Envoys Of The Vow

Prologue

Outsiders, who occasionally drove through the village of Crowthorne all had something in common, they were either lost or visiting relatives.  All were struck by its rustic beauty, a hidden jewel that had been missed by both the passage of time and modernity.  

 The small cottages that studded the villages only road, looked as if the countryside approved of the buildings and was claiming and protecting them as one of its own.  Manicured grass, that edged the road, gave way to cottage gardens that were by no means formal.  They rambled over the ancient brickwork in a cascade of flowers, that only parted their protection for windows or doors.  Dusty tracks led to secret farms and larger country houses, marked only by house name plaques buried in hedges.  To the traveller, Crowthorne was the archetypal English village. 

 They would have been shocked to find out that Crowthorne had once been a thriving port.  To be fair most people would be surprised, even the locals.  Forty-five miles from the coast and nowhere near a river bigger than a brook, Crowthorne held none of the traits of the customary English port.  However, similar to only a handful of villages across England, Crowthorne held a secret.

 Lost to the passage of time or memory, Crowthorne’s ancient yew tree held one of the few gateways into Arantor, mythical realm of the Land Wights and Aelfschim.  In the time of the Saxons, mythical beings would travel the elf roads from all across England to use the Crowthorne porthal mist.  The races of Arantor were elusive and secretive of their ways so, for the most part, they travelled unseen except for those who tried to find them.  

 Mortals and immortals had lived together in relative peace.  Well, that is to say that the humans knew the rules and abided by them.  The immortal races were left in peace and magic was only sought out in times of dire need.  There was always a price to pay, even when good magic was used.  People knew how to stay away from evil.  Some would of course be lost, but for the most part, if you stuck to the rules you could have safe passage.

 One day however, all magic had disappeared.  It did not dwindle and die out. It simply vanished.  No sign was found of the magical folk.  The mighty yew tree grew on, but its power dimmed even to mortal eyes.  Time had rolled on without the influence of the immortal world and men had settled into their lives without depending on magic.  

 The stories of myths and magic slowly stopped being told.  Ancient laws were forgotten, the prophecies were lost.  People who carried the secrets forward and warned of the immortal world were shunned and ridiculed by others.  Turned into outcasts they learned to keep their knowledge to themselves.  

 Though they did not know the reasons as to why Arantor had pulled back its people, they knew one day they would return.  A darkness weighed in their hearts as they watched men defile the sacred places of power.  They watched and they waited, they could only hope that when they returned good would return with the evil.  The time and ages past slowly with a quietness of watching and waiting.

 This summer, however, was different.  All the villagers could sense something was coming, even though they did not understand why, they were suddenly bolting their doors at night.  As the summer melted into a warm hazy autumn, the feelings grew.  The villagers stopped walking in the woodlands at night, an unnamed fear driving them away.  Locals were collected from the pub on moonlit nights rather than walk the five minutes home.  The nervousness grew into the wide eyed searching of dusky shadows while outside at night.

 No one spoke of this new fear, but all felt it.  Something was coming, something that would change Crowthorne forever.  As their childhood fear of the dark resurfaced, adult reason vanished.  As the darkness closed in they watched and they waited.