THE LOCHWOOD SERIES

By Philip Beaufoy

A dark fantasy of men, castles, dwarves and elves. There are orcs and beasts of the forest, dangerous paths and safe havens. Follow Aelfheah on a journey of adventure and intrigue. Sit by the fire in the Lochwood Inn with good ale and hear of the mysteries in far off lands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781471720871

Book preview

Chapter 1

I am ancient and empty, the purest and most beautiful dark. Your Lord came to destroy my warrior. How foolish you were.

Death and Rescue 

(Thorem, North Highlands)

Inky clouds barrelled into the snow-covered slopes of the White Cap Mountains. In darkness they drowned the highland plains that stretched all the way to the Icy Sea.

Obar, it’s pissing it down. Let’s get in, snatch the little bastard and crack on back to the boats, Falan hissed.

Obar lay on his belly in sodden mud, eyes fixed on the farmhouse window where a single candle still flickered. No, not till the candles are out, he said, hush your noise, and move on my call.

Wind howled about our lonely farm.

Night love, I heard my mother say, her voice faint against the storm.

I climbed the loft’s ladder to bed. Night Ma, night Pa, I called back, pulling fleeces about me.

Keep warm, father said with an ironic laugh, and blew the last candle out.

Wrapped up tight, I shuffled into the hay that lined crudely cut planks. It was a slight space, covering only half the living area below where my parents slept. The winter snows had only just melted and the nights were still bitterly cold.

I shivered, listening as rain hammered on sodden thatch like drums from an age far gone. I could hear Ash, our hunting dog in the yard. His barking was nothing new. The weather worried him, and I paid him no mind.

But then Ash stopped, and his silence stirred me.

Rising from my blankets, the world seemed to slow as I peered from the gable window. Wind whipped through my hair as blue-black shadows shifted in the torrential darkness. Men emerged; shifting shapes that swept over our cattle fence and into our yard.

Ma, Pa, I shouted. Get up, get up!

A terrible impact splintered the door. My father shouted and I froze, heart pounding. A second thunderous crash, and the door swung open.

Raiders burst into our home.

You dare come here… father roared; but the sound of metal slicing through meat reduced his shouts to bloody splutters.

I stood at the banister staring; my breath caught in my throat. His body crumpled to the floor.

My mother broke the quiet with a desperate scream, run Aelfheah, run!

Another ducked through the doorway carrying a torch that cast sinister shadows sprawling across the walls and floor. His leathers were caked in grime, his beard a mess of matted hair.

He passed the torch to another and grabbed my mother’s hair, it shone like gold in his muddied fingers. He yanked her around with cruel ease and put a rusted blade to her throat. Her eyes shone a cool blue, in fiery shadows.

I love you, Aelfheah, she said.

Into alabaster skin, the knife bit, and my mother’s eyes widened. He jerked his hand sideways, stared up at me, and smiled.

My world stopped.

For the briefest breath, a clean line glistened crimson in ivory, then blood erupted and bubbled.  She choked and gasped but refused to scream. I stared into opal pools that became grey as the light left her. I retched but could not be sick.

He released his grip and my mother fell to lie beside my father. Stay where you are you little shit and you might just live!

Hatred washed like icy water into my gut, a desperate and impotent fury. I could not drag my eyes from my family. A sinister stain crept from their bodies and over wooden planks.

A boot creaked on the bottom rung of the loft’s ladder and like a dam burst the world came screaming back.

I turned, and in three fluid steps leapt through the lofts window into the night. I landed hard with a thud and rolled in thick mud.

Angry shouts sounded above me, his bloody jumped, go round, go round, he’s just there.

Where? men called back.

Here you stupid bastards, here! Falan bring the torch.

Without pause, I lowered my head and ran. I sprinted past Ash lying lifeless. The world turned orange behind me as raiders lit torches for the hunt. I hurdled the yard fence and disappeared into the south field.

I heard cursing; words that would claw me back. Stop you peasant shit, if you run, you’re a dead man.

Their words pushed me as a following wind, and I thundered with desperate strides through weeping grass that whipped my eyes.  My bare feet sank into drenched troughs, but the mud would not slow me. I ran. My lungs burned, my heart pounded, but still I ran, twisting and turning. I cleared the south field, leapt the far fence, crashing through bracken into the woods beyond.

My breath came in bursts as I crouched behind a thicket of sodden thorns. I held it for a moment and listened. They were further now, and I was sure they would not see me hidden. Flames stalked the south field, but not all the raiders carried torches.

Occasional voices would call unseen, closer than the spluttering light. I held my breath again and waited for them to pass. Then, like some hideous sunrise come too soon, a larger glow loomed in the distance. Tears streamed through the grime on my cheeks, and I watched my home disappear in fire and smoke.

There’s a trail here, a print. Look at the nettles broken.

They were closing in and I needed to move. My legs were leaden, my body soaked with freezing sweat. I hauled myself up and stumbled into the wood. I ran through silhouettes and shadows, twisting and turning, tripping, and crashing. Brambles surrounded me. I dropped to all fours and scrambled into them; thorns tearing at my skin. When I could not squirm any further, I fell as though lifeless into the greasy mulch and stayed still.

The world was black and cold, and I weary beyond words. The god of the mountain had abandoned my family. Numb to his rejection; I vowed to stay awake; they would not catch me.

Crows squawked an urgent alarm. I did not open my eyes, but I was awake. My mind swam nauseously and the world span.  A sharp pain shuddered through my left side. Cold and aching, the horror of last night came flooding back. Images of my mother and father felt as though they would drown me.

I gasped for breath. A second kick made me open my eyes. It was winter’s early morning, the time when colours are not yet vivid, and a ghostly light bathed the forest. I could see brown speckles on the head of the iron bolt, and the wood grain of the crossbow more clearly than the face behind it. Still, I recognised the red-rimmed eyes of the man who had killed my family. Fury burned but I dared not move. I closed my eyes in acceptance, breathing hard.

Falan don’t shoot him you bloody fish bait. We’ve got to take him back, Hakam said. A voice shouted, and for a moment I thought my execution on hold.

Hakam won’t know. What the pits do we want with a little shit like this for? I came here for gold, not to kidnap peasants.

We had livestock, but they had not taken it. We had ourselves, but they had slaughtered my family as though worthless.

Why? I whispered.

Just because, you useless shit. Now drag yourself out here before I put a bolt in…

I winced at the sudden twang and a thud, but there was no pain. I opened my eyes tentatively and stared at the bolt still resting on the runner.

Falan’s expression froze, though his eyes widened slightly. A dark-wood shaft quivered above his left ear with sleek brown feathers that fluttered in the breeze. Through shattered bone above his right ear was an arrowhead, slick with blood. He fell, and bracken cracked as his body hit the floor. My breath bursts from me.

Two other men dressed in the same dirty furs and leather stared into the surrounding trees, searching.

Before either of them found the danger, a second arrow whistled from the shadows. A second raider fell, a black-feathered shaft buried deep in his chest. He groped helplessly at it, blood bubbled in his mouth. His legs twitched as he lay dying on the ground.

Come out here, I’ll gut you like a fish, you cowardly bastard, Obar yelled at the trees.

A woman walked easily from the shadows into the light of morning, and Obar fell quiet. Dressed as a local hunter, she wore green and brown leathers that hugged her slender form. A war bow was slung across her back, and on a belt about her waist hung two broad hunting knives. A hood made her face a pool of dark, from which her breath misted in the winter’s air.

Advancing with a serpentine glide she held Obar in a spell of her own, as she closed on her prey. The rhythm of her step oozed a dangerous confidence. Then, a twig cracked underfoot; a crow cried, and the spell was broken.

Obar shook his head, and his face darkened, Bitch, he screamed launching at her, short axe raised for the kill. As he charged, he screamed, spittle flying and boots crashing.

In one fluid movement, the woman drew a blade and thrust up. It slid through the soft underside of Obar’s chin and sank handle deep. Blood burst over leather gloves.

Impotently, Obar hung, like some grotesque forest carving.  His axe fell to the leaves as the woman held him for a moment, observing his face with a stony silence. she ripped the blade free, allowing his body to fall. There were no gasps, or kicks. Casually, the woman squatted, and wiped her blade on his jerkin.

Morning birds singing and a soft breeze rustled through evergreens and birch were the only sounds. Sheathing her knife, the woman stood and went to retrieve her arrows.

I crouched in my nest of thorns, too frightened to move.

Pushing her foot on the rigid chest of a dead man, she pulled at an arrow shaft and needed to twist at the same time to get the broad head to slice free from the ribcage. She checked the shaft was straight and the fletching secure before cleaning the arrowhead and returning it to her quiver. Without a glance in my direction, the hunter made to leave. Both relieved and abandoned, I went to speak, but the words would not come.

But before I lost her to the woods, she paused. Are you coming?

I sat, dumbstruck, my gaze fixed on the remaining arrow lodged in Falan’s head.

I could not see her face, but she formed her words as though smiling. Arrows are hard to pull from skulls. Stay here or come; decide now.

I scrambled from my hiding place and followed cautiously. I was cold, exhausted, and more than a little wary.

Take some boots and a coat, she added.

I looked at the surrounding bodies, dirty and stinking. They had killed my family and even their garb repulsed me. But Obar’s looked the newest, and I could not walk bare foot.

I followed, in a filthy fur coat and some ill-fitting boots. Dazed, I placed one foot in front of the other through the Southwood. I stared at the leather heels leading the way. They were of a fine cut, well made and not over worn. Her trousers and jerkin were of the same quality, double stitched, clean, and new. Not the clothes of a lady but neither the clothes, as I had first suspected, of a common hunter. And her skin was too dark to be a highlander.

Consumed with grief, the world drifted past. But a part of my mind raised questions: Why my family? Why chase me, a farm boy, so far into the woods? Who was this woman? And where were we going?

Where are we going? My words faded into the rustle of leaves and the rhythmic crunch of my boots. As the words left my mouth, I felt embarrassed by the weakness of my voice.

Crunch, crunch, crunch, fell my heavy feet as she glided. There was no answer, no pause. Crunch, crunch, crunch, freeze.

Standing statue still, she raised her right hand. Like a rabbit discovered I dared not blink, let alone breathe. Her hand fell. She turned right and took six long strides into a light-dappled clearing. It was carpeted with winter’s dead grass, and buds not yet in bloom.

Tethered and cropping at brown tufts were two horses. One, a seventeen-hand midnight black, the other two hands shorter, a sleek chestnut mare. Both were saddled and ready to ride.

Who are you? I ventured.

Who are you? she replied, seeming irritated.

I’m no one, just a farm boy,

Then grow up, and fast. I need more than a farm boy, she said, and the conversation was over.

Fluttering over the acrid smoke that hung over the far north, a pigeon released from its cage, wheeled towards the icy gullies of the White Cap Mountains. Through the pines below rode two riders, ill at ease in each other’s company.

As the bird beat its wings furiously, the fresh air of the mountains drew it homeward. It crested a snowy pass between two lofty peaks and eased its flight, down into the hidden valley below, gliding west on a cool breeze, towards the sea.

Chapter 2.

I took from your foolish Lord what was most precious. Now my servant holds the Darkstone and the might of a most ancient weapon, bound to the Life Tree. The duality will tear him apart, but in his destruction is your own downfall.

Orthac

(East Faran)

Stars shone from an ebony sky over sands that faded into darkness for miles in every direction. 

From the safety of his wooden palisade, Bannon peered down into the gates shadow. He could just make out a man wrapped in ragged blankets. 

I’m freezing down here, the man complained, his words misting in the light of a gibbous moon.

The torches that burned atop these walls were the only sign of life for three days ride. With no horse, and bent over double, Bannon felt sorry for the stranger shivering in the wild. I already sent for the boss, he shouted back.

After an awkward wait, the keep’s door banged open, and Captain Heaf could be heard cursing. A smoky glow filled the yard as torches were lit, and Bannon scrambled down the palisade ladder. He saluted Heaf smartly, but the captain ignored him.

Maggot, there better be an excellent reason for waking me?

There’s a man outside, Bannon said. Alone, and in need of shelter.

Well, open the gate, and let’s hope the stupid bastards got a good story to tell,

Through cracks in the wood, Orthac watched an orange glow flicker closer and listened to an angry exchange of curses. Then, the gates screeched outwards on iron hinges.

Three guards stood behind their Captain. They held torches that billowed with more smoke than light.

Heaf spat at the traveller’s boots. He pointed a gnarly finger at the huddle of shivering blankets, You wake me in the middle of the night. You cesspit wreaking… The words choked in his throat as the traveller stepped through the gate with three thudding strides. Unfolding in every direction the stranger towered over the guards. 

I am Orthac, he rumbled in cavernous tones. Pitch-black hair fell in plaits over heavily muscled shoulders. Ebony eyes glistened from leather skin, and his lower jaw jutted menacingly with canines that protruded over his upper lip.

Fuck, said Bannon.

Orthac ripped the ragged blanket away, revealing metal scales that gleamed in the firelight. A green tinge shimmered over the armour as the beast man breathed immense breaths, and the mail heaved.

We have food and a little coin, Bannon said. His hands shook and his voice quivered. Take it and leave us be.

Quiet, Heaf snapped.

From an iron scabbard strapped across his back, Orthac drew a sword.  It scraped free with a sibilant hiss. Heaf stood silently as the sword sung its metallic song. It reverberated in the cool air for some time after the blade was still. Deep angular runes traced a bevelled spine to a thick steel hilt, and a heavy leather-bound handle. It looked almost too heavy to wield, but Orthac held it easily in a ham-sized fist. In a land where good steel was rare, the gleaming edges looked beautifully dangerous. 

What the hell are you? You great bastard, get out. Guardsmen draw your weapons.

No one moved. 

A movement at Orthac’s chest caught Heaf’s attention. A shard of black stone, wrapped with leather chord, hung at his neck. It clinked over mail scales. With all else considered, the pendant should have been innocuous.

It was not.

The Darkstone stared out at the world consuming the torch light.  It hauled Heaf’s gaze in, down, deep, and empty. He felt the sickness of vertigo as reality spun in a turbulent sea.

In a blur, the great sword blistered through the air. Its Razored edge sliced deep into Heaf’s abdomen and sheered him left to right. Blood burst from his broken body; legs left standing as, viscera spilled from his torso and thudded to the sand.

Bannon retched, into the glistening mess, his eyes wide as he straightened and wiped his mouth.

Orthac stepped over Heaf’s body, his crimsoned blade arced up. It flashed in the firelight towards Asubah the old guard. With a sickening crack as bone splintered, the blade smashed into the terrified sentry. It shattered down into his body breaking free from his rib cage. Asubah’s torch fell to the yard’s floor. The world became a little darker. Blood pooled and crept through the sand towards Bannon’s boots.

Orthac drove his blade into the sand and exhaled. It was a deep purring breath that sent a billowing cloud into the frigid air. There is a change. I command, you obey.

It was a statement, not a question, but it required a response. Bannon could not form words and stared at the sand hoping not to die. Saam and Minesh managed nods, and stammering agreement.

Orthac pulled his sword from the ground and stalked towards the small keep. I’m hungry, fetch food and close the gates. Stooping under the wooden lintel he slammed the door closed behind him.

He looks like a bloody monster. Did you see his teeth? Bannon hissed. Silence stretched between him and his comrades. We should make a run for it.

If he catches us… Saam whispered.

They stared at Captain Heath, cloven, lying next to the ruined form of Asubah. Then, pulled the gates shut, and walked to the kitchen to gather food for their new master.

Orthac collapsed onto a low bed in the small, timber-framed living area of the forts keep. It creaked under his weight. It had taken all his restraint to not kill them. The red mist had formed, and he had needed to haul himself back from it. The sword had helped. He stared at the wooden planks of the ceiling, and his mind gathered with voices that whispered to him.

He had sailed a small sailing boat alone to Farar, where they only knew of the destruction of the wastes in the tales of traders or fishermen. Only the Darkstone had driven him then, it had shown him a way to be free. His face burned with the humiliation of it. How had they ever held him?

Orthac had no memory of a time before the Darkstone. Opening his eyes, as though for the first time, his nostrils irritated by smoke and rock dust. He had a name, and in his left hand, a smooth black stone.  Chains ripped his skin where they bit into burning wrists. In his right hand, a pickaxe. 

Get back to work, you useless beast! a voice had barked.

Orthac shielded his eyes from the flames and stared at the skinny man shouting.

You great heap of shit, what are you looking at?

Orthac gripped the chain that bound his wrists and pulled. The chains snapped. The little man ran.

A bloodbath in the mines ensued. Orthac smiled a canine smile at the memory. He had kept some men at the camp. They had brought him food, and one skilled in such things had made his armour.  After a time, he had grown weary of their mewling and killed them. The Darkstone wanted death, and Orthac had followed its path. But then everything changed. When the Northern Lord had tried to slay him, failed, and lost his great sword.

I’m not taking it, Bannon said, pushing the wooden board toward Minesh. It was filled with meats, cheese, and fruit. They stood around a small table and stared at the food.

Minesh was only a junior guard, but he was quick to push it back. You let him in, you’ve got to take it. How could you not see he was a bloody animal?

It was dark, Bannon said. We could still make a run for it.

You go first so I can see how far you get, Minesh whispered, wondering if the enormous brute might be outside the door. Now go take him his food, before he comes looking for it.

Orthac hoped the feeble knock at his door was supper arriving and breathed a deep breath to calm himself; he was Chief. A chief did not kill his men.

How hard could it be? Come, he barked, remaining on the bed staring at the wooden-planked ceiling.

A nervous-looking guard entered the room carrying a large wooden board with a selection of meats, cheese, and fruit. Orthac smelled the meat and sat up, his face cracked into what might have been a smile. The expression emphasised the size of his lower canines that protruded over his upper lip.

Bannon was still.

Orthac held him for a while with his grim stare and recognised him as the sentry who had let him in. He took the board and swept the cheese and fruit to the floor.

Bannon stared at the mess and wondered if he were supposed to clear it up.

You argued to let me in! Who are you? Orthac asked, his mouth filled with goat’s meat.

I’m Bannon, sir.

Orthac growled at the word ‘sir’. Why? 

Bannon did not know how to respond, so stayed quiet. 

Orthac held Bannon’s eye. If a man is weak, you help him? If a man is strong, you shun him? This is wrong, the weak are a burden and the strong provide?

I don’t know why, he said, praying it be the right thing to say.

Orthac’s snapped a large bone in powerful jaws and gnawed. Don’t get things wrong, Bannon.

It was clear he was dismissed. Bannon exhaled, picked the cheese and fruit from the floor, and attempted a salute, bouncing grapes into his face as he did. 

Orthac continued his supper, unaware of Bannon’s departure. If they wanted to live, they would work hard. They seemed so frail, he would make them run, make them eat, make them fight.

Chapter 3

Like a spider, I drew your champion. Freedom is but an illusion, your choices long predicted.

The Bookkeeper

(Lochwood Castle)

 Cradled within the embrace of the White Cap Mountains lay a valley, hidden from the world. One snowy arm of peaks reached for miles along its northern border before collapsing beneath churning waves in giant fingers of granite. On the valley's southern border, mountains faded to rolling hills, beyond which the Ealfswood stretched, misty green all the way to a sandy coast.

A pigeon swooped homeward, gliding over majestic pines that carpeted steep hills, where mountain streams tumbled through rocky gullies and waning snow. On a breeze, the bird orientated itself towards a freshwater loch at the valley’s centre. From loch to roaring sea, ran the river Kaldr through fertile fields where shoots sprang in anticipation of warmer weather. And by the loch’s clear waters was home. A castle both warm and imperious. The bird swooped over white walls gleaming in the morning sun, and through wood smoke that drifted about blue slate roofs.

Dust swam in shafts of sunshine, streaming through ancient glass panes in the castle’s library. A certain material quality pervaded the air, as if the sheer weight of knowledge had some ethereal presence. Hundreds of oaken shelves bowed under the weight of a thousand vellum scrolls and heavy leather-bound books.

The Bookkeeper, as his name suggested, kept the books. Not officially the head of the library, that honour belonged to Ealdraed, but the Bookkeeper was by far the eldest resident in these buildings of learning. Standing just a few inches shy of four feet, he dressed in the most peculiar way. Dark green robes embroidered in purple depicted strange runes; their meanings lost in time. White wisps of hair stuck out at odd angles, while his snowy beard and bushy moustache framed little more than sparkling green eyes and a weathered smile. 

With a comical gait that would have the ill-informed laughing behind his back, the Bookkeeper returned to his private study. He hopped to plant himself, legs dangling, onto a comfortable reading chair next to a window. His current interest, a vellum scroll, was spread with silver paperweights across an oaken table. He hunched to read, for perhaps the fifth or sixth time, the faded writing written in a language now long forgotten. It had taken him many weeks of candlelit nights to decipher its meaning.

The third tomb of Laranbaster, Scribe to his highness King Aelfrigh of Eldan

We break the world, as I suspect we have many times before.

I write to a more hopeful future from an age that I am sure is soon to end.

In centuries to come, the world rebuilt, I pray that men of great learning will seek understanding.

Learn from ancient sites and the bones hidden within.

Though longevity makes them rock encased and deeply buried, it is imperative to search.

I discovered invaluable relics of my own civilisations yesterday.

Many creatures once common, now lost, could re-emerge. Places of eminent power rediscovered.

A knock sounded at the door. Come, the Bookkeeper called.

In a flowing gown of intricate weave, an elder woman entered. We have received word that our ships have arrived at Indoshi Port, but as per your instruction, not unloaded.

Thank you, Ebba, the Bookkeeper said smiling, please send a bird. I would like our goods redirected to Roshi. That also goes for any future trading in the region until further notice. Thank you, that will be all.

Ebba left with a nod, leaving the Bookkeeper to his reading.

Will enigmatic thinkers wonder at the possibility of many species of man?

Do not disregard my humble writings when I tell you plainly, there were.

Although, ‘men’ is a loose term for what I describe.

Bone fragments, even entire skeletons, would not be enough.

I cannot fathom how any mind could truly know the beauty of some, or the terrible rage of others.

You may find varying sizes and shape of hominid skeleton.

You may measure the jaws, femurs, and cranium as I have done meticulously for years.

But it is impossible for future men to understand the terror that once roamed the earth.

Tribes of Horun? The Other People, that some call Beast Men, led by some force I do not perceive.

Precious weapons of power have been destroyed or re-forged.

I oversaw some of that work myself.

Magnificent weapons, lost in time, were found again.

Some smelted in ignorance and reformed with no skill.

World-breaking relics wrought anew into common things, losing their power in the hands of the clumsy or greedy.

The others we destroyed or were hidden in the best way we could.

Only stone tools of the first men remain.

So, who will remember the magic of the ‘Beautiful people’ who withstood the chaos?

How can fossils give any clue to the forces that guided them?

Do not fret and rest in your grave my friend. I read, and I remember, the bookkeeper whispered to himself.  

Again, a polite knock caused him to look up. Come.

Ebba entered with the slightest inclination of her head. Our tallies are complete. Lord Yfel has failed to make the minimum payment on his loan, the one we sanctioned through the Bank of Kings Port. Although I’m sure you are aware, this is the third missed payment.

The Bookkeeper nodded to himself as he thought. I am quite aware Ebba, yes. Soon at the Kings council these mis-payment will be of much use, for now, please cease all Castle forged steel, corn and fleeces traded to the South reach. Inform Lord Dysig of the Wester lands to cease trading timber with Lord Yfel. The Bookkeeper smiled a kind smile, and Ebba gave the smallest of bows and left.

My kin will be naught but dust. 

Will all memories of the Lifetree die with me? 

One of your kin survived, the Bookkeeper muttered with a wry smile.

All they will find are bones and dust. 

What will you make of us?

Find our writings and learn, seek our bones and the relics hidden about them.

Move quickly through stone circles.

These are my ramblings, the ramblings of an old man dying. 

I exist in an age without numbers, soon to be shattered and civilisation lost. 

I will record here my knowledge but fear it not enough as you read the history of the vanquished. 

If all else proves irrelevant, what I write next heed well. 

A knock at the door drew his attention once more. Come. 

Ebba entered, a light smile playing across her face. Sir, Lord Cynefrid demands your attendance in the great hall, immediately.

The Bookkeeper looked amused. I’m sure he does, Ebba, thank you. I shall attend the Lord Cynefrid shortly. 

Ebba left, and the Bookkeeper took a sip of Catack red from a silver goblet and finished reading.

The oldest blood lines are never lost. 

Either through love or force, in the last days they interbred. 

Dwarves and humans rarely. Ealfs and humans less so. 

Horun and humans, never willingly.

Men that walk the earth now hold old races hidden within them.

This is not common knowledge, even in these catastrophic days directly after the fall. 

But these blood lines, although weak, will show their true colours in ages to come. 

Again, and again they emerge and divide the earth.

You will fight armies, revolt, and rebellion. 

You will search for the hatred and malice, but empty chaos and disorder are your true enemy.

It is somewhere South. 

We searched all the lands that but were destroyed before we succeeded. 

Though I’m sure it exists, corrupting and twisting the will of men. 

Until its power is undone, safety is but a fleeting dream.

On a high shelf in the corner of the study, a yellowed skull, older than anyone could guess, stared down. Its lower canines protruded from a broad jawbone, twice the length of its other teeth.  The Bookkeeper had examined the remains of many hominids, this one was different, it was the skull of an apex predator.

I found the whip that drove you, and the finding brought me little peace, the Bookkeeper muttered at its hollowed sockets.

His mind wandered to the boy, fearing for the lad’s safe passage. Was she in time? Did the Castellan reach them? Why did they know to hunt him? So many questions. Even more concerns. First among them, if the lad tried Nasrins patience, he may not make it back at all.

As if to answer this lingering question, a large and rather ugly pigeon blustered to the sill outside his window. It cooed in pattering circles. With a waddle and a lean, the Bookkeeper pushed open a diamond-patterned frame, and the pigeon took a hop inside. A note was secured to its left foot. The Bookkeeper removed it, and the pigeon beat a hasty retreat to its loft in the library tower.

‘Have him.’ Was all that was scrawled across a tattered parchment. It was in a messy formation of letters he knew well. 

For a long time, the Bookkeeper sat thinking, sipping his vintage, hoping against hope his intuition was correct. He had already made one terrible mistake. 

After a while, his mind made up, the Bookkeeper made his way from the tower. He ambled through the library where men and women worked in near silence , and out towards the castle keep. His Lord should be told, even if his opinion were of little consequence.

Within the curtain wall, Lochwood castle was separated into two distinct halves. A gated inner wall separated the lower castle, inn, and barracks, from the upper castle that held the keep, library, and healing rooms. It was through this maze of white walls, winding steps, and proud walkways lined with herbs that the Bookkeeper walked.  Statues of the great Northern Battle Lords observed his progress. 

As he waddled, he worried. What would you make of your diminutive descendant? So much was at stake, and so few knew of the history yet to be written.  Darkness had awakened, but did he dare send another to face it? He had lost so much in one man, his Lord, his friend and maybe his only hope. Was this second chance nothing but a cruel joke? If it were, the boy would certainly not be laughing.

Chapter 4

You are playing a dangerous game, Keeper of books!

Are you truly the last of the beautiful people?

Nasrin

(The Highlands, North Thorem)

There was a permanent feeling of damp in the air, typical of the highlands at winter’s end. All memory of the morning’s sunshine forgotten; wind blustered around us. To our left, tundra stretched into the distant north where purple hills rose from the monotony of brown ferns. To our right, the White Caps erupted from granite foundations. Immense snow-covered peaks that swept in wave after frozen wave, merging into slate grey clouds.

The furthest I had ever been from our farm was Lowerhorn, purchasing saw blades with my father. It was a port town on the coast of the Icy Sea, far to the North. The memory of the journey saddened me; I had been so excited to go. The hunter woman had ridden east for the entire day. My father had never taken me this way. I felt lost in the vastness of a world that seemed to have grown overnight. 

I need to piss, I called to the woman, gliding effortlessly atop her midnight stallion.

She did not slow or answer, and I dared not ask again.

I swatted at a fly that buzzed around the ears of my mare. Her coat shone despite the dullness of the day. Good girl, not far now, I said patting her neck, although I had no idea where we were going. She nodded her head playfully, and I absorbed her happiness like a winter’s sunshine. 

I kicked to canter up beside the hunter. Where are we going?

She did not answer but made a huffing noise that clouded from her hood. I let my horse fall back and followed in silence.

By the time the light had faded and even our shadows had given up the ghost, my legs were chaffed raw, and I was starving. Without warning, the woman stopped and dismounted easily. I nearly fell from my mare and ran to the nearest tree to relieve myself. When I returned, she threw me a hunk of bread, some cheese, a skin filled with water and a blanket.

I collapsed beneath a pine tree atop a soft bed of needles, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders. I leaned against its trunk and tucked in, ravenous. My legs were leaden, and I ached all over.

I did not hear her approach but felt a tap on my leg. My eyes shot open. Olive skin ran smooth and soft over high cheekbones and a strong jawline. Almond eyes held my gaze. I noticed a long-jagged scar. It ran from the bridge of her nose, under her left eye and cheek.

I tried not to focus on the scar, but I could not take my eyes off it. Had she noticed?

What’s your name? I asked, eyes fixed on the ground.

Piss when you need to, then catch up. Don’t whine at me and never complain. Your life is shit; I know. Eat and sleep, we have a long day tomorrow. 

Where are you taking me?

She rose easily, tied the horses to a nearby tree and gave them both an apple. From her saddlebag, she took food and a blanket, and settled down across the clearing to eat. I wondered if we would light a fire and talk for a while. But when the huntress had eaten, she rolled over into her blankets and closed her eyes. 

Tend to the horses, she said and then was quiet. 

It was hard to tell if she slept. I was left alone, I could ease my legs a little, eat, drink and I was starting to feel a little warmer.

I cleaned Chestnut’s hooves; we were friends, and she needed a name.  A small brook that trickled nearby provided her with a welcome drink. She seemed to sense my sadness and nuzzled her head into my chest as I tethered her back at our camp. I thought about patting the fine black stallion, but a gleaming eye dissuaded me. Still, the horse was calm as I cleared his hooves and watered him.  

I wondered if we were safe from raiders.  Images of my family lying dead burst forward in sharp pangs of guilt. I had left their bodies to the fire. I had run; cruel men had laughed as they slaughtered what was most dear to me and I had allowed them. I looked to the darkening sky to clear my mind, images of my mother’s pale neck opened, and crimson. Tears stung my eyes and flowed down my cheeks. I was a scared little boy. A no-one, but that was the last time I would run. Next time I would choose death over flight. My head dropped and Chestnut pushed on my chest with her nose. I smiled as I stepped backwards in a dead man's boots. 

I awoke to a gentle shake. The hunter woman stared down. It’s time to go.

It was barely light, and she was atop her horse by the time I had taken a piss. I felt her staring eyes as I rolled up my blankets. She turned her horse out of the clearing as I clambered into my saddle.

Before it was mid-morning, we turned south into a steep gully that ran between two towering peaks.  My whole life the White Caps had separated our family farm in the bleak North from the rest of the country. Old maps my mother had kept showed the lands of Thorem, south of the mountains. I often wondered what the world beyond was like.

Deep into the pass, cliffs that had been distant, now surrounded us, casting shadows over our path. Bare rock reared before us, and the way became steeper.  Scree made the horse's footing difficult, and the going became slow and tiresome.

The air smelt fresh, and before I realised it, the sun was overhead. No longer able to ride, cold sweaty hours passed as we trudged on foot. Come on girl, I said in Chestnut’s ear as I pulled on her reins.

I looked past the hunter woman to see how high the path would lead. Was there any sign of rest? I caught a glimpse of furs from the corner of my eye, and froze. 

What was that? I hissed, worried for our safety, but also about speaking out of turn.

To my surprise, I got an answer. They have been following us for a while now, tracking our progress from the ridges and paths above.

I wanted to say more. Was there a plan? Did she know them? I would not run. I held my tongue and prayed to the mountain god I would be brave. Images of a laughing raider and a bloodied knife made my hands sweaty.

Evening came, fading the world in deep blue. As we rounded a bend in the gorge, a clear view of the mountains opened ahead. The woman stopped and pointed. Do you see where we must head?

Our path wound up, to what appeared to be a cave in the face of the cliffs above. We had entered the snow line, and frost covered the ground. Up by the cave, the snow looked to be ankle deep.

Yes.

Good. If you end up alone, head for the cave and follow it.

Not reassuring, but I held my tongue and nodded. I scanned every rock and shadow for hidden killers. In this bleak place, with darkness hiding in every crevasse and nook, it did not ease my concern. Thin air cooled, and the wind whipped my breath from me, I hoped the cave would be our refuge for the night. I thought it might be a safe place where we could eat and rest. I hoped it would be warm.

A sudden nasal gust of words made me look up. Are you shag slaves lost? Or did you trek all the way up here just for me? 

A man stood in the centre of the path ahead, and all hope of comfort fled my mind. Dressed in a thick fur coat with a wolf-skin hood, he held an axe over his shoulder in large, callused hands. In the middle of his ruddy face sat a bulbous nose, all framed with a tangled black beard.

We’ll take them horses, missy. Maybe a bit of you an all, he sniggered.

Cracked laughter that held little mirth sounded above. I scanned the grey and saw other men, similarly dressed. Two stood on a high ledge to our left, one with a short axe the other carried a hunters bow. The other stood on a trail to our right that wound around a steep cliff. He held a thick wooden cudgel.

My heart pounded; cold sweat trickled down my back. I will not run. Chestnut nudged my shoulder playfully. I looked to the hunter woman.

She stared at the floor, breathing slowly, seeming irritated and slightly bemused.  It took a while to form her words. When she did, they were not to the man, but her horse. On tiptoes, she whispered into the stallion’s ear. Her mighty comrade nuzzled at her face as the woman released his reins, and the great animal turned slowly on the path to