Aedre stood in the valley, waiting. A warm breeze blew like a gentle flute. It caressed her chestnut skin and ran its spectral fingers through her bone-white braids. The long grass tickled her calves. She yawned. Ever since she'd turned twenty years old, or one skor by the old reckoning, she'd felt in need of a bed at all times of the day and night. She'd originally assumed it was merely the consequence of caring for her mother, but her mother was gone yet the fatigue remained.
Alone on the hillside, Aedre sheltered in the comfort of memory, her eyes unfocused. Above her, the ageless clouds ran free of fear. The river was a graceful, familiar tune. The saplings sunk their roots deep and held strong in the rising gale. The vale was all she had ever known. Her memories and surroundings intertwined like the stream water crowfoot that tangled and bloomed white and yellow flowers. She used to pick them as a gift for her mother.
Her reverie ended as a scream echoed up from the small patch of woodland nearby. Thaddeus, her peregrine falcon, swept back into view. She gave a whistle, telling him to stay away while she investigated the agonised sound. Her heavy leather boots kicked up mud as she tromped down to the shady grove.
A large man was in the clearing, standing over a squirming flash of bright orange. He turned, saw Aedre, and sneered.
'Get back to yer bird watching, orphan girl,' he growled.
Although it was an impecunious and humble life, Aedre's time in the valley had been mostly pleasant. Of her handful of unpleasant memories, nearly every one had involved Wymond Fletcher.
'Nice to see you too, Wymond. What are you doing to that poor fox?' The writhing creature's tail was skewered by an old fishing spear.
'Its mine! I caught it fair and square,' he spat, 'Now I get to play with it before I eat it.' He twisted the spear and the fox screamed again. His eyes never left Aedre's. Although she was a robust girl (a fact Wymond had taunted her repeatedly for in their youth), he stood a head taller than her and his brawny biceps strained at the fabric of his outgrown surcoat. Aedre didn't care.
With a yell, she threw herself at Wymond, hands and feet first. Her boots found his knees as her gloves grasped at his collar, and her momentum bore them both to the leaf-strewn ground. He let out a bitter cry as the fox ran free and disappeared into the undergrowth. Wymond reached up for Aedre's throat, but she deftly shifted her knee upwards to his own. She sat up, keeping her neck just out of arms' reach. Wymond's other hand snaked down to the dagger at his belt. Just as he stabbed upwards, Aedre leapt to her feet. The knife had been aimed at her guts, but it pierced nothing but air.
She swiftly knocked the blade from his hand. Then, she kicked him hard in the head. She kicked him again and again, till he lay in a foetal position, panting and whimpering, grasping at what remained of his bloody left ear.
Aedre, breathing almost as hard, left the clearing and scanned the sky for Thaddeus. She whistled and her sharp eyes tracked his descent towards her. She held her arm out, as her father had taught her, with her elbow crooked and her thumb laying atop her fist. Thaddeus’ claws grasped the thumb like a tree branch as he came into land with a flapping of his great wings. He stank of his recent kill, but compared to the stench of Wymond, he was a princesses’ perfumed pocket.
‘You’ve been fighting again,’ he observed, ruffling his feathers.
‘Just Wymond. He barely laid a finger on me,’ said Aedre, with some satisfaction.
‘You’ve gotten wilder since it’s been just the two of us. We’ll be driven out of the vale at this rate,’ he grumbled as he climbed up onto her shoulder. Thaddeus no longer required a leash, but like his primitive kin, he still liked to sit as high as he could.
Aedre idly beheld her worn leather glove. It held her hand comfortably; it was an heirloom of sorts. Both her parents had been falconers, and had trained her every day, but she no longer credited herself with the abilities of a master of her trade. These days, she attributed her successes to her ownership of the only talking bird the valley had ever known. Thaddeus hadn’t always been able to speak, let alone complain all the time. One of Aedre’s customers was a conjuror, and she supposed it must be exposure to his magical aura that had transformed him.
Aedre and Thaddeus brought their fare to many houses in the valley. The falcon typically stayed quiet; arcane magic frightened most local folk. Some villagers gave them a fair trade, some gave them nothing at all. Aedre had noticed that her wealthiest patrons often paid the least; that must be how they stayed rich. Majisto was her favourite customer because he cooked for them, sang to them, and told extraordinary tales of the world beyond the vale.
The conjuror’s arms were covered in tattoos to help him remember his long life. Though he’d had many adventures, he’d increasingly been in the spectator gallery of life, and this was where he and Aedre had found each other.
She smiled and glanced up the mountain. A vertiginous, winding path led up to the little shack that was Majisto’s home.
‘Come on Thad,’ she said, ‘There’s still someone left in the valley who ain’t scared of us.’
The Batlord's followers had made their camp among some frigid ruins. A portly guard led Percival through, chatting happily to himself. Working and conversing amongst the faded black tents were blacksmiths, crusaders, milkmaids, carpenters, cooks, farriers, forestmen, scriveners, harlots and armourers. The site ran smoother than most villages Percival had visited.
Amidst the busy civilians laboured the Batlord's loyal soldiers, the Fright Knights. They stood out in their garb of black, red and grey. Unlike their master, their eyes were human and they wore simple, narrow, helmets that showed their grizzled faces. They struck Percival as a quiet, serious breed.
The guard stopped at a meagre fire and gave a cheery wave to the leathery old woman sitting by it. She rolled her eyes, then pulled something from the ashes and handed it to Percival. He could feel the heat of the spit through his gloves. On the other end was a charred, sizzling rat. Percival thanked her and followed the guard as he searched for an unoccupied tent he could use.
A group of hairy men stood together at the edge of the site, smoking pipes and complaining emphatically. They were dressed all in green and brown; Percival recalled this was the unofficial uniform of the men of the forest. They all looked up suddenly as a figure stomped down a nearby hill. On the hill stood a the remains of a hengiform watchtower, barely visible in the low-lying cloud. Percival had assumed there was no-one up there.
'He's impossible!' the man barked as he stormed towards the others. He was tall and wiry, wore a luxurious moustache and was dressed in the same forest colours as the others. The furious cacophony from the group grew louder as the man delivered the news that had enraged him so. The stout guard winced and gave Percival an apologetic smile.
'That's Robin de Courtenay, their leader,' he said, 'Our alliance with the men of the forest is a little shaky right now.'
'He looks a bit upset,' said Percival diplomatically, eyeing the ranting, fuming woodsman, 'What did he see up on the hill?'
The guard bit his lip and scratched at an old stain on his jerkin. 'It was probably something he heard. That's where the Count and his dragon have made camp. He's not easy to get on with, by most accounts.'
Percival glanced again at the craggy monument. The fog was too dense to see anyone up there, but he didn't look for long. He felt suddenly afraid, as if the Batlord was peering back down at him, scouring his soul with his gaze.
Count Grev Batlord, master of the Fright Knights, stalked among the ancient megaliths. After quarrelling with de Courtenay, his blood was running hot and he couldn't decide whether to give in to his wrath or attempt to calm himself. Shard, his enormous, obsidian dragon, lay curled up on the grass. She squirmed, intuiting his fury.
The pair abruptly sensed a third presence up on the hill. Shard sat up, a deep growl reverberating in her mighty throat. The Batlord drew his sword and swept his red eyes this way and that, squinting through the mist. One of the megaliths was shaking, old stones and moss crumbling from it as something emerged from its centre. Earth from beneath his feet was drawn in and subsumed in the muddy, roiling mass. Chaos begat order as the mass settled into the shape of Majisto the wizard. Still part of the stone, he looked like a carving come to life.
'Good morrow, Count. It gladdens me to see you so vigorous!’
The Batlord sheathed his sword and resumed pacing. ‘You are not so pleasant to behold, wizard,’ he snarled.
The effigy of Majisto looked down at his stone body. ‘Ha! Yes, well when I visited you last time as a lightning strike, you said I frightened the horses.’
‘And just like last time, you were not invited. What is your business here, old man?’
Majisto sighed. ‘I heard you seized control of the Wolfszahn. Its an impressive victory, but the Queen will not allow you to keep it, you know.’
‘The Queen?!’ roared the Batlord, seething beneath that monstrous helmet, ‘She is no Queen! She is a usurper and a witch. Too long has this country bent to her will. I will not stop at one tower! Before long, she shall feel the bite of my blade!’
The statue’s earthen eyes were wrought with sorrow. ‘You are blinded by passion, old friend. I agree Izralda is a menace, but war is not the answer.’
‘What would you have me do? Parley with the fiend? You are the blind one here, sorcerer! As the last Count, it is my duty to wrest control from her. Speaking of responsibility, I expect Mallock still lives?’
‘My cousin has nothing to do with this,’ said Majisto, lowering his gaze.
‘But we both know he will, before the end. The chaos will prove too enticing.’
‘Another fine reason to end this conflict before it begins!’ pleaded the wizard.
The Batlord was silent. He ceased striding and leant against another nearby stone. He looked as if he carried a great burden. Eventually, he turned his scarlet eyes on Majisto.
‘We are all ready to be savage in some cause,’ he said, ‘I have found mine. You don’t have to help me, but I warn you not to get in my way.’
And with that he strode away, into the gloom.