Prologue

???

 

     A very long time ago (and it was a very long time ago indeed), there was a little girl. She wasn’t so very little, perhaps 13 years of age, but she felt very little right then. For much of her life, she had lived in the small village of Ard Mor to the west of the world, at the edge of a large forest. She had loved this place and its 100 or so residents, and so it was quite unwillingly that she left it behind, running as fast as she could into the wood.

    What could have scared such a small girl so? Perhaps it was the power coursing through her veins, and the fear of hurting ones she loved. Or, perhaps, there was something - or someone - more. Who is to say? It was such a very long time ago, and her memory has never been quite right. 

 

 

​
 

Chapter 1

Slaughter

6 years ago

 

    It is early autumn, and the trees are alight with color. Here, to the west of the continent, forests are far less abundant, and the traveller savours the colors around him. Once, many would have considered him a hero, but he takes no such titles now. Instead, he only seeks home.

    He notices a flash of color against the trees, and in a moment he is a warrior again. His axe is in his hand, and he steps slower, gentler. For such a large man, was once the most gentlefooted in his traveling band, and this memory warms him against the wind. It ripples the trees, their leaves dancing to the patterns of the grasses below, but strangely not the bright reds that make up the birches mantle. It takes him a moment to recognize them as bodies. 

    They are hung almost artfully from the trees, fabric and limbs draping at odd angles. Bones rattle softly within their red metal casings, gashes in painted metal armor feeding ashes to the wind. It was finely made, though now many of the knightly suits are scorched and melted into strange shapes. The fabric of their shredded tabards flutter softly, small pieces tumbling across blackened grass. 

    He moves towards the center of the destruction, finding the greenery burnt. No birds sing, nor do critters scramble through the underbrush. The closer he comes, the more the air chokes him with the stain of burned meat and flesh, corrupting the comforting scent of woodsmoke. He recognizes the armor of these people, enemies he has fought often enough before, but none stir as he approaches the center of a scorched clearing. All that is manmade here is still. 

    The man ponders the sight before him, and sheathes his axe. He is content that nothing lives here any longer. The woman who burned this place - for he knew in his heart who it was - left nothing of her opposition. He has no doubt that the Red Knights who lay dead around him intended to do him harm, had she not stopped them. Yet, the thought only serves to heighten his discomfort.

    Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the glimmer of a blade. He whips around quickly, only to find it cemented to the ground, buried nearly up to the hilt in fertile soil and ash. There too is a piece of paper, held down by the dagger whose glint caught his eye. He picks up the note, wrenching the dagger from the earth and tossing it aside. It was scrawled in handwriting unknown to him, and read simply:

 

     Preceptor O’Brien,

    Our scouts report that his path has remained W by NW, and you should expect him passing about 2 miles from your base camp through the woods on your Southern edge. Anticipate him before the sun reaches its zenith, and prepare your men. 

 

I await your victory. 

 

Marshal Vorenz

 

At its base, a second note was written in scrawling handwriting. This, he did recognize.

 

Joran, 

return. We miss you. 

 

    He huffs, balling the paper up tightly and letting it drop. It pauses for a moment, and then a passing wind sends it skipping across the ground. It catches on the edge of one of the bodies, settling just below a young corpse's breast. 

    Joran does not remain much longer in the clearing, hoping that walking will clear the feeling of unease settling tightly in his chest. Home is not much farther, and he is ready to be asleep once more. 

 

​

Chapter 2

Travel and Introductions

12 years ago

​

 

     Aife had been traveling for a very long time, but the long road had not taken the spark in her eye. She was nothing to envy in her size, but what she lacked for in height she made up for in muscle. She was stocky and thick shouldered, built for all of the farming and lifting she had done in her life. Her garb was that of a blade for hire, a well worn green tabard over her prized chainmail hauberk. Twin swords lay at her sides, and not a scrap was out of place for the care she took in keeping them. 

Her most striking feature was undoubtedly that of her flaming red hair. It had been fought into a bun early this morning, but curls had been steadily spilling out, puffing themselves out to their true, remarkable volume. So thick was it that once, she had found an entire stick tangled within days after it entered. The hope of the bun was to prevent this, as well as to keep it off her neck during the late summer heat. 

    The heat was the primary reason for her relief when she spotted a small tavern near sundown. It was, too, that it had been a great many days since she had slept in a bed, nor seen a soul that was not squirrel or bird. From what she could see, the tavern was a part of a small hamlet whose sounds had not yet reached her ears. As she approached, the sights and sounds of sheep greeted her, their hooves beating against the packed dirt of the town's small roads. She did her best to dodge the animals and their excrement, and made her way towards the tavern that would contain that night’s dinner.