The Son of Alar

The Son of Alar R. J. Firetail OTHER WORKS BY R. J. FIRETAIL: THE ALAR SAGA The Tale of Alar The Trials of Alar For Arby. May happiness find you wherever you roam. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Text Copyright © 2025 by R. J. Firetail Cover Art Copyright © 2025 by Sara “Caribou” Miles Published by Red Drake Books, an imprint of Ash Tree Media All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Visit ashtreemedia.com Prologue The old red squirrel took a deep breath of warm spring air and let it out with a satisfied sigh. How often he had come here over the years, and yet he never tired of the familiar surroundings. The sight of the bright spring blossoms growing in their carefully patterned formations along neatly trimmed hedgerows always brought a smile to his creaky features. Just as they had in the days he had trodden these cobblestone paths with his friends and family. He carried on down the trail deeper into the garden. Around the end of one hedgerow, he came to a spot where many paths converged into a roundabout surrounded by benches and trimmed grasses. Inside this ring of cobblestone was a narrow band of flowering shrubs, and within this band stood a statue upon a pedestal of polished granite. It was the statue of a fellow red squirrel, at least thrice the size of a real one. He stood cloaked against the ravages of countless seasons, his gaze leading over the tops of the hedgerows to some unknown point on the far southern horizon. One paw rested on the exquisite hilt of a stone sword whose sheath disappeared within the folds of his cloak while the other clasped the brooch that affixed it to his body. He paused for a moment to admire the lifelike portrayal of the noble squirrel. Then he looked away to the left. Ahh, yes, there he was: that same youth who had taken to coming here every day at the same time he did. Why such a young lad—no more than twenty winters—would stop and contemplate an ancient statue so regularly always made him wonder. Well, perhaps this was the day to find out. “Good morning,” spoke the old squirrel as he came up beside the youth. “Morning, sir,” said the lad with a respectful nod. “You’ve been coming here quite a bit lately. What’s your name?” “Emlar, sir,” replied the youth. “Pleased to meet you, Emlar.” He paused, regarding the statue once again. “Quite a piece, isn’t it?” “Yes, a truly masterful work. I could only hope to be so good one day.” “You’re a sculptor?” “I am.” “Well, you’ll find him a good study.” “I do. But more than that, I wonder who he was, what he did to warrant such an honor.” “You’ve read the words around the base, of course.” “Of course, but they give only a name and a place. They tell nothing of what he did.” A knowing gleam found its way into the old squirrel’s eye. “Indeed, that is a pity. But his deeds were too numerous to list on a simple epitaph.” “You know who he is?” The old squirrel nodded. “Oh yes. I’d be happy to tell you all about him, if you’ve got the time.” “I’ve nothing but, sir.” “Good. Then if you’d be kind enough to help me to that bench over there, I’ll tell you everything I know.” So, Emlar took the old fellow by the arm and guided him to the nearest bench. Once he was comfortably situated, the youth took the seat beside him. “Right. Listen carefully now, Emlar, and I shall tell you a tale about one of the most extraordinary squirrels this land has ever known.”