Prologue - any thoughts welcome.

Prologue

‘We should not have come here’ said Pablo, fear clearly etched across his face, ‘this is not our quarrel.’

‘It will be in a week you fool, now be quiet’ said Falan, his legs heavy as he stepped beyond a charred pig, the beast’s cracked skin oozing fat and smelling sweet. I will be dammed if I don’t make more of a man out of this coward, he though.

The raiders had not seen them but Falan knew he was pushing their luck. The screams of children being torn from wailing mothers muffled the sounds of their scampered footsteps whilst torched houses blazing behind them lit up the night and the horrors of man. Falan had dragged Pablo between blackened walls of ruined homes and through piles of burnt, smoldering wood, finding themselves crouched down in what was left of a once modest stable, out of sight of the armed men. The scene before them was chaotic. The village of Whittlebury, ten leagues south of Grey Willows, was desolate and desperately poor with her only imposing feature being that of a tall ruined church. When Falan visited this village in years gone by, to exchange cows for pigs or wheat for wine, there was little here except a cheerful inn keep, eagerly awaiting the next traveler to pass through to trade tales. The inn keep was as humble as they came, a quiet appeaser whose inn had rarely heard the soft whistle of a sword as it sliced the air.

That whistle came.

The inn keep’s frail hand fell from a blooded stump as he brawled with his fists for the liberty of his wife, his screams as piercing as the young, who were being tossed and turned by masked men without a care in the world. The mill’s thatched roof was lazily smoking as the flames caught hold of its corner, the fiery slithers of glowering embers floating down to the dewy grasses below. Flickering shadows walked along wooden walls of those homes still standing, some cowering, some stood tall with clubs grasped between bruised knuckles. A woman was pushed to the mud as she scratched at the face of a raider, an iron boot flying into a bump growing beneath her plump breasts when she mocked his manhood.

Falan was privy to the gore of conflict as Pablo retched spit beside him, yet the sight still made his stomach twist in rage. These people had little to their names, which made the raiders deeds all the more abnormal. Raiders may break the king’s law, yet if that law caught up with you, the returns of Whittlebury would not outweigh a sharp sword and a severed neck. During the ten-year peace raiding was uncommon and this raid was especially violent and senseless. Curiosity had compelled him to stay, crouched down in horse shit for the last half an hour whilst others would have run, waiting to see what was to become of the trivial village and her honest people. Despite his humble occupation, Falan knew of influential men from his years wielding the sword. He prayed they would have more answers than Pablo, who knelt trembling beside him. The raiders sustained their relentless brutality whilst the inn keep sat sobbing, staring at his raw stub with his hand held in his hand. They were dragging women and children out of their homes in the pitch black of night, most wearing nightclothes that barely covered their poise, whilst any man who threatened to defy their authority was beaten bloody.

Pablo had first noticed the smoke an hour after dusk, their wagon slow and stacked to the brim with sacks of wheat. They had been hearing rumors of raiders heading northeast throughout the past week of heavy rains, yet Falan only waved a hand to the threat of danger. Times were hard and he had to trade. They had travelled for many leagues, through rolling hills and mudded dirt tracks, residing nights in remote inns when their coin bag would allow, or beneath monstrous willows that sheltered them from the worst of the rains tender onslaught. Falan pushed on whilst villagers gave grievous warnings, some with fresh cuts and blackened faces, the rest rebuilding battered homes. Pablo had complained bitterly as he eyed the beaten but that had not deterred Falan. It had only pissed him off. Pablo’s unique ability with numbers made him an invaluable asset to Falan’s trade, yet all too often his cowardice made Falan wish the boy was as ignorant as he sounded. One extra mouth to feed was enough trouble these days. Even though the peace was lasting, the long summer days were growing ever shorter and many men were now scuffling for the cold scrapes left on the platters of the affluent.

At first glance Falan had believed these to be raiders, due to their shabby clothes and poor hygiene, though as time passed he noted different qualities, a heavy right hand, the obedience towards command and their lack of enthusiasm for rape and plunder. None of these virtues had been shown in the few raids Falan had been caught up in before the ten-year peace. From his experience, most mothers were left pleading for their daughters whilst their legs were spread. Falan thought they may have been a deserter’s party, but struggled to comprehend why deserters would come this close to Aquala with the wrath of Lord Aldo Quirin being so close at hand. The Quirin dynasty had built their legacy on disciplined order and few had ever chanced tainting their faultless realm. Falan also noticed the armour they wore, polished iron, which was far too extravagant for the common criminal. There was little doubt that they were from this province, due to their strong Ardic accent, yet to whom did they belong, if anyone?

The scene of chaos continued around them. The flames’ unrelenting path of ruin persisted, leeching onto another thatched roof, which was swiftly consumed. Horses were screaming in fear all around and fighting to get free of their restraints. The local butcher attempted to put up a fight, but a blow to the head with the butt of a steel axe would send even the biggest men to the floor. His five-foot frame fell like a sack of spuds. The women were being huddled up in the ruins of the ancient church, many now cradling the newborns that had been ripped from their protective arms. The men were tussling in the middle of the market square, many with grazes and welts lining strands of naked skin, yet after seeing the butcher’s fate, all were soon subdued. The raiders were going in and out of houses as they pleased, ripping up flooring and turning up beds. They were looking for something, or someone.

When the raiders had finished tearing through the village, uncovering little of much use, they turned to the villagers. The men were being dragged up to a black chair sat amid the burning houses, one by one, whilst the women silently sat, tears streaming their pale faces. As the men were seated, a raider would tightly tie their hands to ensure they had no defense from the onslaught of blows that would soon ensue. A tall man with a wicked smile, which never seemed to leave his unpleasant face, was fiercely interrogating them. Falan did not catch the questions that were being asked but not one villager seemed to give the wanted reply. As each man was hauled up to the chair, little time would pass before a blow to the head or the steel of a boot would force them to the ground, whilst another man was dragged up to face the trial.

As time went by, little was gained and the raiders became agitated, taunting the wives of the beaten men in the hope one man would declare of his sins. A younger male bravely stood against their games, yet after receiving a slap across the head with the flat of an axe, he was knocked out cold.

The moon rose to her height, and still they taunted. Pablo was growing restless and his poor bladder had meant Falan insisted he snuck off to do his business; the smell of horseshit was enough to be dealing with. The house fires were dying down when the raiders began to mount up. A few commands were issued, lost to Falan’s ears by the prevailing northern wind, one that bit down to your very bones. All of the villagers had been interrogated, all the houses had been torn apart and the raiders left empty handed, apart from a pitiful amount of copper and silver pieces.

‘Shall we get going?’ asked Pablo, a little eagerly when the last of the raiders left via a mud-carved road.

‘Aye, lead the way’ said Falan.

They passed back the way they had came, through the undergrowth of the woods that surrounded Whittlebury, the smell of smoke hanging in the air. Drops of drew wetted their heads as they pushed dormant branches aside, their tracks untouched and easy to follow. Little time past before they emerged into a clearing, a large boulder covered in slime, snails and moss supporting a pair of fallen trees, their roots thick and warped. Falan was pleased to see that neither horse nor wagon had been touched.

‘Get some firewood Pab. I’m starving. And make sure its dry, we don’t want those bastards to find us.’ Falan knew the dangers that smoke and fire could bring yet they had run out of edible food some time back. They had coin, but the inn in Whittlebury had been burned down by the assault of the flames and his stomach had been grumbling for hours. He needed to hunt. Walking to the wagon, he grabbed the bow, four quivers, and set off into the woods.

•

When Falan returned with a pair of rabbits slung over his shoulder the sun was rising in the east, creating small fingers of light through the gaps in the canopy. Falan was pleased to see that Pablo had a relatively smokeless fire going, one that gently spat and crackled. Little was said whilst the rabbit was gutted and cooked, for both of them were exhausted and starving, and only had eyes for the fat drops drippings from the carcasses.

Once Falan had licked the last of the grease from his fingertips, he untied the horses and allowed them to graze on the nearby grassland. Habit made him reach for his sword and whetstone and soon the sound of stone on metal rang throughout the densely packed woods. Falan never forgot his father’s words, Your protection is as sharp as your sword.

‘Bad time to come across raiders Fal’ said Pablo, pausing to pick rabbit out of the gaps of his over-sized teeth. Falan sighed. Despite his relentless struggling, the boy had never grasped the manners used by most men. ‘We were lucky to avoid that.’

‘I’m not so sure they were raiders Pab’ said Falan, running a finger down the blade’s edge, teasing his skin.

Pablo looked up, frowning. ‘What do you mean Fal? If they weren’t raiders...’ The thought wasn’t worth pondering.

Falan yawned. ‘I don’t know Pab, but don’t fret. They’ll be long gone by now. I must say I have not seen anything of the like during this ten-year peace. We’ll travel to High River and tell Lord Hughin once we have finished our business in Millstone. He will listen to us.’

Neither spoke for a while as Falan struggled to keep his eyes wide.

‘I’ve never been caught up in a raid before Fal’ said Pablo, staring into the flames, ‘but from the stories I have heard, that was… different. There was no interest in the women…’ He paused as his cheeks flushed.

Falan laughed. ‘You’re not turning queer on me are you, you little poof?’ A seared log was thrown his way, his cotton sleeve marking with soot as he beat it away.

‘You know what I mean Falan’ said Pablo, his pride aching.

‘I know’ he said, chuckling. ‘Many and more queries need to be asked. But for now I wish to rest, take the first watch and wake me in a couple of hours.’ Falan was unable to hold off the temptation any longer. He stretched out on a rotting horse fur, his back warming as the fire sizzled behind him. Sleep came easily.

•

A sharp pain to the ribs woke him. As his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, a ghastly man with a wicked smile knelt over him, his teeth dazzling white and faultless.

‘Are you Fabian Night?’ asked a shrill voice. His breath stank.

Falan rose to his elbows. ‘No. I am a fair tradesman who goes by the name of Falan. I come from High River.’ Even by his standard, he was wary. Five against one never ended well.

‘And what kind of a tradesman carries round a sword and mail, when he is selling wheat?’ asked the interrogator, pointing to the metal hanging off Falan’s left hip.

‘I fought in the Goldenleaf Rebellion, for the crown, which gifted each of their soldiers metal for their service. Since then my legs have grown slow and my reflex’s slower, and the ten-year peace has ensured I can no longer fight in the field. I have kept the mail for times like these.’ He had always been a bold talker, yet in his younger years Falan had managed to back up his arrogance with swift, sharp lunges.

The man looked to his escorts, smirking, tossing his hand in a mocking gesture. ‘And who is the boy that is trying to outrun us?’ he asked, his eyes still averted.

‘Pablo Woodhouse, my assistant from Bridgeoaks’ said Falan, growing tense, ‘and where is he?’

The repulsive man flicked his fingers and a raider ran from their circle. ‘The coward fled at the first sight he got of us, three hundred yards north of here. We have sent a party to scout him out, he won’t evade us long.’ Falan prayed the coward had run for leagues without turning back. The boy did not cope well with danger. The sound of raiders tearing through the wagon caught his notice.

‘Now’ said the smiler, clicking in Falan’s face to gain his attention. His fists clenched. ‘We are hunting four men, all of whom have defied the law. They are dressed in light armour, travelling east. Have you seen them, or helped them?’ His tone was casual.

Falan almost lost control. ‘Have you lost your fucking mind? Under whose authority do you plunder a village, beat men half to death and claim to be hunting down four men in the name of the law?’ asked Falan, anger creeping into his voice. ‘You are nothing more than common thieves.’

He sniggered. ‘Oh, we are so much more than that’ he said, teeth shining. ‘Now I will ask you once more, my dear friend, have you seen these men?’

‘No’ said Falan, holding his tongue.

A sigh left his lips, as if Falan’s reply was nothing more than an inconvenience. ‘Very well. You will need to come along with us until we can be sure you’re not keeping a little secret between those rotting teeth of yours.’ Torture, Falan knew. ‘The rest of our assembly is waiting for us on the outskirts of the village.’ The interrogator stood, his face stern. ‘You thought you were not spotted yesterday, yet that coward was stupid enough to take a piss right in front of one of our patrols.’ He smirked as he looked up. ‘Get your horse, we will take what we need from your wagon and be on our way.’

Before Falan had the chance to argue, a horse came trotting up behind him. There was a sly smile on the face of the mount.

‘Told you he wouldn’t escape us for long Farris’ said the mounted man.

Pablo was dumped on the ground by the horse’s hooves, two arrows protruding from his chest, wet blood seeping through a mudded leather jerkin. Black flies flew around his wounds, his eyelids wide, and pupil’s black. There was no life left in the boy.

‘You bastards’ spat Falan, his eyes wetting, ‘you murdered an innocent boy for running from mounted men…’ A leather scabbard was hurled at his head, the impact making his scalp sting.

The interrogator held a finger to his riven, smiling lips. ‘An innocent man never runs. He proved his own guilt, and through that, yours. Do not blame us’ said Farris, as his men drew their swords. ‘Arrest him.’

Before Falan had had a chance to gather his thoughts, Farris had turned his back. Instinctively, Falan’s hand reached down and his knuckles tightened around the metal coils of his hilt. His only son had died on the blooded fields of The Shadow, in the last days of the Goldenleaf Rebellion. Falan had never had the chance to avenge him, yet Pablo had become the son that he had lost, the boy of fifteen who had died in his arms. He knew this would be a thoughtless act, but he had lived a long life and had always wanted to die by the sword, honorably. He was not built to be a captive.

So, as he had countless times before, he slid his sword out of its sheath as effortlessly as a stone falling through water. He grit his teeth and lunged. He bellowed in triumph as Farris crumpled to the floor, a sword protruding through a split stomach. Drops of blood spilled to soak the ground beneath the tormentor, pouring through his clenched teeth as he coughed and spat. Revenge was sweet. Falan twisted his blade, digging inches deeper into flesh and bone, before his knee gave way to a sword that took him in the shoulder. Another found his neck, and his last thought was of Pablo.