Talisman of Blood: Book 1 – Shadow of the Gryphon

By Brad Higgens

A vengeful evil wizard seeks retribution for being exiled by a clever King who became wise to his scheming. The wizard abducts a girl with latent powers whose mysterious birthright and heritage is known only to him. He knows who she really is and who her true ancestors were and knows in her blood is the answer he seeks.
Meanwhile, three men are sent on a rescue mission. One is the last of the fabled Gryphon Riders with his own grievance against the wizard. The second is the girls betrothed. The third is a hapless youth just trying to find his way after witnessing his parents brutal slaying by the murderous Horde.
Through this story are others with their own agenda; the three Valkyries, an Assassin and his sister whose bitterness against the Elves find themselves undone, and an angry boy who finds himself lead down a dark path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Mar 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469160030

Book preview

1

With the voice of an angry god threatening violence, a great storm cloud, alive with nature’s fury, boiled over a thirsty land. It slowly crept away from the high mountains of its birth down the dry valley, advancing southward.

The storm heralded the change of seasons. What was brown from summer’s heat would be gold and green from autumn rains only for its life to be stolen by winter’s white ice. Life here was harsh. The valley was a crucible of extremes; hot dry summers were typically followed by squalls. Northern mountains cast an oppressive shadow over the valley leaving it mostly dry year round, until the rains came feeding a raging river. Torrents flowed, dousing the parched lands. The river would swell and from far to the north, ice-cold glacial melt would join the rain in giving sustenance to man and beast. In this way the new season was a cruel mother, giving birth to an unrelenting force.

Beneath this force raced a lone rider, cloaked in the noble’s black and gold. To the rider’s eye the river sped by as he urged his horse ahead of the brewing tempest. The huffing beast was obedient and true. Yet, the uneven land presented a challenge to his journey. He had to beat the storm to his destination. Onward and onward, over hills and down grassy dells he galloped. He took care to avoid trouble where bandits might roam, skirting hamlets and townships. The rider was driven by dire urgency to deliver a warning written in a scroll he kept wrapped with twine tightly concealed in an embossed leather satchel hanging close to his side.

His finely chiselled features remained hidden within a hood. His identity was his own secret. If he was recognised by anyone who might jeopardise his mission, he would risk arriving late. Time wasted meant precious lives lost. Heavy with the burden of the fate of nameless hundreds, the rider pushed his stead to its limits.

Along the riverside small communities became harder to avoid. He was coming into contact with the countryside of a great kingdom where many different peoples struggled to survive the onset of a cruel winter. The harsh, chill wind continued to blow in from the mountains. The brooding overcast brought an early dusk and the icy north wind bit to the bone.

A defiant affront to nature’s relentless wind and rain stood Castle Kozarg. Soon the storm would hit the castle keep and drench the surrounding lands. A fortress and sanctuary for the lowly peasants stirring and hurrying about with evening chores, gathering wood to light fires and herding livestock to safety. In protest the beasts of burden expressed themselves defiantly against their human masters. Reluctantly being pulled along, mules brayed, hogs squealed and dogs barked. The animals could be heard over the boom of thunder still distant, the air for now was still as a grave. The initial wind had died away and one might be forgiven thinking nothing more would come of it. Alas, only a slight reprieve from a torrential downpour that would, during its brief cruel reign, imprison people in their cosy homes until it passed.

High above the busy town folk, a solitary crow soared overhead and came to rest upon the tall granite wall of Castle Kozarg. It flew against the wind, awkwardly trying to find a perch. Where other birds had flown to escape the coming storm, it alone seemed to defy sense, yet it had purpose in its eye. Careful to remain unnoticed it found better shelter within the castle grounds. From the ramparts it could see everything. It saw children playing games with sticks and balls while adults toiled for the King. It watched as hay was brought in from the village outside and carted in to dry stores in large wagons pulled along by giant draft horses. In a far corner were forges. There the observant crow saw men labouring, blacksmithing weapons, and others were carefully crafting chain mail for the knights who paid in kind protection from the rival nations beyond the Kozargi boarders.

The Kozargi were a strong and proud people who owed their security in part to treaties signed with the neighbouring city states to the south-west who now paid tributes to the King or faced certain consequences. As some of the southern city states were jealous and at times troublesome agreed begrudgingly to sign the treaty. Kozarg though despite possessing the strongest force, their King wasn’t heavy handed or hungry for conquest. But sometimes war is inevitable.

The last war was more a matter of honour between duelling nations, Ostchenmor and Kozarg. When the Kozargi kingdom’s honour was challenged the challenger must expect to face its wrath. While maintaining a certain measure of superiority over the south, peace could be assured. Thus the balance of power was restored. Desiring neither domination nor conquest, King Oskar II died hoping peace and therefore sense would prevail under his son, Oskar III. With a high price to pay, the victor won nothing but bitterness of loss.

Kozargi power was embodied in its legendary knights. Each knight commanded a legion of one hundred loyal fighting men who fought under that knight’s banner; their total count numbering twenty thousand strong. If war became imminent, any foe would be crushed. Luckily the Kozargi were not a war like people, loving peace and trade with the other nations of man, so long as a healthy respect was maintained. In might and wealth, Kozarg was without equal.

There was also to the south-east a wide expanse of land populated by wild tribes. They would raid the outlying villages under the Kozargi protection. This was another factor the knights of the realm had to contend with: warring amongst themselves on most occasions until one tribe became dominant. Once resources were exhausted, they would muster a force and attack less well-defended communities, then like a hammer, the Kozargi would exact punishment. Fear would instill their better judgement, restoring order. The tribes were too disorganised to form any real threat and were easily scattered once their true cowardly nature came to the fore in the face of overwhelming force.

The figure cloaked in black and gold slowed his swift canter to allow the people time to move. His kind seldom ventured to these parts so when they did it caused superstitious alarm. Once confident to do so, he brushed back the hood that had concealed more than his fine handsome features to rest at his shoulders. Now people hid their eyes in humble recognition. First it was the sudden surprise he expected, then the other strange attitude due in part to old wives’ tales. He felt their stare and heard a sharp intake of breath from one and mumblings from another, though they were a well meaning but simple folk. Mothers gathered their young ones inside. Respectfully, men tipped the brim of their hats then bowed their heads to carefully avoid his gaze. Ignoring this, his face set strong with mission, he pressed on.

When his type arrived it was seldom as the bearer of good news and never for social visits, so no-one desired to speak welcome.

The black and gold rider, a foreign princely envoy bearing ill tidings, was no ordinary man. He commanded all manner of respect, though some of it was born from the people’s superstitious ignorance. It was more than the cut and hue of his cloth displaying wealth and status. Though hairless, his pointed ears were shaped like a fox’s. His fine angular features fraimed slant eyes on a long face. He was slim and of average stature. He was an elf and no ordinary elf either; his demeanour and the way he carried himself expressed one of high birth.

He reined in as he arrived at the castle. The gatekeeper gave a shout, He arrives! and the drawbridge was lowered. While patiently waiting for the great portcullis to rise and listneing for the chains to stop, his eyes were ever searching about him. Once beyond the gate he kept a check he wasn’t being followed. Still ever alert before dismounting, he rode past the gatehouse watched closely by the tower guards. His face still set with stony purpose he strode in, he didn’t relax until well within the castle walls. Now assured he led his speckled steed into the castle grounds. All the while the unseen and unnoticed crow watched the Elf cross to the stables’ entrance.

A balding pot bellied man dressed in a dark dusty green super-tunic and calico breeches waved to him, stepping out of the evening shadows. He too, knew the nature of the dark rider’s mission being as grim of face as the rider. This man was the King’s stable master, Dimitri Gorgov. He received the horse without a word, taking him away. He encountered next, a weaselly character, Syril Cedrov the King’s chamberlain, who led him down a corridor and made him wait outside mighty double doors. These men the elf knew as he had been here many times before. And they knew him.

You must wait here, Sir, the Chamberlain insisted. The King will see you shortly. As you recall, you must be announced before entering. Cedrov was as pedantic as ever. Nothing changed there.

Very well, he answered. After a moment he was granted audience.

Gemmel of the elfish house, Tedraken, Sire, Chamberlain Cedrov announced.

King Oskar III received him in. Glad to see you made it safely to us. What tidings from the north do you bring? the big man boomed from his impressive throne.

The north fairs well your majesty but I bear bad news from our shared kin to the far south.

There was a pause and a deep heavy breath from the King,

How so? The stoutly King leaned forward, his smile in greeting melting to a frown of concern, becoming suddenly solemn.

Our enemy rises once again. We must quickly take action, said Gemmel, handing a scroll to the King’s chamberlain who then handed it to the King. The King on receiving it broke the seal, unravelled it and took time to read. The wax was golden and the seal bore the mark of the royal house of Androgard, an oak leaf.

Annoyingly over Gemmel’s shoulder hovered the chamberlain, Cedrov, a tight fisted old squirrel of a man. He was hook-nosed and sniffed a lot, suffering perhaps from a constant cold or allergy.

King Oskar III, a sturdy built man who in the old days reminded Gemmel of an ambling old ox ready to charge. But his usual bombastic temperament was lost these days and was further stricken grim after reading the message in the scroll.

Your Queen is well I trust? the King enquired absently, more out of polite formality then from any real genuine concern.

She is as well as can be expected, answered Gemmel, equally vague.

Very well, he stroked his wild, thick grey beard once and twice, and took a deep breath again, huffed decisively and stood up from his ornate throne like a lion roused from slumber. He then gave to pacing, with a furrowed brow. Slowly he passed by the elf, handing him back the scroll without looking up, his royal mind on the pressing matter.

Something has to be done… obviously. He stabbed the air with his stubby finger.

We can’t afford another war, Sire. chirped Cedrov.

The King looked up at his purse keeper questioningly, Nevertheless a Council of War must be arranged. Then to the chamberlain he ordered, Summon the knights forthwith, Cedrov!

Very well, Sire, the chamberlain obeyed bowing and walking backwards before vanishing through he doors.

Elf, you will join us of course!

Yes, my Liege, Gemmel bowed compliantly.

We will decide on our course of action when my best knights are present. You’ll see these people safely here, you understand. Here they will have refuge and sanctuary until such time as they can be resettled elsewhere, he said, now stabbing at the ground with his finger.

Yes, my Lord, I will do as you ask. Gemmel bowed again.

Feel welcome among my courts, Sir Elf. I will send someone to collect you when it is time for us to gather. Where might we find you?

If I may, Sire, I wish to be by my horse’s side.

The stables then? It is well. I will send for you when you are required. Agreed?

Agreed, Sire, Gemmel bowed once more, I am truly honoured.

Yes, yes, be gone. The King gruffly dismissed him, wanting to be alone with his thoughts.

Gemmel went to see after his horse, his beloved ivory stallion. Steadfast was more than a carrier of his noble self. Steadfast was steadfast, a trusting dependable friend with whom he had seen many battles and run equally as many errands. Such was the deep bond between them, being apart was like his soul had left him, without him Gemmel felt empty.

Two years ago Steadfast was stolen from him and Gemmel was driven by concern for Steadfast. As elf-trained horses would never allow a stranger ride them, whoever had him after suffering much frustration might kill him for meat. It happened in the northern town of Ormlok, just south of the Fen’s Claw Mountains, which was also south of Androgard, land of the elves. Ormlok remains today a rough lawless town of outcasts and outlaws. The only law is that of the sword. A question came to Gemmel as he reminisced with his horse why he ever had to be there.

Then it came to him. It was an errand of rescue, as he recalled. It seemed Shallimara, the daughter of Queen Cheznia’s Captain of the Guard, had fallen for a human. Gemmel had been commissioned to retrieve this wayward girl. Firstly because the scandal would hurt the Captain’s good name, and secondly she was genuinely in need of Gemmel’s help. The rogue had seduced her to make off with him. In truth it had been a bet made to impress a gang of outlaws with whom he wished to earn favour. No true love at all however star crossed it would have been. Gemmel tracked them down and cornered the young rogue. While Gemmel fought off the wiry youth, who as it happened was not adverse to swordplay, the gang stole Steadfast. They led him down an alleyway where they sold him to a farmer to replace their lost wager.

Left without a horse to carry them out with haste, Gemmel and Shallimara were forced to flee on foot.

Where is your horse? she whined.

He will turn up, don’t worry, he said trying to regain her confidence.

Outside the town the next morning in a barn on the edge of a chicken farm Steadfast found them dirty and dishevelled, tired and hungry. They sped off on Steadfast’s back, back to Androgard.

And so Steadfast was stolen and returned. Gemmel smiled at the memory. Sleep well my friend, he whispered in his ear. As he patted him down lovingly, he remembered well what happened: Steadfast had broken loose and simply returned; loyal to the bitter end.

Sir Gemmel! The paige was so abrupt Gemmel startled with a jolt out of his daydream. He whirled around to see a young Kozargi of about eighteen, most likely a nobleman’s son standing in the doorway.

For a moment the boy was equally taken aback by the appearance of an elf in the royal stables. So Gemmel had to prompt him, Well, yes?

The King sends for your return to the… umm, oh dear, well you know,

What ever do you mean, Paige?

Oh, he screwed up his face, shook his head, nerves having got the better of him, I am no good at this! Forgive me but I wasn’t told I was sending for an elf. I mean no disrespect.

Gemmel was oddly used to humans, especially young ones like this inexperienced boy, succumbing to alarm at his appearance. Never mind lad. Let us go.

Moments later they were in the throne room once more. For another moment all was quiet as the King, gripping the lion’s claws carved into the arms of his throne waited anxiously. The air of aprehension was contagious as they knew anytime the hall would be filled with big burly Kozargi knights.

But no! The two main doors swung open like in a barn and four raucous drunk men almost falling over each other tumbled through. In one explosive instant the quiet of anxious wait was shaken by drunken song, bluster and threats of damage.

If I had my time again I’d… I’d… bellowed Bogdan, a brutish stubble faced bull of a man who never let go of his tankard. Ale still in it, it spilled as he stumbled about.

You’d what Bog? Like you’d do anything different, Yarrek dared.

Someone stole my tankard! Magnus was as tall as a door and built as solid as a brick wall. His cruel looks were broken and transformed to a grizzly look when he smiled. He had two teeth missing from a blow he took, fighting against a mighty foe of humanity alongside his fellow knights some ten years back. In spite of his savage image he was a true and trusted friend.

Gemmel turned to face him with a smile and tried to contain his laughter.

We are not in the tavern anymore… announced Borris, stating the obvious.

There you go, roared Magnus,someone has stolen the Tavern now too.

Breaking from his bickering with Bogdan, Yarrek said, You can’t steal a whole tavern.

Have you tried? Gemmel added, trying to get their attention.

Hey, it’s Gemmel, Bogdan, suddenly realising where they now were, spoke up, our old friend, Gemmel. How fairs the north?

The north fairs well, Bog.

If you men would kindly refraim from your nonsense, you have been summond for a reason… The King finally said. Oh Cedrov, is this the best you could do?

Cedrov, a nervous man, whinced and shrugged his shoulders, A good deal of the other knights are in Kozargi Ostchenmor guarding the border country, Sire.

Very well, said the King. You there, he called out to a servent girl, get these men jugs of water. They need to sober up for what I have to tell them.

Magnus and Gemmel had a strong bond forged from having fought many battles together spanning years. Both knights in loyal service to their respective sovereigns were of equal social status. As Gemmel was in elf terms, so Magnus was in the Kozargi lands. In fact Magnus was a Captain of his own banner now. But, their friendship went deeper than mere status. They had fought this re-arising foe side by side then. Both were squires, fresh hot blooded young bucks eager for adventure. From their first meeting they’d been fast friends ever since. In battle, they were like a whippet and a bull mastiff harassing an even bigger dog. How the years had passed.

On every wall, ten feet apart, hung caged torches to chase away the gloom. The stone walls insulated against the chilling rain outside. To the left of the throne was the door to the war room. Logs were being consumed by fire within a massive hearth. A protective iron grill kept sparks from flying out and setting animal skins from catching alight. The scent and cosy warmth of burning pine were comfortingly civilised.

‘How strange,’ thought Gemmel.

He recognised a bear in one corner; in the other a big cat of some sort. This was curious as Gemmel knew of no big cats in his travels. Possibly it was from the far eastern mountains. It was not unusual for the protectorate fiefdoms to honour the King’s birthday with exotic gifts. On the wall opposite the entrance to the war room, above the King’s seat hanging trophy like, were outsized weapons and armour. The helmet would fit a mighty giant, yet it hinted femininity as it tapered around the chin and was adorned with a horsehair plume, and was ornate and well crafted. Gemmel’s keen elfish mind calculated the size of the wearer at ten feet. Much had changed since his last visit. Where did King Oskar get such an odd thing?

The King himself had changed too. His manner seemed more sombre than his jovial bombastic nature of old. Something very deep and disturbing had changed him, caused by more than Gemmel’s news. Maybe it was the many years passing; reminding him he was getting on, yet without an heir or a queen to bear him one. He had had a son and heir. The young Prince Grigor was lost in battle with this great foe they now faced again. His dear Queen Katerina had fallen ill from grief and consequently died from a broken heart. It was all too clear that Gemmel couldn’t have come at a worse time. Too busy to think beyond defending the Kozargi people and the many affairs of state, finding time for a new wife had passed him by. What self-respecting young maiden would want to be with a crusty old man? He was tired, worn out—the fatigue of age had jaded his mood to a cynicism. Gemmel wondered if joy would ever return to King Oskar. He was a good King, he deserved to be happy. It had been ten years since those two tragedies and he buried himself in governing the kingdom. Or so it would appear.

‘Well,’ thought Gemmel, ‘here we are in the war room.’ He had never been in this place before. His former visits hadn’t ever warranted such an honour. Sure enough he was a knight, though foreign. His Queen had sent him on many such errands to Kozarg, but they were of a more benign nature. They were such issues as trade and information on more minor threats than that now being brought to bear. Thus was the reason for this meeting. Not only did the severity need careful diplomacy in its communication but the right measure of action required careful counsell.

Gemmel was unused to dwellings of stone and iron. Though his visits were often enough, he still could never get used to the stark cold lifelessness of which humans were so fond. In their architecture, in their arts and clothing, he found the simplistic artwork lacking in creative initiative. At least it was not the creative initiative of elves. It was all purely functional and hard-edged. The walls and construction were to stave off winter’s cruel bite, then keep out summer’s heat. Built as sturdy as a mountain, dominating the landscape with its commanding presence, Caslte Kozarg was unmovable and unshakable.

By comparison, the elves of Androgard had harnessed natural magic so well that it was a part of every day life. All that grew was shaped and formed into dwelling places, market canopies and various other sheltering structures. All the wood that was used this way was not even chopped or removed from the trees. They were living structures.

Elf magic was an experience of which humans were ignorant, twice over. Not only unfamiliar with, but some had even the audacity to proclaim as myth. Some even refused to believe in magic at all. This astounded Gemmel but he tried to think little of it. How can a folk be both superstitious and unbelieving? Curious breed these stocky, round-eared ruffians with dirt coloured skin.

Four such round-eared ruffians were called to gather at dusk. They met around a table that curved to one point from both sides to a single seat; the King’s place at the axe head shaped table. Gemmel noted this and raised an eyebrow as he sat down at the far left.

Briefly Gemmel remembered when last he saw these fine but rough men. It was the battle of Ravensto, fifteen years ago, when he was but a squire himself. It was a different world then. The Riders still flew and King Oskar II was still alive, the present King’s father. The town of Ravensto was the focal point of this struggle. Raddan the Black Duke of Ostchenmor had allied himself with dark forces set against the Kozargi people and their sovereign. This duke led an uprising against them, vainly thinking himself a match for the powerful Kozargi. A great battle ensued. Gemmel was there with a small contingent of elf archers lent by Queen Cheznia. It was then as an adolescent he met Magnus and the others for the first time. That was all a long time ago.

In anticipating his inevitable demise Duke Raddan made a deal with the other five independent duchies. They were under a treaty of non-aggression with the Kozargi people. Raddan cowardly formed an alliance with them hoping to also fall under the edicts of that treaty. The idea was to preserve all his lands by joining them. Instead he lost half his fiefdom in the counter invasion. What remained of Ostchenmor became the sixth duchy to join the Southern Alliance. Consequently Ravensto fell under Kozargi rule.

The Duke’s son, Parran, who was the then heir didn’t look likely that he would be as foolishly ambitious as his father. The son was a weak-willed simpleton, who pursued only sweet decadence. As long as his lusts were kept satisfied he would remain harmless. Mysteriously Raddan was assassinated not yet a month ago. Now his son would be ruler only in name. The real power lay with Kozarg and its crafty King. Though treated as a separate entity from Kozarg, the Southern Alliance owed their illusion of sovereignty to a cold balance of power.

The war years were not kind to Oskar II. Age and grief tore at his soul. The burden of leadership eventually took its toll. He was found dead on his throne, drooling. He had tried to drown the sorrows of losing four sons from five with much ale and died in his sleep. Thus the burden was passed on to his son Oskar III. As a middle-aged man, he came to the throne late in life. Now, elements from that same dark force the Black Duke had allied with threatened civilization again.

These drunken knights were hard men. And hard men need an outlet from what made them that way but the King was unimpressed with the men’s display of drunkenness. Some drank to remember and some drank to forget.

Sit down, he commanded, all of you are a disgrace. The Battle of Ravensto is nothing to celebrate. Did you forget I lost my one and only heir in that battle? Sit down and straighten up.

All sat.

My Lord, bowed Magnus apologetically before sitting.

I beg your pardon, squeaked Cedrov, but there is one other.

And so they waited.

There came a knock on the war room door and Cedrov opened the door.

My apologies for my tardiness gentlemen, bowed a tall angular man in his late twenties entered on cat’s paws. By his demeanour and posture Gemmel could tell he was neather Kozargi or affable. To one’s mind as the man entered it could be imagined the warmth from the fire might suddenly snuff out from his very stare so cold was his demeaner. He made Gemmel feel uneasy and a chill went up his spine.

Croijen, welcomed the King, join us. This affair may require your insight as much as any other.

Indeed?

Do we begin, my Lord? asked Gemmel.

As they sat, the tall thin man in a hooded cloak entered, quiet as a ghost. No sword’s scabbard by his side as did they. Instead a dagger, sheathed. Gemmel noticed his left hand was always on it. This was Croijen. He remained hooded throughout the meeting. Croijen’s presence was somewhat of an enigma. Gemmel only knew him by reputation. Croijen was an assassin, unmistakenly. Being alien to this brotherhood of knights, he was treated with subtle disdain peppered with great mistrust. Still he would not be there if the King did not wish it. Therefore, he was tolerated.

Wessendal! the King brought the council to order. The room became deathly silent and the roguish knights found sobriety. Bogdan snorted inwardly, coughed and straightened himself.

The King continued,Wessendal needs our help. Though not a protectorate of ours, it is in our interest to save it. Though generations have past since we have had any contact, they are our kin nonetheless. The aid of their cousins, the elves and we the Kozargi people, will be counted upon. Queen Cheznia has sent word via Sir Gemmel here that this is so. I gather this information was acquired from the oracles. Is that so, Sir Gemmel?

It is indeed my Lord.

Therefore, might I assume this fate is still a little ways ahead? asked the King.

Yes, my Lord. Our seers can only predict that which is a week hence, explained Gemmel.

And so, great urgency is needed. I have assembled you few here for reasons, thrice fold. He turned to his shuffling and sniffing chamberlain and gave him the floor. He took it as one would a hot coal from a fire.

Well… umm… you see, our coffers are low and so finances prevent us from gathering a great enough army to take on this old foe, measure for measure.

Finances be damned! boomed Magnus.

Nervously the squirrel continued, With respect Sir Magnus, we don’t have the resources for a large scale attack.

That is reason one. Reason two is quite simply; you are all that is available at present. It would take time to gather all our forces and time we do not have! explained the King in turn.

Yes, quite so my Lord, Cedrov interrupted, getting a head of himself, Protectorates have increased in number and so demand of our manpower.

Cedrov, if you don’t mind, chastised the King.

Humble apologies once again, my Lord.

It is well, Cedrov. Just remember your place and why you are here.

A stiff silence hung for an awkward moment. Then Yarrek spoke up, obviously still addled by drink.

Please, my Lord, make plain this objective. Who is this foe of which you speak? Wessendal is far from here.

You will go at dawn’s first light with the objective of evacuating the people to re-settle here, in Kozarg. If they are allowed to advance further, the rest of our lands will face certain slaughter. The King’s response to Yarrek was curt. Gemmel noticed that the King hadn’t answered Yarrek’s question fully, not to mention erratic in his dealings with Cedrov.

A thin yet masculine, snaky voice hissed, Croijen broke his eerie silence, Why do they need us? There was an air of impatience in Croijen’s words. Gemmel also saw him look up at the armour with a distant and carefully hidden dread. Maybe he knew where they came from. It was incidental. Gemmel returned his attention to the council.

Blunt was Gemmel’s answer, They are back!

Borris huffed through his bushy brown beard, massaging the pommel of his great broad sword as he sat. Yarrek snorted again, Magnus stood up and walked to the other side of the room, trying not to be dramatic. Bogdan, clay tankard still in hand, crushed it to powder within his powerful grip.

You can’t be truly certain, asked Magnus of Gemmel.

Maids were called for to fetch a mop and bucket for Bogdan as the tankard was still half full of ale. A goblet of water was fetched for him by one of the King’s lovely maids. Bogdan drank deeply but not before giving the girl a wink. She returned his drunken leer with disdain.

The town folk are unaware we are coming, spoke up Gemmel, it is our old enemy’s return; they come from across the Dragon River this time. The folk there have no idea of what is coming. We must try to get to the village before our foes do.

And so the King dismissed them.

Outside a small boy was eating meat wrapped in a piece of bread. A scrap fell. The crow swooped on the morsel. Before the meat could touch the ground it was caught and swallowed on the wing. The boy was startled. Some youths who had witnessed this, remarked at the daring of the crow. It was a source for idle chat among some, but the crow was soon forgotten. It was just a crow. Flying to a tree, outside the castle grounds, the crow perched there to digest.

When Gemmel left the council room he made his way down the hallway to separate from the humans. No doubt they would continue their drinking. He entertained the idea of joining them later. For now, there was much to prepare for and made his own way to the supply rooms. He did not have the luxury of squires to fetch and carry for him, as did his friends.

There were two squires, Uri and Preben, knights in training. Both of them were under Magnus’s charge. Uri was a ruddy young bull, possessing a powerful stocky frame. His eager pale blue eyes were always looking and learning. Preben was shorter and lean like a champion race hound, but was given to an air of nonchalance and a prankster. He met the two lads on entering the supply rooms. They treated him with resolute respect. It was expected. He was a foreigner of higher status. They only spoke to him if he spoke first.

He left the supply room soon after. Despite fatigue, Gemmel joined his human friends in the aptly named knights’ tavern, ‘The Thrust ‘n’ Parry’.

Soon we ride for Wessendal, yes? began Magnus, clay jug of ale in hand. Gemmel knew he was going to say something about the journey as he always did. It was a predictable quality he appreciated in his friend.

Magnus, my good friend. What troubles you? He stretched his slender elfish hand for his pint.

Wessendal? How did they get there? It is far from where we fought them last.

I don’t know. I truly don’t. All I know is that we are on orders by both our monarchs to go there. Though of light frame, he slumped against the bar like a lump. He then began to sip at his ale. The amber