Her mother died in childbirth, in agony and exhaustion. Her father called her Alisha, the first of her name. The town wisdom blessed the baby, proclaimed a precious gift, a bringer of prosperity. She was a sickly infant, and her father worried that he would not be able to protect her, keep her healthy. They lived on a small holding, between the village and the forest. They had little, they ate what they could grow. An old goat provided milk, and a few hens pecking around the yard produced the occasional egg.

Alisha learned quickly to fend for herself, to look after her father. He was a quiet man, with a sadness that never fully left his eyes, and though he meant well and tried his best, life often got the better of him. Some days, he woke with vigour and enthusiasm, with plans of fencing off another field, or clearing an area of scrub and forest to extend their workable land; on others, he would not rise until late in the evening, emerging from their small two-room farmhouse with a lethargy and a far-away look in his eyes. On these days, the child Alisha knew better than to disturb him, instead getting on with her chores, looking after the animals, mending clothes and preparing supper. The two would sit quietly at the rough wooden table, eating their simple meal, and though he never put it into words, Alisha knew he was thankful.
  

When not helping her father around the farm, tending crops or gathering wood, she would play with the children from the village, climbing trees or catching frogs by the riverbank, chasing the village dogs down dirt tracks and through the forest. Alisha loved nothing more than to run bare-footed through the long grass of the fields, splashing through muddy puddles and streams, laughing and shouting with the other children as they went. Mischief had a tendency of happening around Alisha - a pot would break, a mule would kick over a cart, the cattle would get out of their pen and have to be rounded up. When something went wrong around the village, the adults looked for Alisha, ignoring her excuses; the children laughed at her misfortune, teasing her ill-luck. They called her orfling, a wicked trick played by the mischievous Children of the Forest.
  

One of the older children, a shepherd's boy, became like a brother to her. He knew about the Forest, about the Children, had heard the tales from the old women in the hills, and reassured her she wasn’t afflicted by a trick or a curse. Sometimes, he’d sneak a bag of grain for her from his father’s barn, for he had plenty and was considered well-to-do by the village folk. She would grind it into flour and bake it, giving him the first loaf in thanks. When her father learned where the grain was coming from, he was furious. He forbade her from associating with the boy, from taking produce that came from his father’s stores. There was bad blood between the two men, and though she was too young to understand her father’s rationale for refusing this man’s aid, she no longer accepted the gifts. This didn’t stop her from going on adventures with her friend though, following him when he herded the sheep to the summer pastures in the hills.
  

It was on one such expedition that they found themselves separated from the other herders, having taken a longer path through one of the eastern valleys to round up some lost sheep. This did not worry them; there were three other young herders with them, and they all knew the land well. As they walked, at ease under the early summer sun, they talked and laughed, picking up sticks and having mock swordfights, Alisha eager to prove herself just as fearsome as the older boys. Spotting a distressed ewe bleating plaintively from atop a rocky outcropping, Alisha left the group and clambered up to retrieve it, the chatter of the boys fading as she climbed around and up the rock face.
 

Descending with the animal across her scrawny shoulders, she found herself faced with a scene that drained the life from her, a cold terror grasping around her young soul. A band of mountain men from the north, fetid furs and rough beards, were making quick work of slaughtering the herd, tying them in pairs and slinging the still-warm carcasses over their backs. The herders stood in a despondent huddle, flanked by a pair of hulking barbarians, occasionally spitting and muttering something in their guttural tongue. While the tales told that the mountain men stole unruly children and ate them for supper, the truth was that these barbarians of the north were renowned for taking slaves, descending from their mountains and picking up unwary travellers, scavenging from remote farms and homesteads – though rarely this far south, or this early in the season. Paralyzed with fear, tears welling in her eyes, Alisha looked on helplessly. Her friend locked eyes with her and gestured frantically for her to run before the mountain men noticed her. The sheep on her shoulders bleated, and it was too late.
  

Big, scarred, filthy hands reached for her, lifting her off the ground with ease, the barbarian oblivious to her futile struggling. Her friend was running for her, calling her name, the other herders breaking for freedom in the confusion. Charging into her captor, he knocked him off-balance. Taking her hand and pushing her in front of him, the pair ran. With a nonchalant shrug the nearest barbarian loosed a throwing axe with deadly precision. Alisha felt her friend’s arm go limp behind her, and was pulled down by the dead weight. Crimson blossomed around the axe head that protruded from his back. He was still breathing, barely. Having felled the other herders as they ran, the mountain men ambled in her direction. One took her by the shoulders, holding her fast where she knelt. Another grasped the haft of the axe, yanking it violently from the boy’s back, his breath escaping in a ragged whimper. The barbarian raised the axe high, then in a swift movement brought it down and finished the job.
  

Something broke inside Alisha. Deep down, something raw, something elemental, exploded into life. The ground began to shake, rocks splitting as pale green sparks arced around her. The sky darkened as a maelstrom of raw energy roared into being around her, a vortex of green flame and lightning. She threw her head back and let out an unearthly scream, sustained, amplified and reverberated down the valley.
  

It was her father that eventually found her, unconscious and alone. He spoke not a word as he carried her down the valley, through the fields, golden in the evening light of early summer. He laid her down upon her bed, tears streaming down his face as he rested his hand on her forehead. Unable to understand, to cope with what he had seen, he packed his few meagre belongings and left her.
  

A gloom settled over the small cottage, a listlessness and anxiety that seeped outwards. Alisha woke, and ate, and slept, cried until no further tears would come, the hours fading meaninglessly. Every day, she watched the track in the hope that her father would return. That she could apologise, explain, make him understand – though she did not understand herself, and was terrified that it would happen again. She’d wake from nightmares, in a cold sweat and screaming, certain that something dangerous, threatening lurked just outside her perception.
  

***
  

It was a bad summer for the village. The sun was cold and weak, a roiling fog settling around the houses and fields for weeks without abatement. Crops rotted in the ground, animals yielded only sour milk, many dying of sickness. Rumour started to spread, whispers first, then taking hold like a virus. They came to talk openly of it at the village green, accusing her of the herders’ deaths, blaming her for all their misfortune. Some said she was indeed cursed, though by something far more malicious than the Children of the Forest; others claimed she communed with demons, had heard the unearthly voices emanating from the cottage. On the rare occasions Alisha ventured near the village, all conversation would fade and the villagers would edge warily away, mothers calling their children home and barring their doors. Some began to carry talismans or amulets, others gave offerings and prayers to whatever gods or spirits they felt would listen, but by-and-by they came to silent agreement of the only solution to their ill-fortune.
  

The days began to shorten and the cool of autumn took its hold upon the land. In the silence of the cottage, there came unexpectedly a knock upon the door. Hesitantly, uncertainly, Alisha edged towards it, having not seen or spoken to a soul in months. The woodsman had ever been kindly to her, teaching her about the flowers and the tress, sharing with her the tales of the forest as she had played beneath the canopy. He stood solemnly now in the doorway, towering over her, and she was uncertain what to say. He had word from her father, now living in a city far to the south. He wished to reunite with his daughter, but could not make the journey himself. The woodsman felt obliged to help her, though they would have to depart immediately to avoid the harsh winter that was growing steadily nearer. Uncertain of what else to do, and with the possibility of being with her father again, Alisha agreed and quickly packed her few treasured possessions. She tied the goat by the village well, and let the chickens loose upon the green – someone would find a home for them when she was gone. Alisha took one last look at the village that had been her entire world, the paths and secret places that only a child knew imprinted upon her mind. Silently, as the moon rose over the land, they departed.
  

Three weeks of travelling found them upon a desolate heath as winter began to set in. The first snows had settled upon the heather, and their breath clouded and rose before them in the cold. They had passed signs of civilisation on their journey, paths and sometimes even cart tracks, smoke rising from the occasional farmstead. Once or twice Alisha was sure she had seen the glow of a town or city on the horizon, though the woodsman had a desire to avoid people, and they had not come across any signs of human activity in some time. Night fell and Alisha was wrapped in her bedroll by the small fire. He had taken to mixing a sleeping draught into her broth, to quell her nightmares, and the raw, unnameable dread that permeated the air when she slept. The woodsman stood over the prone girl, little more than a child, axe in hand, tormented by his internal debate, as he did every night. But he could not bring himself to complete the job the villagers had charged him with. They were far enough away that she would never be a threat to the village again. Gathering his things, he strode north into the night.
  

She didn’t know how she survived that winter. A feral force kept her alive, drove her onwards through the frozen wastes, not allowing her give up even as she weakened from cold and starvation. She used all she knew of nature to find whatever she could to keep herself alive: mushrooms and lichens that still survived in damp places, winter berries growing under the occasional copse of trees. Once, she came across a pack of wolves, shortly after making a kill. Their muzzles were matted and soaked in fresh blood, but she was too weak and hungry to feel fear. She stumbled towards them, pushed her way through the feeding beasts, and fell to her knees by the half-eaten deer. The pack rounded on her, teeth bared with low, guttural growls. As they moved in on the girl, they sensed a danger, a rising threat that drove them back. Alisha pulled ravenously at the warm flesh and bones of the dead animal. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten so well.
    

As spring dawned upon the land, Alisha found herself in civilized countryside, farmsteads and the occasional village, and as the snows began to melt and give way to spring growth, she began to move from town to town, learning quickly how to survive within the stone walls and cobble streets. There was a coldness in the city-living folk, a callous self-preservation she had not encountered before. She soon adopted the ways of the street children, sleeping in hay lofts, stealing food from the markets, and avoiding the attention of the town guard. There was little place for friends or fun; she was constantly watching her back, and knowing when to hit first and when to run became second-nature to her.
  

The haunting dreams and unnatural incidents continued to plague her, and she rarely remained in the same place for long. She’d move on, find a new town, eek out an existence. The nightmares would catch up with her, and she’d wake screaming, every torch and grate in town burning with an eerie green flame. In one town, the disturbances so concerned the inhabitants that they assembled before the mayor’s hall in the main square, demanding that something be done. Though the locals disapproved, he promised that a Warder would be summoned, for they dealt in the weird and arcane. Travelling mages and conjurors offered to investigate, use their magic and spells to track down the source and eliminate it. Alisha slipped away while the square was still filled with fearful citizens.
  

She kept moving after that, always fleeing, trying to outrun whatever curse afflicted her. But still it came: roiling tempests, filled with green lightning, would hang overhead whenever she felt threatened; cornered by thieves and vile men, she’d lash out to defend herself, and they would collapse in an explosion of accursed jade energy. After one such incident, she fled down a dark alley, a figure stepping out of the shadows and blocking her way.

“I’ve been trying to find you for some time, following the aftermath of your actions. I saw what you did just now. But I detected no channelling, no drawing of magic from the land. How is this so? Tell me! You are an anomaly, and I need to know the answer. You will prove an interesting subject of research I think.”

The mage stepped forward, and Alisha found herself with her back up against the uneven stone wall as he reached out to grasp her. In a burst of energy that left a trail in her wake, she threw herself at her aggressor, sending him sprawling, and she was fleeing once again, not resting for days on end, always watching her back, putting as much distance behind her as she could.
  

***
  

By-and-by, as the seasons changed and time rolled on, the imminent threat she felt subsided, and she found herself as a servant girl in the castle of an old lord. The man had grown fat and wealthy through conquering the lands around him, and though the work was hard and the people coarse, she was well fed and slept with a roof over her head. But her time here was not to last, and the arrival of a lord and lady from neighbouring lands spelled an end to her life of relative ease. They came with an entourage, an honour guard of their finest warriors, occupying an entire keep of the sprawling stronghold. Her master welcomed them with feasts and festivities, aiming to impress with his affluence and might, and Alisha was assigned to their quarters, to keep them clean and well-appointed, and provide whatever the visitors might ask for.
  

One evening, in the rush of chores to be completed, she had forgotten to place fresh flowers in the apartments. The lady was a cruel woman, calculating and ambitious, and Alisha knew she would have her hide tanned for forgetting to fulfil the request. So she snuck into the keep after dark, past the guards of the visiting lord, while the old lord was yet entertaining his guests. She had just filled the final vase with flowers freshly picked from the castle gardens when she heard footsteps approaching, hushed voices deep in discussion. Panicked, she hid in an ornate oaken cabinet, knowing that she would face swift and harsh punishment if she was caught. The door opened, and closed swiftly as the man and woman continued their muted argument. The woman talked of poison and of daggers, goading the man, questioning his masculinity and bravery. The man acknowledged the wealth and power of their host, the gain to be had by committing the act, but pleaded caution and consideration. Alisha was old enough to understand what they were discussing, and she dared not breathe for fear of being found. She crouched motionless, silently, pushed as far into the corner of the cabinet as she could. Her ear against the back panel, she could hear the woodworm chewing their way through the old oak.
  

These guest rooms were rarely used, and though the staff had done their best to prepare for the old lord’s visitors, there were some unseen places where years of dust yet lay. Alisha stifled the first sneeze, and the second, but her movement had kicked up a cloud of dust that hung in the air of the enclosed space, and with the incessant itching of her nose, she broke her silence. The conversation in the room beyond ceased instantly, and after a moment, a blinding sliver of candlelight expanded to fill her vision as the cabinet door was opened. The lady was in a rage, throwing vile obscenities at Alisha; the lord reached wordlessly for the blade on his belt. Once more, Alisha found herself running: through the doors of the guest quarters, down the cold stone stairs, across the keep’s entrance hall. She threw herself at the heavy oaken doors in a bolt of green light, exploding past the lord’s guards in a shower of splinters as she continued across the courtyard without a pause.
  

The lord and lady assembled their warriors quickly, and Alisha could hear the barking of bloodhounds and the calls of the men as they spread out from the stronghold in pursuit. She was still running at full pace when she hit a steep slope, tripping on an unseen root and tumbling awkwardly onto the dirt track beyond. Filled with pain, she felt the threat rising, and emerald sparks danced around her in the darkness. As she pulled herself to her knees, a hand reached out in assistance, from which she recoiled as she stood.

“No, stay away from me! I’m cursed by Grim, misfortune follows me wherever I go.”

The man before her was grizzled, his face a patchwork of old scars, his dark hair and beard flecked with grey.  On the back of his hand was emblazoned a silver mark that seemed to glow in the moonlight.

“Well then, my young Grimsdottir, I might just be able to help you.”
  

***
  

“In the old times, at the beginning of our age, when the land was yet emerging from the magical storm that reshaped it, there was on occasion born a child whose spirit was imbued with a Power. Not the magic of the Land that mages draw, you understand, but a Well, an elemental Source of energy that lived within the bearer. It is said that a number of orders, the Warders among them, were founded by the wisest and most foresighted of these gifted individuals, to guard and guide the peoples of the land, in an uncertain time, before kings or countries, before civilization. Of course, times changed and the land moved on – the gift was lost in the march of the centuries, and the orders faded into obscurity. We few are the only ones that yet carry the tale of those times.” 
         

“The Warder’s Mark is what allows a Warder to channel magic from the land, to weave our spells. For you, it would act as a focus, an anchor, through which you could draw from your well of power. With patience and training, you would be able to take control of your gift, wield it like the legends from the beginning of our age.”
  

He paused for a moment, looking solemnly at her.
  

“The process is not an easy one: the silver must be set into your skin and bound to your Power - you will face untold pain and agony. And if you agree and accept the mark, you must take on all that it entails – the teachings, the training, the trials of the Warders. No quick fix and send you on your way; you will become one of us – for better or for worse.”
  

He gave the girl some time to make her decision, stepping out into the cold winter air.

“You finished filling the girl’s head with fairy tales, brother? Neglect to mention that she’s destined to a life of bounty hunting and mercenary work like the rest of us in order to survive?”

“Leave it be Vessic. The child has enough to face for one day as it is. Come, we must prepare to set the Mark.”

“You certain she’ll agree? That she’ll survive?”

“Of course she will. She has an unbreakable spirit; a wild heart and noble blood.”
  

***
  

Alisha Grimsdottir sat on horseback, the hilt of her hand-and-a-half sword resting against her left shoulder. A leather band held her hair away from her face, rust brown with a streak of cream-white. There was a determined set to her fierce green eyes as she crested a rise and assessed the country before her. Her travelling companion talked incessantly - crass, brash chatter, always complaining, and she had put up with enough of it.
  

“Eehan, you saw what I did to those brigands that had you captive? The promise of a measly sum of coin is all that’s keeping me from reaching over there and doing the same to you, ok?”
  

He gave the young woman a look full of indignity and injured pride, but there was also fear – of her following through with her threat, and so he closed his mouth and rode ahead. He was a loathsome human being, a spoiled city-boy who spent his time wining and gambling, running scams and cheating people out of their hard-earned gold.  Loathsome, but well connected - and in truth she needed the coin. Her gear was wearing thin, her horse needed to be shod, and she’d give anything for a good meal and a cold pint of beer. She’d spent far too long in the wild of late, slaying beasts, hunting the vilest of psychopaths, dangerous wielders of arcane power, the criminal scum that found refuge and employment in these lands without king or country. Babysitting a crime lord’s son who’d ripped off the wrong people seemed like the easiest of her recent jobs – and yet, this man was by far the most tedious and annoying monster she’d encountered. Already, she was daydreaming of being rid of him, and as they rode onward, she imagined the welcoming copper bath, filled with scalding hot water, the soft bed and the days of respite awaiting her at her journey’s end.