Rise of the Stormcrow

By Ian D Macallan

~~~~The lightning glistened from one black marble eye. In that darkness worlds had risen and fallen, stars had burned to dust, and men had fought and died for centuries~~~~


The Great Birds are forgotten. Magic is a transient whisper in the memory of old men, now swords and intrigue rule the world and the darkness clings to the horizon like smoke.

A crown lies broken. A newborn heir and a young Queen must rule amidst wolves. Ryper Kilstroke flees the capital and men cry that he is a traitor. Gray Doon stalks the downtrodden and destitute, carving them like meat for sport. Eadred, Lord of the North must resist the temptations of the rotten city. And what of Allen Fontaine? A young squire who holds an important secret.

For Brand Stormborn, regicide, infidelity and ambition threaten to plunge Leonia back into civil conflict and only he can hold back the shadows. Brand must follow the storm clouds. He must seek out the symbol of his ancestors. He must ensure the -

Rise of the Stormcrow

~~~~For more information visit www.the-stormcrow.co.uk~~~~

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468583489

Ian D Macallan

Born in Durham, Ian Macallan studied at the University of St Andrews, which he regards as some of the happiest years of his life. He now lives and works in London, and has already began working on the follow up title to Rise of the Stormcrow. Ian lives with his girlfriend Ruth.

Book preview

RISE OF THE 

 STORMCROW

Ian D Macallan

US%26UKLogoB%26Wnew.ai

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2012 by Ian D Macallan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   05/19/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-7879-9 (sc)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One     The Storm Lord

Chapter Two     The Traitor

Chapter Three     The One-Eye

Chapter Four     The Shard Bearer

Chapter Five     The Squire

Chapter Six     The Owl Lord

Chapter Seven     The Light Bringer

Chapter Eight     The Storm Lord

Chapter Nine     The Traitor

Chapter Ten     The Shard Bearer

Chapter Eleven     The General

Chapter Twelve     The Light Bringer

Chapter Thirteen     The Guardian

Chapter Fourteen     The Shard Bearer

Chapter Fifteen     The Squire

Chapter Sixteen     The Storm Lord

Chapter Seventeen     The Light Bringer

Chapter Eighteen     The Shard Bearer

Chapter Nineteen     The Storm Lord

Chapter Twenty     The One-Eye

Chapter Twenty-One     The Light Bringer

Chapter Twenty-Two     The Squire

Chapter Twenty-Three     The Shardbearer

Chapter Twenty-Four     The Storm Lord

Chapter Twenty-Five     The Light Bringer

Chapter Twenty-Six     The Light Bringer

Chapter Twenty-Seven     The Shardbearer

Chapter Twenty-Eight     The Traitor

Chapter Twenty-Nine     The General

Chapter Thirty     The Storm Lord

Chapter Thirty-One     The Squire

Chapter Thirty-Two     Eulogies

Acknowledgements

About the author

To my parents,

Who always strive to offer a candle in the darkness

map.JPG

CAST OF CHARACTERS

The major characters within the book

The Royal Family

Retainers of the King and his lawmakers

The North

Stormhold

Retainers to the House of Stormborn

The Disinherited of the Crown

The South

Fangthorne

Retainers to the House of Fontaine

Further Lords of Leonia

Others—Travellers and Such

PROLOGUE

The city sat squat and black, a huge beast slumbering amidst the countryside. Even at this hour people still wandered its filthy streets, clinging to the poorly lit paths as if afraid to step into the shadow. This was no place to linger at night.

Despite the full moon shining brightly above, the mist-shrouded darkness seemed to cling to every stone as if even the moon’s luminescent beauty could not wash away the city’s sins. It was for this reason that, despite the full moon, the man still felt safe coming here tonight. Besides, the extra light would help in navigating the tangled mass of black streets and hidden alleyways.

Like the city, the man was dressed in black, and he made no sound as he stalked purposefully through the gloom. A street whore pawed at him as he turned into a wide road leading up to the city’s keep. He brushed her away absent-mindedly, ignoring her initial words of encouragement, followed by her calls of degradation at his casual rebuke. Usually he would have considered gutting the filthy slut, ending the cries spilling from her vulgar lips forever. But not tonight. Tonight his mind was focused on a far more important task.

As he neared the keep he stopped, sheltering in the shadows provided by the buildings all around him. A lone guard stood in front of the gatehouse, pacing gently to ward off the evening chill. His breath spiralled softly into the air, illuminated by the light from two torches set either side of the huge gate. The stranger smiled.

Purposefully he made his way over to the guard and was standing almost beside him before he was noticed. The guard started loudly at the figure’s sudden, silent appearance. The stranger was slim and tall, and the guard had to look up to meet his gaze.

You’re late, the guard snarled, recovering his composure.

Without replying the stranger placed a heavy coin in the guard’s palm, the glint of gold flickering for a second in the torchlight. The guard placed the coin into his mouth and bit down, levering the edge downwards to test the metal. Seemingly satisfied, he took a quick glance about him, walked over to the gateway, and opened a small doorway at the base a fraction. The stranger made his way inside without so much as a nod.

The gate opened onto a wide courtyard, over which rose the five towers that formed the great keep of Skyfell. In contrast to the city outside, the keep was silent and still. No movement could be detected amongst its shadowed alleyways. He waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the deeper gloom and then made his way forward, following a narrow pathway leading to the centremost of the five towers.

He met no one on the silent streets, and no life stirred behind the walls of the citadel. As he approached his destination, he could hear a guard whistling softly above him. The man was standing beside an open brazier, warming his hands against the slight evening chill. Even if he had looked down he would have failed to see the stranger beneath him, blinded as he was by the brazier’s light. The stranger looked up at the guard and assessed the platform on which he was standing. The balcony was perhaps six feet above the ground, with steps at the rear leading to an open doorway. The doorway led into the great central tower at the heart of the keep. The rest of the keep appeared deserted, bar the gentle glow of a candle flame, which could be seen from one of the windows many floors higher. The door at the very bottom of the keep appeared locked and barred, with no guards at its entrance.

The stranger turned around, scanning the narrow street once, before crouching low. He placed his back facing the lower door, and his shoulders in line with the lip of the walkway above. He took a breath, tensing his legs in readiness. He reached behind his head and removed his black hood, letting it settle gently against his shoulders. Its removal revealed a sword hilt, protruding from a hidden scabbard. He fingered the hilt gently, almost lovingly, and pulled it an inch or two from the scabbard, checking its movement. He did this gracefully and silently. Satisfied at the motion he slid it back and listened, listened to the gentle whistling of the guard above, judging his position exactly.

When he was sure that the man was right above him he leapt suddenly, the strength in his great thigh and calf muscles propelling him upwards, higher and faster than a normal man should have been able.

As he twisted in the air the guard gasped, staring wide eyed at the black shape leaping above him out of the flames. The stranger’s blade shone silver as it flicked out from its scabbard and slashed a scarlet gash across the guard’s exposed throat. As he somersaulted over the battlements, he landed like a dancer, sword glimmering red as the guard’s lifeless corpse hit the cobbles behind him, his head rolling softly from his shoulders.

The stranger crouched low and still, listening for any sound of alarm. After a few minutes silence he stood up, sheathed his blade and moved carefully to the open doorway.

The door was set into heavy iron hinges which creaked loudly in protest. The stranger eased the door further open as gently as he could, before slipping inside. He edged quietly into the passageway behind and stepped silently onto the spiral stone staircase that lay beyond.

The stone staircase twisted upwards, with doorways set into every landing. The stranger ascended quickly, counting softly in his head at each doorway he passed. Upon reaching the tenth landing, he stopped. He paused a moment to catch his breath and wiped away the thin layer of sweat that beaded his brow.

Cautiously he peered out onto the landing. The hallway was dimly lit. Torches blazed faintly in their wall sockets, casting the stonework in flickering reds and oranges.

Two guards stood unmoving outside the bedroom door, backs straight, spears held upright in their hands. The golden phoenix helms of the Honour Guard adorned their heads and red cloaks hung proudly from their broad shoulders.

The stranger moved out from the stairwell quickly, striding purposefully towards the doorway. The heads of two guards snapped around to face him. The closest held up a hand in warning whilst the second moved backwards, levelling his spear.

Wait— the first guard began and was cut short. A dagger flashed into the stranger’s hand and dove upwards, burying itself under the guard’s fine helm and into his throat. The second guard seemed to hesitate a moment, shocked at the swiftness and brutality of the attack. Before he could right himself the stranger was on him, a second dagger in his hand. The guard raised the shaft of his spear to block the blade, but was too slow. He fell without a sound, the second dagger protruding red from the eyehole of his helmet. The stranger paused, listening for any signs of alarm, and then bent down, removing both daggers from his victims and wiping them clean on the guards’ fine cloaks.

He then leant against the doorway and put his ear to the wood. He waited there for perhaps a minute before trying the handle carefully. It was unlocked.

Inside, the room was dark, a single pale sliver of moonlight the only light to be seen creeping in through a gap in the heavy curtains. The smell of burnt wax filled the air and he could see the stump of a candle, smoking softly on the desk by the window.

The stranger crept towards the bed, both daggers held loosely in each hand. He stood over the unstirring bulge that lay beneath the covers and then hacked down, stabbing once, twice and then three times at the unmoving body. Before a fourth strike he paused, throwing off the bed cover to reveal nothing but balled up linen beneath.

Did you hope to catch me in bed? said a man’s voice from behind him. I find that life expectancy greatly improves when one is a light sleeper.

The owner of the voice, stepped from the gloom behind the doorway, a great longsword held tightly in both hands. The moonlight glinted silver on the blade, swirls and patterns cascading along its glistening surface.

The stranger moved instantly. The two dagger blades had barely hit the floor before his sword was in his hand, lashing from its scabbard like a serpent’s tongue. The stranger’s blade sparked as it cut against the taller man’s longsword, screaming and whining as the two edges kissed. The two men circled each other warily, their swords clashing repeatedly as they tested the other’s strength.

The room was cramped and low and the taller man’s longsword was unable to enjoy its full swing. In comparison the stranger’s blade was shorter, and seemed to shimmer like water as it slashed out from side to side, stabbing and cutting with ruthless efficiency.

The taller man was dressed in nothing but woollen breeches and a night shirt, but taught muscle could be seen beneath, protruding from his wiry frame. Sweat poured down his body and wet droplets flicked through the air as the two fighters moved in unison.

The stranger was the faster of the two and his unencumbered blade lashed out repeatedly, but every time the great longsword moved to block it.

The taller man was forced further and further back as the stranger advanced on him ruthlessly. The taller man kept retreating until suddenly, he slipped. With a stumble the taller man’s foot appeared to snag and he tripped, crashing down to the ground, his blade hitting the floor beside him with a clatter, as his fingers struggled to keep their hold on the hilt.

The stranger did not hesitate. He pounced forward, sword extended above his head for the final killing stroke. His eyes narrowed in anticipation, then suddenly widened in horror. The move had been a feint. As soon as the stranger had raised his blade the longsword came flashing around in a low arc, no longer encumbered by the restricting roof. The razor sharp blade bit deeply into the stranger’s calf and he fell back grunting, landing hard on the wooden floorboards as his sword spiralled into the air and clattered uselessly against the back wall.

The taller man stood up, rearranged his clothing and then stepped over to the fallen assassin. His body was lined with sweat and he was breathing heavily.

Who sent you? he asked, kneeling beside the stranger. At the lack of answer he started to ask another question, but he stopped. The stranger was also breathing hard, and his open mouth spoke volumes. The man was missing his tongue.

If you cannot answer my questions, the taller man said coldly. Then I shall give you a silent message to deliver.

He stood up and raised his longsword, positioning the blade over the would-be assassin’s heart. He then tensed for the final blow and swung forward, but as the sword fell, the stranger’s hand flashed upward, a jagged wrist-blade suddenly protruding from his arm. The blade hit its mark and embedded itself into the taller man’s throat, sending a spray of crimson streaming through the shadowed room. The great longsword fell from his fingers and he stumbled backwards, blood spurting from the open wound like a fountain. He landed against the wooden desk with a crash, scattering it and it contents everywhere. His hands clawed uselessly at the wound, before his knees buckled and he gave way, crashing to the floor helplessly.

As he lay there, twitching, a single object from the upturned desk rolled heavily across the wooden boards. It rolled across the floor in a lazy arc, before settling itself with a clatter next to the dying man’s head.

The fallen crown glistened gold and red in the watery moonlight as the taller man wheezed his final breath.

And below the earth, something stirred.

CHAPTER ONE 

The Storm Lord

It was a beautiful crisp morning. The sky shone an icy, pale blue and the leaves on the trees waved gently in the soft Northern breeze. Eadred Stormborn and his retinue rode casually through the sparse forest. The cold tinge of the morning air gave his cheeks a rosy tint and his broad smile sparkled in the watery sunlight. Even for a man of forty he remained strikingly handsome. His broad, honest face was framed by a crop of dark hair, ever so slightly flecked with grey around the temples. His eyes shone a deep brown, almost black, two obsidian spheres set beneath a prominent brow and thick, dark eyebrows. He was tall and strong, although despite his broad shoulders he was still a slim man, all muscled sinew and wiry dexterity. He exuded confidence and laughed and joked with his men as they trotted, casually along the narrow woodland path, churning up mud and dirt as they went.

They had been searching for bandits, a band of Westerian outlaws from the hilly region above Balewater Moss. As they rode back to Stormhold the leader of the outlaws and a number of his companions came stumbling behind, dragged along by ropes tied around their waists and fastened to the saddles of the knights riding in front. Their hands were bound and their faces bloody from the conflict that had preceded their capture.

Eadred and his men had surrounded the bandits’ encampment in the dead of night and had come charging from the trees at dawn, mounted upon their warhorses and screaming for death and justice. Many of the outlaws had been hacked down as they had tried to defend themselves, but the majority had been captured unaware and were now being escorted back to the city to face trial. The leader was a sullen man, who scowled continually and stank of stale sweat and beer. He had fought more savagely then any of his companions, but Eadred had ordered him to be taken alive and so his head still bore the bloody lump where a blow from a club had rendered him unconscious. It was said that among his more awful crimes he had raped a family of four daughters and their mother while his men had held the father and forced him to watch. Eadred meant to see the man brought to justice for his atrocities and at the thought his gloved hand brushed the hilt of his longsword, Dawnlight, the Sword of the Morning, the ancestral blade of the Kings of Stormhold. Whilst only wielded by a lord now and not a King, this did nothing to diminish its reverence.

As they rode further into the woods Eadred turned to his son.

You fought bravely today, he said, drawing his warhorse nearer in order to be heard, but you put yourself in unnecessary danger.

His son grinned broadly.

You saw that? he replied. I thought it may have slipped your notice father.

Nothing escapes my notice in battle son, said Eadred, his eyes and face suddenly serious. And you would do well to heed that lesson. That wildling woman almost unhorsed you.

The battle had been going well, but while his son was fighting two other men, a woman had erupted from the trees and launched herself at his horse, dagger in hand. His son had momentarily lost his balance and may have been unhorsed if Baleon Greywater, Eadred’s First Knight, had not ran her down and thrust a spear through her belly.

Brand, Eadred’s first born and heir to Stormhold, did not allow the smile to leave his lips.

I saw her father, skulking in the trees, but I only thought her to be a frightened mother hiding from the battle and so paid her no more heed.

It is often those that we believe to be no threat that turn out to be the most dangerous my son, answered his father grimly. If Baleon had not been there… he shuddered at the thought.

But he was there father, answered his son cheerfully, slapping Eadred playfully on the shoulder, and we must smile on the luck the Great Birds grant us.

Lines of a smile cracked across Eadred’s face.

You are your father’s son I fear, he said happily. Just don’t tell your mother.

As they rode the forest seemed to come alive around them. Squirrels skittered across the branches of trees, birds flew chirping happily overhead, and they even caught sight of a fox, skirting stealthily through the undergrowth returning home after a night’s hunting.

Eadred loved this time of day, when the world of men still slept and nature ruled once more. It reminded him of his childhood, when he and Romulus would go hunting in woods like these. For pheasants, they would tell their mothers, but it was wolves they had really hunted. Dangerous folly of course he realised now, but youth has a way of making you feel invulnerable. He looked at the thick grey and white wolf pelt that adorned his shoulders as he remembered. Now he had killed more wolves than he cared to remember and was a lord in his own right, with his own sons to worry about, while Romulus sat the throne of Leonia, but the memory still made him smile. It had been a far simpler time when they were children.

He looked over at Brand. His son was joking with Baleon Greywater and the solemn old knight was laughing at his son’s words. Brand had always had a way with people, a natural charm and youthful charisma. He seemed able to find common ground with both the greatest lord and the lowest peasant and always had a new tale or anecdote to tell. He had his father’s square jaw and prominent nose, yet the rest of his face was slimmer, more like his mother. His eyes were a bright blue that sparkled like lumps of sapphire when he laughed, and he had the thick, curly black hair that his mother and father shared. A handsome boy, thought Eadred, and the memory again triggered thoughts of his own youth and the thrill of a stolen evening with some serving girl or crofter’s daughter. He had been told that his son was no stranger to these simple pleasures either, he was a man now, eighteen years old, but in his carefree smile Eadred could still see the boy he had been.

As they rounded a bend in the trees a crow called out in alarm and took flight, its cry echoing throughout the forest. As if in reply a sudden gust of wind blew fiercely and the Stormcrow banner of House Stormhold that flew proudly at the centre of the party, flapped and billowed wildly. The sound seemed more and more ominous as the wind blew stronger.

Weather the storm, thought Eadred. Those had always been his father’s words.

He drew his thick wolf pelt closer around his shoulders and hunched a little in his saddle. The joy had suddenly drained from him and had been replaced by a sense of foreboding Eadred had always possessed an uncanny sense for danger and this new feeling worried him.

He raised a gloved fist and called for quiet. The party automatically fell in around him and the men’s hands went instantly to their sword hilts.

Old Lucian drew his horse alongside Eadred’s and pointed a finger along the line of his sight. He had the sharpest eyes Eadred had ever seen in a man, despite being older than any of the other knights in Eadred’s service.

A rider approaches my lord, he said in his solemn, quiet voice.

Eadred followed Lucian’s outstretched finger and squinted to see a rider galloping towards them, far away, at the point where the road began to dip out of sight. Eadred could just make out an armoured knight astride a grey horse, a large banner held aloft in his left hand.

Can you make out the crest? he asked Lucian.

The executioner’s axe upon the tome of law, he answered. It is the banner of the King’s Justice Sire.

Eadred grumbled audibly and spurred his horse into a canter.

This can mean naught but ill, he thought to himself, as the party began closing the gap between themselves and the rider. The captives that ran behind them struggled to keep up.

As they rode closer Eadred began to make out the light grey cloak and the silver armour of the warrior before him, a clear mark that this man belonged to the Order of Judges, the chosen men who carried out the work of the King’s Justice of the Peace.

The rider was mounted on a grey charger, lighter and faster than the great warhorse that Eadred rode. His grey woollen cape flew out behind him and now Eadred could also make out his banner, a great black war-axe in front of a large white book, set on a field of grey.

On his head the rider wore a great helm fashioned in the shape of an owl, but beneath its beady eyes Eadred could make out a face he recognised. He spurred his horse on quicker and moved slightly ahead of the rest of the column.

The owl knight followed suit, digging his heels into his charger and spurring towards him. He bowed slightly in the saddle as Eadred drew up his horse.

Hail Owen! Eadred declared, the upturned dust from his horse’s hooves swirling around them.

Hail Lord Eadred, the owl knight replied, though Eadred noted that he did not return his smile.

Owen Fairweather was an aging knight of around fifty. His hair was completely grey and cropped close to his head. He had a thin, heart-shaped face and a mind as sharp as a winter sky.

Eadred had known the man a long time and trusted his sombre counsel. This was the first time Eadred had seen him since he had taken up the tome of law and headed south to Skyfell. Unlike the rest of his brethren, Owen had not been suckled on a scholar’s teat, however. He was a warrior; the second son of the late Sir Fairweather, and it was not until his father’s death that the son had chosen the way of the lawman and become a Judge. Eadred disliked Judges, seeing them as pompous and cowardly, but he respected Owen, even if he did not understand his reasons for joining the Order.

It has been too long my friend, he said, ignoring the solemn look on the owl knight’s face.

That it has my lord, he replied, and it saddens me that I must be the bearer of such sad tidings.

And what ill tidings would bring the Judges north of the Scar? Eadred asked, drawing his horse alongside the knight as his retinue fell in all around him.

I fear it is not my place to tell you all the details. Let me say however, that it concerns murder, assassination at the highest level. The Judges have ridden north in great numbers and my Lord Pyke has come personally to speak with you my liege. His lordship and the other Judges are awaiting your return at Stormhold. Your lady wife has offered us her hospitality, but Lord Pyke demanded that I ride and inform you of our arrival personally. I fear such news cannot wait.

Eadred bridled slightly at Owen’s words. Despite the man’s courtesies he could not disguise the fact that the Justice, Lord Pyke, had summoned Eadred back to his own house like a common serving boy.

His face must have shown his distaste and Owen quickly added, I am sorry that I am not permitted to tell you more my liege. Please, let us make haste.

Eadred grumbled his approval and spurred his horse into a gallop, his head brimming with unanswered questions, although he knew Owen Fairweather well enough to refrain from asking any. Owen was as ever a dutiful man and now his duty was to Lord Pyke and not to Eadred and the Stormborns.

Lord Pyke, he mentally spat the name, the King’s Justice of the Peace; a pompous, odious man if ever there was one. Eadred had never trusted him and had always hated the way he clung to Romulus’ ear like a leech. And now he is in my home, he thought. The Justice had a way of placing everyone and everything under suspicion, and looked down his hawk-like nose at lord and commoner alike. Interfering bastard, scowled Eadred.

The sun sat high in the sky by the time the party came in sight of Stormhold, its glistening white towers standing proudly on the horizon, straight marble fingers reaching upward as if to clutch the clouds. The city shimmered in the hazy midday sunlight and the owl knight shaded his eyes from the bright, white glare that the city radiated.

High, white walls stood all around, topped with jutting crenulations, made from smooth, limestone blocks. Around each of the towers glistening white marble dragons stood out fiercely and the dark black and blue banner of the Stormcrow could be seen flying over the battlements. For most it was an awe inspiring sight, but for Eadred it was home.

The drawbridge was lowered and the knights and their squires thundered over on horseback, the thick oak reverberating loudly to the crash of hooves on wood.

The prisoners had been trussed up and thrown over the backs of the knights’ saddles, further adding to their humiliation and shame. Eadred did not mind that at all.

His son rode beside him and as they drew up their mounts on the cobbled flagstones of the great courtyard the stable boys rushed forward to take their reins and offer them assistance. Brand vaulted from the saddle effortlessly and then moved over to Owen, offering the older man a helping hand and a smile to greet him. Owen returned the grin, showing a flash of humour for the first time since he had ridden out to meet them.

I shall see the Lord Pyke in my council chamber Owen, Eadred told the owl knight, also dismounting from his horse with ease. Tell him that I shall send for him once I am bathed and changed.

Owen appeared worried.

My lord, he said, Lord Pyke requested that you hear his council immediately, I fear this news cannot wait.

It can wait long enough to allow me to wash the dust from my bones, Eadred growled. You tell him that I shall not meet with an emissary from the King whilst looking like a vagabond. Or jump like a dog when the grey lord beckons, he did not add.

Something in Owen’s face at the mention of the King filled Eadred with unease, however.

As you say my lord, the Owl Knight responded, whirling away with a flick of his grey cape, sunlight bouncing from his Owl shaped helm.

Eadred’s council chamber was a formidable place, small enough to encourage discussion, large enough to accommodate up to forty knights and inspire a sense of awe in his audiences. The walls were made of mismatched stones, jutting outwards in an assortment of greys and browns, and thick fur pelts lined the floors and hung from the walls like tapestries. The room was roughly circular, with one quarter of the wall space dedicated to a large map detailing the realm of Leonia, rearing outwards in the shape of a lion’s head. The drawing was littered with place names and landmarks, from the Crown in the North to Darkholm in the South. The attention to detail was astonishing.

Eadred loved to gaze at the rivers bending their way through the countryside like snakes, and at mountains, tall and proud, reaching up to scrape the sky like talons. Surveying the map now he remembered the many places he had seen and the many experiences he had enjoyed in his long years. As he stared at the map, he was almost too lost in thought to notice the doors swing open behind him, yet the cold rush of air caused the hairs on the back of his neck to rise and the torch flames guttered and spat in their stands.

Eadred turned to face Baleon escorting an angry faced Erin Pyke into the chamber. With a brisk nod of his head Eadred dismissed Baleon and walked over to the circular table which dominated the centre of the room. Placing both hands on the dais he turned