my dear. I must have forgotten.”

Bran could only laugh at the eccentrics of his grandfather.