The Bringer of War

The swallow turned and dove, sunlight glinting off its colorful feathers. It angled its vector so as to avoid tangles of dense tree limbs and dropped aplomb towards the earth below. At the last instant, it rapidly fluttered its wings and alighted on the dark soil beneath the trees. Jabbing its beak down into the dirt, it came back with a wriggling worm dangling from its mouth. In two quick snaps the repast was gone, and the swallow leaped into the air with a beating of its wings.

Watching the bird with envious eyes, a figure slowly rose to its feet behind a stout oak trunk. One cloven hoof scraped against an exposed root as it stepped partially from behind its shield. Soft, downy fur covered the leg that was attached up to the knee, the limb bent slightly as an animal’s might. Smooth flesh a pale hue covered its knees and thighs until concealed by the hemline of a slight silken tunic. The pale green garment was belted at the waist, flaring outwards at the bust line in a feminine way. Though the legs were vaguely bestial, the head on the shoulders seemed that of an attractive young woman...except for the twin ram like horns that curled from a place just behind her ears.

Green eyes the color of fresh spring leaves watched as the bird soared out of sight. Her gait was unusual but not ungainly due to her strange anatomy as she stepped out fully from behind the oak, squinting in a spear of sunlight. Her eyes were large and ovoid, seeming to house a much older soul than the youthful shine of her creamy skin might indicate. Full, pouty lips peeled back from teeth with prominent canines as she issued a long sigh. A slight breeze stirred her head of thick, curly black hair as she began to walk, one last longing glance cast at the heavens.

She moved with agility through the dense forest, making nary a sound as her cloven feet found purchase on the rough bark of a fallen tree. Appearing at one with her environs, she seemed less a young woman with animal features than a woodland creature who happened to resemble a girl.

The woman came to a babbling brook, some twenty feet across. Stretching out her long, bestial legs she cleared the stream in one prodigal hop. Taking no time to savor her athletic feat she moved deeper into the woods, passing by tangled thickets and flowering vines attended by buzzing bees.

Abruptly, the strange woman stopped, dropping into a low crouch to examine the forest floor. Her green eyes narrowed as she examined a boot print in the cool damp earth. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she closed her eyes and allowed her other, more primal senses to take over.

She remained stock still for some time, absorbing knowledge from the forest. Somewhere, buried beneath the bear spoor and the distant musk of a skunk was another scent, a scent that did not belong in her woods. Her eyes snapped open and she rose to her feet. Stretching her long legs out, she began to run, the verdant green becoming a blur as she began to move far faster than any four footed animal.

She startled a flock of birds when she tore through a small clearing which still bore the scars of a long ago fire. They cawed and flapped noisily into the hazy blue sky. Paying the avians no mind, she dove back into the treeline and continued her pursuit.

The stream she had leaped over earlier again barred her path, having doubled back upon itself. She slowed to a stop near the water and listened intently with her sensitive, pointed ears. A distant scream, inaudible to most creatures, got her cloven feet moving in a blur once more.

Trees flashing by in a blur, the woman increased her speed. She reached a steep hill and rather than stumble down it chose simply to leap off the precipice. Down she dropped, nearly thirty feet, to land in a crouch. She rose to her feet and began moving more slowly, stealth rather than speed her idiom.

Parting a curtain of leaves with her three fingered hand, she peered at a dense thicket not a dozen feet away. A desperate, moaning call for help issued out of it, and she cast her eyes skyward and sighed. She stalked out of her cover and proceeded to step carefully into the thicket, long legs a boon.

In the center of the thicket, surrounded by tall grass, was a man of some forty summers. His bald pate shone with sweat as he strained to pry apart the steel jaws of the fox trap that had his ankle trapped. Despite his concerted efforts, the trap remained stubbornly shut. Gradually, his arms shook at they began to fatigue, and an agonized moan escaped his whiskered lips as the trap closed more snugly.

“A fitting end for a trespasser,” said the woman, stepping up behind the man. He flinched, turning around as best he could given his predicament. His eyes went wide as he beheld her feral form.

“You!” he said “the Lady of the Forest!”

The woman scowled, shaking her head in the negative.

“That is what you humans call me,” she said “I am Aven of Still Hollow, and you are on my lands.”

“Forgive me, my lady,” said the man, voice tinged with pain “long have we Riverforks folk respected your borders.”

“You call this respect?” said Aven, crouching low to look the man in the eyes. “These traps are wantonly cruel. Many small animals die of starvation, or gnaw off their own limbs, all because you humans cannot be bothered to check them.”

“I plead your succor, my lady,” he said “I knew not what to do. The king has raised our taxes yet again, and my family goes hungry! I cannot look into my children’s eyes and see their pain any longer.”

Aven stiffened, rising back to her feet and crossing her arms over her chest. Her green eyes bore a hole into the man, then she abruptly smiled. Mistaking her intentions, the old man cringed, throwing his arms over his face.

“Allfather protect me!” he cried.

“Oh, please,” said Aven, sighing. “Your Allfather is a figment, an amalgamation of several different tribal deities from yore. It is one of the Fey folk to whom you owe your thanks.”

Aven stared hard at the trap. Of human design, it was composed of rusty iron, savage pointed teeth designed to hold its prey in a death grip. Deciding that she lacked the means or strength to simply wrench it open, she instead chose another way.

She took a deep breath and held it, exhaling very slowly as she imagined energy building up from her cloven feet, through her legs, and into her core. Focused, she stretched a hand towards the man’s trapped limb.

“Rasqu!” she stated in a loud voice. At her words the trap’s tightly wound spring snapped, releasing the pressure on the man’s leg. He nearly fainted as blood rushed back into the wounded limb.

“Th-thank you, lady,” he said in a wavering voice.

“Can you stand?” she said.

“I think so,” he said, trying to put weight on the injured limb. He had several bleeding holes in his flesh but the joint appeared to bear his weight well enough. He flinched as Aven dropped to a crouch and reached for his leg.

“I only mean to stop the bleeding,” she said.

“How?” he said “you bear no bandage, and there is little room in your...your garment to conceal-”

“The saliva of a Fey,” she said “is good for cleaning wounds. It prevents infection.”

“You-you intend to put your mouth on my flesh?” said the man, eyes wide.

“Yes,” said Aven.

“Forgive me,” he said “but please, do not mark me so! The Allfather will not take me to paradise if the essence of a faerie is in my soul!”

Aven gave him another dark look that caused him to cringe.

“Very well,” she said “do not curse my name if your limb should become infected and rot off.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said the man, his body language suggesting that he wished to be done with Aven and her woods.

“There is much game to be had in my woods,” she said “you may hunt with bows, with slings, and with spears...but not with traps. Understood?”

“I understand,” he said, bobbing his head enthusiastically. “I understand, and I thank you for your kindness.”

He blinked, glancing around himself confusedly. Aven was gone, leaving him alone in the thicket.

** *

Hector frowned as he looked ahead on the dirt road and found that he was straggling far behind Sir Cromwell and his soldiers. He looked down at the smelly onager which served as his own mount and sighed. Digging his heels in, which made the onager speed up by a mere fraction, he looked enviously at the sturdy warhorses the other men rode.

Bruno’s was a particularly magnificent steed, fine muscles playing beneath its deep chestnut hide. No battle seeming imminent, Bruno wore a simple mail vest with skirt, his armor packed away on the back of Hector’s onager. Sweat stood out on the man’s ebony skin, though he made no complaint. Unlike the soldiers, who never ceased their constant lamentations over the heat, their rations, and having to share their mount with the bound Stefan.

The trip was particularly hard on the old man, who was not used to riding under the best of circumstances. With his wrists bound behind his back with a leather cord, he was unable to brace himself properly, and his old bones rattled with each hoof beat.

Hector slowly, steadily caught up the the others, bringing his mule abreast of Bruno’s horse.

“I fear the King may be cheated out of an execution,” said Hector, drawing a scowl from Bruno.

“What are you going on about now, squire?” said Bruno, his gaze as always harsh and disapproving.

“Stefan,” said Hector, indicating the prisoner with a nod of his head. “He may not survive the ride back.”

“Bah,” said Bruno, turning his gaze forward once again “the country folk are hardy. Still, if you pity him so much, why don’t you give him some water?”

Hector nodded, allowing the onager to slow down until it was next to the soldier currently burdened with the prisoner. Bruno called for a break, and all the men gratefully slid off their saddles, complaining of sore rumps.

The squire moved behind Stefan, and using a small bladed knife severed the cords binding the old man. He gasped in relief as blood rushed back to his tingling hands.

“Careful, boy,” said one of the soldiers “he looks like a biter, that one!”

“More like a gummer,” said another, causing all but Bruno and Stefan to chortle.

“Here, elder,” said Hector, offering the old man his water skin. “It’s hot and tastes of old leather, but it’s wet.”

“Thank you, my boy,” said Stefan, putting the bone nozzle in his parched lips. He drank a good portion before handing it back to Hector.

“Squire!” shouted Bruno, glaring back at Hector.

“Duty calls,” said the lad, giving Stefan a wink. He hustled to care for Bruno’s steed, taking it to graze in a meadow off the road. The soldiers were doing the same, and their bawdy conversation did not abate just because of Hector’s youth.

Bruno approached Stefan, looking with concern at the deep red indentations on the man’s wrists.

“You’ll not attempt to flee the King’s justice if we leave you free, will you old man?” said Bruno.

“Nay,” said Stefan “for I know I condemn my village to death by such an act.”

“A wise conclusion,” said Bruno with a nod. “Take heart, man, the King may yet be merciful.”

“I do not wager much,” said Stefan “on King Drakken’s mercies.”

Bruno shrugged, convinced the man had doomed himself.

“It may help your cause,” he said “if you were to tell me exactly who paid you to lure us into the slaughter.”

Stefan’s mouth closed, his lips drawn tight.

“I see,” said Bruno “well, my ways are far gentler than the Inquisitors. Should you suddenly be struck with wisdom and wish to speak...”

Stefan nodded grimly, though Bruno did not hold much hope that the man would see his line of reasoning. The knight sighed, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and squinted at the midday sun as if he could scowl it into being less bright.

Out in the grass, Hector was frowning at the soldiers as they joked and laughed.

“How can you all be so cheerful?” he said at length. “How many of our brethren lay dead on the road to that double cursed village? Do their sacrifices mean nothing to you?”

One of the soldiers, the same fellow who had challenged Hector at the gate, growled at him.

“What do you know of it, whelp?” he said. “Soldiers die. It is our lot, and my pissing and moaning over their corpses won’t make them any less dead.”

Hector gritted his teeth, both out of anger and to prevent the hot stream of words in his throat from escaping.

The men finished grazing their horses and returned them to the road. One of them raised an eyebrow at the newly freed Stefan, but one withering look from Bruno forestalled any comment. Soon the procession was on their way once more, kicking up dirt into the hot air.

Bruno kicked his horse into a canter, his form growing smaller. One of the soldiers took note and moved as if to join him, when Hector spoke.

“Hold, good sir,” he said “Sir Cromwell merely wishes some privacy.”

The man began to protest, then merely shrugged and resumed his normal pace.

Casting a glance backwards to insure that his soldiers and squire were well behind, Bruno rummaged around in his tunic. He withdrew a translucent, pale blue scarf, one a noble lady might throw about her neck for aesthetic purposes. Holding the material up to his nose, he inhaled deeply, a soft smile coming to his face.

“Soon, my lady,” he said “soon, we shall be together, blessed by the Allfather himself.”

He carefully stuffed the favor back into his tunic, then allowed the train to catch up with him. Hector shot him a knowing grin, which he annihilated with one glower.

“And how fares the Lady Katherine?” said Hector.

“Speak when you are spoken to, Squire,” said Bruno harshly.

“The rumors are that you will ask for her hand,” said Hector, his smile unabashed.

Bruno’s eyes narrowed, and he turned to squint down at the stripling.

“Are you a lady in waiting?” he said. “Old hags and tittering girls engage in idle gossip. I thought you were made of sterner stuff.”

Hector raised his hands in the air in supplication, though his grin stayed fixed.

“I just thought I’d extend my congratulations,” he said.

“Keep your focus on the here and now, Squire,” said Bruno, no longer facing the young man “those ‘bandits’ may yet try to finish what they started back in the village.”

“Yes, Sir Cromwell,” said Hector, feeling embarrassed that he had forgotten their potential danger.

Despite Bruno’s reservations, the men were unmolested for the rest of their five day journey. Stefan seemed to grow more miserable with each mile that grew behind them, often casting his gaze backwards. The soldiers cruelly taunted him, telling him they would make sure his body was buried in an unmarked grave. Bruno put a stop to their jests when the old man broke down into tears, though Hector had little pity for the man.

At length, the traffic on their road increased. Peasants guiding wagon loads of produce mingled with military units on their way to deployment. Bruno moved the procession to the side of the road at one juncture, to allow egress to a full legion of the King’s men. Hector stared at them, resplendent even without their shining armor. Their commander stopped to chat with Bruno for several minutes.

“It saddens me to hear of your troubles, Sir Cromwell,” said the man. He was about Bruno’s age, but time had not been as kind to him. Deep worry lines crossed his wizened face, red from so many hours in the sun.

“Bah,” said Bruno dismissively “I have been in worse scrapes. I am pleased that his majesty cares so for our well being that he would dispatch a fine knight such as yourself, Cormier.”

“You flatter me,” said the man, though he beamed at the compliment. “I am glad to see that we were not needed.”

“But you are,” said Bruno “we were forced to leave many good men laying in pools of their own blood, for fear of another assault. I am pleased that they will see proper burial.”

“Consider it my first priority,” said Cormier, kicking his horse into a trot to catch up with his men. “Fare thee well, Knight Templar. May your sword never rust-”

“-and may it ever be drenched in the blood of heathens,” said Bruno, smiling.

Soon Bruno and his men were within sight of the outskirts of the capital city. Long trails of smoke wafted into the sky from hearth fires and smithys, most especially from one thick stone chimney jutting from a foundry adjacent to the palace. Formidable walls thicker than a man’s height and taller than the highest trees surrounded the older part of the city, including the palace. They cast their shadow over the more humble homes of the lower classes, some of which snuggled right against the stone barrier. The smell of smoke and leather mixed with the odors of offal and human sweat as the wind shifted a bit, blowing towards them across the flat expanse of farmlands they traversed.

Stefan began to weep again, causing snorts of derision and outright laughter from the soldiers. Bruno silenced them with but a stare from his hard brown eyes, and soon the procession was under way once more.

As they rode into the metropolis, numerous people hailed Bruno respectfully, salutations he often acknowledged only with a slight nod of his head. Hector seemed to enjoy the way that the townspeople doted upon the returning hero.

“Ah, your adoring public,” said the squire as his master was given a bag of fresh apples in a hemp sack. Though the shopkeeper tried to refuse, Bruno insistently dug a few silver coins from his purse and thrust them into the man’s hand.

“The peasants,” said Bruno as he tossed Hector one of the red fruits “are the backbone of any army, for they are the breadbasket that keeps our bellies full enough to fight. Respect them, and they shall respect you, my squire.”

Hector shook his head.

“You’re preaching to the choir, my lord,” he said “but your attitude is a bit...off from that of other Templars I have met.”

Bruno scowled at the young man harshly as they passed within the shadow of the stout stone walls.

“You wish to be a Templar one day, boy,” he said “I would think your tongue would not wag against us.”

“Forgive my impudence,” said Hector “but I was merely making an observation. Most Templars would have taken a whole cart of apples without so much as a sneer towards the humble shop keep.”

“You exaggerate,” said Bruno.

“Perhaps a bit,” said Hector, shrugging “but you cannot deny that it has happened in the past.”

“That is why you and your ilk are so important, young master Brandywine,” said Bruno with a gleaming smile “to usher in a new age where all Templars, as well as all Kings, acknowledge that they are in the end merely servants to the public.”

Hector laughed, his mirth drawing a harsh look from his master. He stopped immediately, swallowing hard.

The group was hailed at the gates, but not challenged. Bruno spoke jovially with one of the pair of men flanking either side of the arched gate. A wrought iron portcullis dangled above their heads, rattling slightly in the wind. Hector’s nose wrinkled at the assault of city smells upon him, the high walls concentrating the aroma. After dismissing his soldiers, Bruno and Hector accompanied the forlorn Stefan into the cool interior of the royal palace. Built more for defense than elegance, the walls were bereft of tapestries or paintings, instead decorated with arrow slits and murder holes. They went down a wide, bare stone hallway, walking past several open doors and following the hall when it turned sharply right. Soon their eyes were greeted by the sight of King Drakken’s throne room.

The chamber was not overly large, two dozen paces on its longer sides. The ceiling was about twice man height, from which dangled no less than three chandeliers with flames that sputtered and smoked. A rich, blue carpet began at the double doors and extended all the way to the King’s throne. The monarch rose to his feet and stepped down the shallow steps leading to his dais, a wide grin breaking out on his face.

“King Drakken,” said Bruno, dropping to his knee. Hector did the same, gently pushing on Stefan’s slender shoulders so the man would comply as well.

“Sir Cromwell,” said Drakken, “rise, please my good man.”

Bruno rose to his feet and returned his majesty’s grin. The king was old, edging in on eighty winters, but his blue eyes remained sharp and his hand steady as he took Bruno’s in it. A hawkish nose jutted out of his face, a legacy of his noble lineage. His mouth was thin but expressive, and often bore a slight grandfatherly smile. Long past his prime, his shoulders were nevertheless still broad, and Bruno wondered not for the first time if the rumors were true, and that the king still practiced his martial prowess in secret.

“I would that I had better tidings for you, my King,” said Bruno, his smile fading.

The king smiled, returned to his throne and sat upon it. His heavy cap of office, an opulent thing made of gem encrusted gold, hung on the back of his seat. Stefan’s eyes went to the artifact and he swallowed hard.

“Tell me all about it,” said Drakken.

“We were betrayed, my King,” said Bruno “the pleas for help we received from Longbrook were but a ruse to slay your loyal soldiers.”

Drakken’s face fell, and he turned a grim expression upon Stefan for the first time.

“This man,” said Bruno, shoving Stefan forward none too gently “took coin for our blood. He was their elder.”

“Was,” said Drakken, nose twitching.

“Indeed,” said Stefan, bold enough to speak but not to meet his King’s eyes “It was all my plotting, your majesty. The villagers are innocent of any treason, and I beg you to visit your wrath only upon my old bones.”

Bruno looked appreciatively at the old man, impressed by his brave declaration. Hector winced, knowing that it was likely a lie.

“I see,” said Drakken, nodding. “And you know that your life is forfeit, correct?”

Stefan’s jaw quivered, and his voice shook when he spoke.

“Aye,” he managed to squeak out.

“And who are these men who seek to gain the crown’s wrath, the ones who paid you for your betrayal?” said Drakken.

“I...” said Stefan, voice breaking “I cannot say, my king.”

“Cannot,” said Drakken “or will not?”

“He told me much the same, your majesty,” said Bruno.

Drakken nodded sagely, then turned his white haired head to stare at Stefan once again.

“It is your choice, Elder,” said Drakken “you may tell me in comfort, or tell the inquisitors in pain.”

“No...” said Stefan, eyes growing panicked.

“Please, good sir,” said Bruno, not unkindly “the Inquisitors will glean the knowledge from your bloody form, I have seen them work.”

“No!” said Stefan fiercely. “No!”

Moving with a speed born of desperation, Stefan suddenly seized the hilt of Hector’s knife and drew it from the scabbard. The squire looked on in shock as Stefan charged at the King, weapon leading, his eyes wild and mouth wet with spittle. He managed to get within two strides of Drakken before Bruno ended that ambition with a hard blow from the pommel of his blade. The old man crumpled into a heap, laying face down on the shallow steps. Blood began to pool at the back of his white head.

“What are you doing, you fool?” said Drakken, eyes wild with sudden rage. Hector thought he spoke to Stefan, and was shocked when the king turned accusing eyes upon Bruno.

“He sought to kill you, your majesty,” said Bruno, eyes full of confusion.

“He sought to kill himself, dolt!” said the King. “Or has your brain gone black as your skin? He was a fount of knowledge, dried up by your stupidity.”

“I...” said Bruno, looking down at the dying man “forgive me, your majesty.”

Drakken took a deep breath, settled back upon his throne, and gave Bruno a cold smile.

“You only sought to protect your king,” he said “your adherence to your vows is impressive as ever, Sir Cromwell.”

“I live to serve,” said Bruno, punctuating his words with a slight bow.

“You may return to your lands, Sir Bruno,” said Drakken, “I will send for you again once I have unraveled this...conspiracy.”

“By your leave, my king,” said Bruno. He and Hector bowed low and turned upon their heels, heading out the door. The squire was apprehensive, for he knew well what would happen next. When they had nearly reached the palace gates, Bruno abruptly grabbed his shoulder and flung him against the cold stone wall. Hector’s head cracked hard off of it, but he did not raise a hand to defend himself, even when Bruno added a hard punch to his midsection for good measure.

“Stupid boy!” he said “the king was nearly killed due to your incompetence! How could you let your weapon be taken?”

“Sorry, my lord,” said Hector between gasps.

“When we get back to the manor,” said Bruno “you will bear twenty lashes as penance. How does that sound?”

“Too generous for the likes of me, my lord,” said Hector “I would have given me thirty.”

“Thirty lashes it is, then,” said Bruno, dragging the boy to his feet. “Now, up with you! My discipline may seem harsh, but had the king fallen you would have been dancing at the end of a rope by day’s end.”

“I know, my lord,” said Hector, ashamed “I know.”

** *

Back in the throne room, King Drakken stared down at the corpse for long moments before at last summoning servants to dispose of it. He called for his seneschel, sat back in his throne and waited patiently. It time a man perhaps half his age came bustling in, eyes expectant.

The man was short and portly, most of the hair fled from his scalp. A swath of black locks was brushed across the top of his head in an attempt to create the illusion it still grew there. A long nose with a prominent wart hung over uneven and pallid lips. His dress was subdued but well made, a purple doublet and matching hose. He bore a small bronze rod, a symbol of his office, and was flanked by two young boys who served as errand runners, though the rumor was they served him in other ways as well.

“Roland,” said the king, nodding his head.

“Your majesty,” he said in a nasal voice, dipping into a low bow. “How may I serve?”

“It seems that there is a village some hundred miles south of here,” said Drakken “by name of Longbrook, I believe.”

Roland bowed again, bobbing his head eagerly.

“I know of it, my lord,” he said.

“It is to be burned to the ground,” said Drakken.

“Absolutely, sire,” said Roland, nodding enthusiastically. “And the villagers?”

Drakken smiled, an utterly sinister expression devoid of warmth or mirth.

“See to it,” he said “that they are inside their homes when they are put to the torch.”

“I will see to it immediately, my king,” said Roland with a cold blooded smile of his own.