Parsley, Sage, Rosemary And Thyme

Scarborough Castle's twelfth-century keep.

 

Flowers growing wild on the defensive walls of Scarborough Castle.

 

View of the North Sands from Scarborough Castle.

The Chronicle of Eboracum VI...

Part Six – The Author’s Note

The genesis of The Chronicle of Eboracum was extraordinarily simple. Having realised that my writing was becoming increasingly disjointed I decided that something drastic had to be done. I needed to write a story that had an ending. A simple feat you might think, aside from the debilitating panic that consumes me whenever I consider creating any form of conclusion. After many long walks to work, several delayed train journeys, and writing primarily on the back of till receipts, I had finally a severely disjointed but almost complete story.

Though primarily a work of utter fantasy this story is also akin to Frankenstein’s monster. It includes a patchwork of half-remembrances, obscure facts and more than a little desperation. Eboracum was the name of the Roman settlement which developed into the city we know today as York. Wallachia was the name of the kingdom that Vlad the Impaler ruled during the Middle Ages. Medieval bestiaries described the pard as a creature that could kill with a single leap. Meanwhile Costica was my exhausted brain latching onto the discarded coffee cup of a fellow traveller. There is also an actual plant called the Peruvian Sheep Eater (puya chilensis), which has recently bloomed at the RHS garden Wisley in Surrey, and acts in exactly the manner I described.

Am I pleased with my monstrous creation? There are so many things that ought to be better, so many ways it is inferior, and so many parts that are incomplete. Yet for the half-crazed scribbling of an author who seemingly cannot write the words THE END it is not an entirely bad effort. Whilst it may not be perfect my one hope is that it will help make the next story that much less painful to see to its proper conclusion.

The Chronicle of Eboracum V...

Part Five – The New Age
 
The battle may have been won but there was still much that needed to be achieved before a quarter-century of Wallachian control could be entirely put to an end. Regents were installed and temporary governments elected as the western kingdoms sought to regain their independence. With the old ruling families annihilated by Aefon’s murderous ambitions it was not possible to return to the old way of things. Instead the liberated kingdoms celebrated and looked forward to the beginning of a new age.
 
There were also intense negotiations between Wallachia and the Lords. After the general’s demise on the Field of Firrs it was the mother of the boy-king who ruled in his stead. Fierce and proud she nevertheless understood that her husband’s armies had crumbled and the allied forces had chosen not to destroy Wallachia. The western kingdoms had no interest in domination. There were many voices of reason who insisted that no revenge would be enacted. The people of Wallachia were, in the main, innocent of the atrocities committed by Aefon and his generals. Negotiations remained ongoing for the settlement of suitable reparations and there was cautious discussion of a universal peace treaty.
 
For Benedik, however, the end of the battle signalled more simply the return home. He spent many hours on the rocky cliffs of his childhood watching the waves below crash and recede. He should not have been surprised, he supposed, to find that nature had not changed in his absence. When he had begun this journey he had decided to leave as soon as the fight was won. The people of Eboracum may have needed his martial prowess but they would be better off without him as king. Yet as the days passed he reacquainted himself with old friends, drank toasts to the prosperity of the kingdom and visited the unmarked burial place of his family. It seemed that he had constructed a life for himself here and the endless wandering within his soul felt finally at peace.
 
The Guardian had spoken the truth when she told him that he had needed to return. He smiled wryly to himself as he flicked his wrist and sent one of the stones in his hand tumbling down into the white spray of water.
 
“You will stay then?” It was as if he had summoned her with his thoughts. For a moment he continued to study the small rock in the palm of his hand, smoothing its rough surface with the pad of his thumb. He gave a great deal of thought to the equally small word before he gave it voice.
 
“Yes.” He turned to her, his eyes blinking furiously to adjust to the supernatural brightness that surrounded the Guardian. “I don’t know who I shall be or what I shall do, but whatever it is I belong here to this land.” His hand flattened to the ground as if he could feel the very heartbeat of the earth beneath him. “Thank you.” They were foolish words perhaps when spoken to a deity but they were honest ones. “You saved my life all those years ago and you came back for me. I see now that somehow I could never have stopped waiting or hoping.”
 
“You exceeded all our expectations. Your father always believed you would become greater than merely your name. In these past weeks you have proven yourself your own man. Greatness cannot be inherited nor is it a title. Everything that you are comes from within.”She laid a cool and gentle hand on his shoulder, the comfort easing through his bones like water. Her gown brushed across his arm as she turned and left, leaving an air of serenity in her wake.
 
Evening had arrived in Eboracum whilst Benedik had been meditating the future on the shoreline. There was a festival in full swing when he returned to the city. The people were dressed in their finery, no matter how shabby or outdated it had become in the intervening years. Food and wine rationing had been suspended for the night and everyone enjoyed the plentiful feast to its fullest.
 
He wove amongst the excited revellers and dancers, acknowledging their greetings with a friendly if somewhat distracted smile. He was close to the entrance of the royal citadel when he was stopped by an old friend. Viridian had been the son of a wealthy merchant and together they had got up to all sorts of pranks and mischief as boys. They had already slipped easily back into their old routine.
 
“Benedik! – Come my friend, have a drink.”
 
“Not yet. I have something I need to do first.” Viridian frowned, his handsome face flushed from too much of the fine wine.
 
“No!” He exclaimed petulantly, slinging a heavy arm across his friend’s shoulders. “Tonight there’s nothing more important to do than decide which girl you want to go home with.” He said winking meaningfully. “I reckon you’ve got a good chance, what with being the hero of Eboracum.”
 
“Later. I promise. But I want to make an announcement first.” Benedik distracted his friend with a fresh and over-filled goblet before making his escape. Once he had reached the throne room, however, he began to wish he’d had that drink.
 
Up until now he had managed to avoid entering the room. The last time he had stood there his family’s blood had stained the stone-flagged floor. He could still remember his mother’s lifeless body spread heavily across his younger siblings as she had fruitlessly attempted to protect them. Yet as he confronted the darkness it was clear that the room was not the monster he had created in his memories. It was an echoing shell, gutted by the Wallachian principals who had governed in Aefon’s place. Little was recognisable of the chamber in which he had also learnt at his father’s feet about duty, honour and courage. Time had wrought its changes on this room as visibly as it had on him. Benedik breathed deeply, settling the jangling of his nerves and trembling of his fingers. It was time to look forward to the future instead of constantly looking back.
 
Stepping out onto the royal balcony he quietly watched the revellers below him for several minutes. As a few faces started to turn and look up curiously at him, Benedik began to address the crowd.
 
“Citizens of Eboracum!” His voice carried in the stillness of the night air. A few of the more vocal members of the gathering gave a cheer at his appearance. He suspected that Viridian was amongst them. They were hushed impatiently by the others. “I want to thank you. Without each and every one of you we would not be here to celebrate tonight. A new age is dawning throughout the western kingdoms and we are a part of that change. My father was a great king, but I am not my father. I will not rule as his successor simply because I carry his name. Eboracum will be free to choose its king on merit.” He trailed off, realising that he had been gripping the balustrade fiercely with white knuckles. Pushing away from the railings he had half turned when there was a loud cry from amongst the crowd.
 
“King Benedik!” The single voice was joined by three and then ten others as the cry spread until finally it deafened him. He was to be the king that the people had chosen. There would of course still be many intricacies to cope with come the morning, but for now Benedik allowed the tears to flow unchecked. This was not the end of his journey, which he had begun so many weeks before as the Nomad, but merely the beginning of a new chronicle for himself and for Eboracum.

The Chronicle Of Eboracum IV...

Part Four – The Field of Firrs.

Men had continued arriving throughout the night to add their strength to the allied forces. Now, as Benedik surveyed the field he had chosen as their place to stand and fight, he felt a surge of pride. The rising sun burnished the soldiers below him in heroic streaks of gold and bronze. The dazzling light bounced off their polished armour, fracturing into thousands of tiny new suns.

The Council had ultimately accepted his audacious plan of attack. The western kingdoms simply did not have the luxury of time. He had been granted the captaincy of the army, yet he was fully aware of the weight of assessment that remained in the gazes of the Lords. At least now he looked more like the western prince he claimed to be. Cleanly shaven, hair cropped short and clothed in an opulent robe, the only lingering evidence of the Nomad’s previous existence was the giant’s sword strapped to his back.

The Lords were arranged across the peak of the cliff. From there they had an unbroken view of the battlefield before them. Each Lord was mounted and adjacent to a bannerman who carried their kingdom’s sigil. These beckoned in the light breeze to the forces below, a clear visual reminder of what the men fought for and what they stood to lose. Benedik tugged uncomfortably at the gold-braided neck of his robe. He understood the necessity of the spectacle but he did not feel like he belonged within it. With firm, impatient fingers he unfastened the laces of his robe. Shrugging the heavy purple cloth from his shoulders it carelessly folded itself on the ground.

“Right. Give me that.” He ordered tersely to his startled bannerman. He lifted his father’s sigil easily, controlling the restlessness of his horse with a single capable hand on the reins. As they turned about he caught the shrewd glance of Lord Tobin. There was both consent and respect in the old man’s swift nod. Benedik would never be content to be a mere symbol. Men were going to spill their blood today because he had ordered that it ought to be so. The least he could do was go down there and spill his own beside them.

By the time he had descended from the rocky outcrop to reach the Field of Firrs, the battle had begun in earnest. He found himself trapped in the midst of intense fighting. Drawing his sword he hacked at the infantry that swarmed around him. From the benefit of his higher angle he could cut down at their exposed necks, but equally they could strike out at his more vulnerable mount. Spurring his horse forward he used the momentum to knock aside the remaining men and force a path toward the front line.

When he finally reached the vanguard of the allied army he punched his father’s sigil into the soil and dismounted to stand beside it. He handed the reins to the first injured man who crossed his path, his focus never shifting from the attacking Wallachians. He could feel the stares of men from both sides upon him. Taking advantage of their awareness he made a rousing call.

“For my father! For Eboracum!” It was as much an introduction as it was a battle-cry. Benedik was satisfied that he had made his point through the conspicuous placement of banner and choice of words. In proclaiming his identity he had bolstered the morale of his army, whilst encouraging a confrontation from the enemy. He had seen how evenly matched the two sides were and recognised that a more personal combat was required if the battle was to be ended efficiently.

Benedik quickly lost track of time as he was forced to parry and thrust. He felt almost disconnected, both from the inhumanity of the casual slaughter, and from the soldiers who fought around him. Each man was engaged in their own private war, exerting and driving themselves to extraordinary feats for their own individual ends. The sky had gradually darkened during the course of the fighting. Thunder fractured like pieces of broken pottery, whilst the gods shrouded the battlefield in dense, heavy clouds which wept with their tears.

Blinking fiercely at the rain that ran across his face and burned his eyes, Benedik sensed the change before he saw it. A knight entirely protected by black armour walked directly through the clashing pairs of soldiers towards him. Instinctively he knew that this was the pivotal confrontation for which he had hoped. The chest plate was etched with the Wallachian royal arms and there were obscenely large jewels encrusted in the pommel of the knight’s sword. This was the leader of the enemy army and the single hope for decisively ending the battle.

The black knight circled Benedik, his sword sounding like a snarl as it came free from its sheath. There was little time for evaluation as his first blow came fast and was powerfully crushing. Benedik was surprised by the formidable strength of the knight. Their blades sparked dangerously as they clashed, Benedik raising his in order to relieve the pressure on his armour. He was clad only in the lightest of mail, preferring its easy suppleness of movement. However against the brute strength of the knight’s plate armour, it was as useless as gossamer silk.

As they sparred Benedik found himself losing ground against the unrelenting force of the black knight. His sword-arm had been nicked by the knight’s blade as it buried beneath the iron rivets of his armour. Though only a superficial wound it weakened the power with which he was able to swing the giant’s sword. His swipes became ever more desperate and off-centre as he tried to regain the upper hand. It was perhaps arrogance or overconfidence that eventually led the black knight to pause for an instant before taking his final killing blow.

An instant was all that Benedik needed.

As the sword came slashing across he threw his weight forward, sliding in the rain-dampened earth, and taking advantage of the inflexibility of the black knight’s heavy armour. On his knees he withdrew the knife concealed in his boot and stabbed it through the knight’s foot. Momentarily disabled, it gave Benedik enough time to come up behind the knight and slide his sword through the gap in the black armour. It was a small blemish in an otherwise faultless piece of artistry. He had only seen it as the rain gathered and collected to drip and slide down the polished plates. Keening in pain the black knight attempted to wrench the sword from his shoulder. Benedik exerted enough steady pressure, however, to force the knight to his knees. Yanking at the crested helm he unveiled his opponent.

“End this.” The older man’s voice was slurred and almost unintelligible. Blood bubbled from his lips, choking his words. Benedik struck quickly, slicing through nerves so as to render a fast and painless death. He gazed down at the knight who had been the general of the Wallachian army and had won countless battles alongside Aefon. The boy-child might have been Aefon’s heir, but it was the general who the army had really followed. The black knight had been right – it was time to end this.

Striding forward Benedik plunged his sword into the ground beside his father’s banner and raised the severed head of the black knight up high.

“Listen to me!” He called over the clamour of battle. The men nearest him stopped, confused and startled by the intrusion into their blood lust. The sudden cease in the fighting spread like ripples in a lake until all was quiet apart from the distant clanging and yells in the background. “Wallachian’s your leader is dead.” His hand and arm were stained red from the blood that seeped from his gruesome prize. “Your general fought with great courage, but the boy who sits on your throne is incapable of taking his place. You cannot win this battle and you will not win this war.” Benedik remained unarmed and open to attack, yet nobody moved to intercept him. “I’m offering you your lives today. Choose peace now and you can return to your homes. If you continue to fight, however, I promise you no mercy.” His face was implacable and his hand steady, only his heart beat wildly as he awaited their decision. He could at first sense only suspicion and distrust, yet as the sky began to clear above them he could feel the delicate and tentative growth of new hope.

The battle had been won. It was finally over.

The Chronicle Of Eboracum III...

Part Three – The War Council

Benedik reached the Borderlands safely and promptly. The Guardian’s unearthly coaxing had created a mount faster and more agile than he had owned previously. The slightest shift in his hold on the reins had them dipping and twisting as gracefully as dancers. The journey had also given him ample opportunity to consider how to proceed. The Guardian had not informed him of how exactly he was meant to convince the War Council of his identity or authority. Equally he was not certain in himself that he wanted to reclaim the throne of Eboracum. Returning to liberate his people presented the chance to make amends for any previous failure. He was the veteran of several battles so he could trust his well-honed body to fight until the last breath. It was his ability to rule, however, that had yet to be tested.

Upon arrival Benedik made a stealthy reconnaissance of the allied encampment. Morale was high amongst the soldiers as news had travelled that the kingdom of Costica had overthrown its Wallachian leaders. Hope blossomed that the other western kingdoms would follow, toppling incrementally until the empire was fully destroyed. Benedik’s own hopes, however, were cautious in this respect. Costica was merely a small, outlying kingdom. It would be much harder to remove Wallachian influence from its immediate neighbours such as Eboracum.

His investigations had also identified where the Lords were gathering for the Council and it proved surprisingly easy to infiltrate the grand tent. For a moment, in his dark attire, Benedik became merely a watchful shadow. The table, a huge circular arc, spanned most of the circumference of the tent. Around it the Lords were arranged by kingdom. Most of them were old with their beards full of grey and their eyes pale and rheumy. These men would have argued and debated with his father. The Lords had been the counsellors and advisors to the rulers of the west for centuries. They sat now, slumped over their chairs, fatigue and disappointment carved into every stooped and crooked bone. Scattered amongst this older generation were their sons. Their grip was strong on their weapons and their fists heavy on the table as they sounded their discord. Servants quietly poured wine into goblets in the background. Many had already been knocked askew by impassioned arms, their contents spilt and dripping to the rug-covered floor.

Disagreement was clearly rife in this tented War Council. Usually a king would preside over a council, standing in the space where the table didn’t quite meet. The table symbolised a balance that had to be reached between equality and leadership. Benedik could remember his father overseeing such a council, firmly decisive and even-handed. The Guardian had been right again, the Lords needed a symbol of authority to unite behind. It seemed that this was the role he was required to fulfil despite his own inner uncertainty.

Letting instinct guide him, Benedik began to sing. The low deep humming filtered furtively through the room until it had disrupted and silenced all discussion. It was a song that his father had sung once, and he had not realised until that moment that he was able to remember the words. Before the song’s end other voices had joined his to recite the story of heroic valour and courage. In the quiet that followed Benedik moved to stand in the gap between the edges of the table. His tall figure filled the space and cast a long shadow. The significance of his position was not lost on the Lords, and they awaited his speech with suspiciously narrowed eyes.

“My name is Benedik, son of Huwon and heir to the throne of Eboracum. I stand before this Council to offer my sword to your fight against the Wallachian tyrant.” It was, perhaps, not the most eloquent of introductions, but it was forceful in its simplicity. Several of the Lords began to speak at once, their cries of protest and scepticism interrupting one another.

“You don’t look like a prince to me.” –

“Look at his clothes, he’s nothing more than a common thief.” –

“You sully the name of that great man with your lies.” –

The condemnations clashed loudly in his ears, but he did not refute them. The truth was he did still look like the Nomad, who had been a thief and a liar. His hair was braided, the long length tied back in the eastern fashion. The clothes he wore were still torn from the pard’s claws, rough linen adhering to the wounds with the stickiness of dried blood. Traversing the world in a sennight had, after all, given him little opportunity to alter his appearance. Pulling the cord that lay hidden under his clothing, he unveiled the one object that might prove his identity to the Council. The metal was warm to his touch, heated by its proximity to his skin.

“Lord Tobin.” Despite the noise within the great tent, Benedik spoke with a quiet authority that ensured he was heard by all.”You were advisor to my father and lived for many years with our family. Tell me, is this not his sigil?” He tossed the old man the gold ring as carelessly as if it were a crumb of bread.

“It is.” Tobin croaked amazed. “It really is.”

“That proves nothing.” The younger man seated beside him snatched the bauble away. “Any thief could take this and claim it as his own.” Ignoring the disparaging comments Tobin stood and walked towards Benedik. Every move was a slow, agonized shuffle and when they were finally facing one another the old man wheezed from the exertion. Their eyes met and held, searching and assessing for what truths they could perceive. Beneath the tanned and scarred skin, the uneven growth of facial hair, the Lord could recognise the acute intelligence in the azure eyes that he had once seen in a young prince. Tobin embraced the man with all the affection he had once felt for the questioning child.

“Praise the Guardian.” He breathed, his voice thick with emotion. Benedik found himself equally overwhelmed by the acceptance and frail hold of an old friend. “If only your father were here to see you now.”

“If my father were here now I know what he would say.” He turned to address the assembled Council, concealing the keen slice of anxiety that followed any thoughts of King Huwon. “You can tell yourselves that we have a choice. That we can choose to wait for Wallachia to destroy itself or to give support to insurrections in remote kingdoms. But he would realise that there is no choice. We have to fight.”

“We cannot hope to match Wallachian forces. We could be annihilated in a single battle. It would be wiser to wait and consolidate our resources.” It was the same man who offered the criticism, yet it was clear from the series of nods around the table that he spoke for a larger faction of the Lords.

“There is a plant in the east known as the sheep-eater. It has thick thorny leaves low to the ground. The slower animals get caught on these leaves and, unable to escape, they die a slow death. Their decomposing bodies nourish the plant so that it grows stronger and more deadly.” He began to speak with increasing fervency as he outlined his plan. “If we wait, we will end up like those animals. Encouraging the other kingdoms to rebel will take time, during which the boy-child will grow into a man. Any resources that we might have consolidated through waiting would simply end up feeding a stronger Wallachian Empire. The time to act is now, whilst they are unprepared and unsuspecting. Sever the plant at the root rather than trying to pluck its leaves.” Gesturing fiercely towards the map painted on the finest silken cloth and hung on the far side of the tent he indicated a point close to Wallachia. “Strike here and strike quickly. It is our only hope to end this.” Breathing heavily Benedik turned to the supportive presence of Lord Tobin beside him. “I don’t know how to be a king like my father, but I do know how to be a solider. I can win this battle for you.”

The Chronicle Of Eboracum II...

Part Two – The Journey Back

The Nomad flinched when she said his name. It had been many years since anybody had spoken or even known it. Benedik was the name from another life, one where he had been a prince and he’d had a family. It was almost too long ago to remember and he had gone to great lengths to forget. He could not, however, deny his identity for the Guardian was one of the ancient deities and knew everything.

Benedik’s father had been King Huwon the Just and under his rule the kingdom of Eboracum had been a fair and peaceable land. The Prince had been raised by kindly and affectionate parents and he in turn helped to raise his younger siblings. He had always known that one day he would succeed his father and he was content in his own ability to do so.

The neighbouring kingdom of Wallachia, however, had not been so content. Its ruler, Aefon, was as ambitious as he was greedy. The prosperity of Eboracum was its ultimate downfall. Huwon’s kingdom became the first to fall and the first stone that Aefon the Conqueror laid to create his empire. The ruling dynasties of each conquered kingdom had to be killed so as to assure no rebellion against Wallachian control. Benedik’s family were murdered and through a simple misunderstanding of identity he alone escaped. The Guardian wrapped him in a cloak of protection and sent him far away. She promised him retribution and that one day he would return home.

In the intervening years he had plenty of time to reflect on the past. His inability to save his family or protect the people of his kingdom wrecked any of his previous self-assurance. He had failed as a son. He had failed as a prince. He had failed as a man. Time continued to pass until he could no longer remember what home looked like and so he decided to stop waiting for the Guardian. He adapted and he survived. Benedik became the Nomad.

“You waited a long time.” He said finally with great weariness. He usually made it a rule to reminisce about the past only when there was a bottle close to hand and it was certain that oblivion could be reached soon after. “Maybe you waited too long.” He shrugged, studiously indifferent. “It’s not been my home in many years.” The Guardian merely watched him with pale inhuman eyes, reading his heart as easily as if it were a document of state.

“Your people have waited a long time too.” She gently admonished him. Whilst he had found a new life in the East, the inhabitants of the kingdom had been subjected to Aefon’s tyrannical rule. “You’re needed in Eboracum, Benedik. Don’t let them down.”

“Why now?” His most recent quest had isolated him from civilised company and consequently he was unaware of the political machinations that had occurred in the wake of Aefon’s death.

“Aefon had always been too powerful to overthrow. No matter how we might have prepared we could not have succeeded against him. His death provides us with an opportunity. Disputes over the succession have weakened Wallachia. His heir is but a small boy and not all the generals will follow him. The Lords of the old kingdoms are gathering forces for a rebellion.”

“It sounds as if they’re managing on their own. And so am I.” He scowled darkly, trying to cover the cracks that were forming in his carefully crafted persona. “Eboracum and I have not needed each other for some time.”

“You’re wrong, Prince Benedik.” He wondered whether the Guardian persisted in using his real name in the hope that he’d be worn down and accept his rank. “The Lords are in need of a leader. Eboracum was the first to fall and it has become a symbol for all that has been inflicted on the western kingdoms. If you were to return and reclaim your title they would unite behind you.” Her gaze was direct and unwavering. He felt discomforted as if yet again he was a child of twelve in her presence. “You have lost your way. I think you are in need of them, as much as they are in need of you.”

“I made the choices that I needed in order to survive. I will not apologise for my past actions.” He was deliberately harsh and defensive. He had not been a prince for nearly a quarter of a century. He had been a thief and a killer, but never a leader of men. He was not sure he knew how anymore.

“Regret not the past, but learn so that you can improve the future.” For a moment it was as if she had spoken with the voice of someone much older and gruffer. He closed his eyes on the swell of emotion.

“Father.” Over the years the image of his family had dimmed and faded until all that he could recall were the vivid splashes of blood. His own certainty in his ability to rule had been rubbed away too. Yet the words reminded him of a father who had not been born great, but who had accepted flaws and learnt from them to be a better king and a better man. Perhaps it was only by confronting his own doubts that he would ever truly be able to overcome them.

Benedik opened his eyes, feeling as if he was seeing the world anew. Startled he noticed that the Guardian had moved. She had of course known the truth in his heart all along. His ultimate decision had never been in doubt. With a gentle hand she petted his horse, soothing its agitation and making it meek and insensible. The Guardian had dominion over all creatures and she coaxed the beast to do her bidding. The wings of his horse, usually so tightly hidden, began to twitch and unfurl.

“You have only a sennight. The Lords are preparing a War Council. You must attend and state your intention to reclaim the throne of Eboracum. Your horse knows where it must go.” She handed him the reins, his skin tingling where their fingers brushed. “Safe journey, my prince. Have faith. Only in Eboracum will you realise your destiny.”

The Chronicle Of Eboracum...

Part One – The Meeting

By anyone’s estimation their meeting that day had more to do with fate than the haphazardness of chance. True, he was not aware that the runes had been cast, the portents read, or that a messenger had been sent from the kingdom of Eboracum. Yet even half way across the world the Nomad could sense that something was changing.

News of Aefon the Conqueror’s death had spread quickly, even in the East. The mighty tyrant who had forged his own empire through the domination and enslavement of the western kingdoms was gone. The world had been tumult. The eastern realms had resettled now that the threat of imminent subjugation from across the Great Sea was ended. For the western kingdoms, however, there still remained a single shaft of hope that a new age might emerge from the shadows of oppression.

The Nomad knew nothing of these hopes as he travelled through the vibrant green lushness of the Many-Eyed-Forest. Moisture seeped and clung limply to every leaf and stem. As he wrestled through the dense, close-knit foliage the tiny droplets trembled and spilt. They dashed down his neck, across the scarred planes of his forearms and onto the glistening flanks of his mount.

“Not long now my sweet.” He crooned soothingly to the exhausted mare. They had been moving through the suffocating forest without pause for hours. The cloying, unrelenting heat was beginning to take a toll on both man and horse. He felt as if he were running a fever. His tunic stuck to his rough skin, patches of sweat darkening the already bloodied and soiled garment. Head pounding, vision blurred and throat parched, he did not attempt to slow their pace. Stopping was more dangerous than continuing in the Many-Eyed-Forest. The heat might drive a man to madness, but the eyes of the forest were those of the deadly hybrid creatures lying hidden and disguised amongst the upright trees and weaving vines.

He had already dealt with a pard. The creature had the stealth and nimbleness of a leopard, twinned with the savagery and strength of a lion. Its claws had opened the skin of his back and every lilting drop of humid moisture was like the touch of a flame against his wounds. He had injured the creature only enough to slow its lethal pursuit. The Nomad hoped it would give them enough time to reach the limit of the forest. Directly to the west lay the Riverlands, which were as cool and cleansing as the forest was stifling and deadly.

There came through the forest a sudden thundering and terrible shrieking. The pard was steadily catching them up. Its confidence in capturing its prey was such that it no longer made any attempt at secrecy. Its victorious cries alerted other predators to stay away from its pursuit. It effectively silenced the shrill chattering of the birds overhead until all that was left was the sound of hooves striking the ground and the mad thumping of the Nomad’s heart.

A gentle breeze caressed him and the hairs on his arms rippled with awareness. The thick canopy above him was gradually thinning allowing rapid and short glimpses of sky. Sensing approaching safety his horse jolted forward with a final burst of speed. Allowing the horse its head he gathered the reins in one hand and sought for his sword with the other. The blade sung as it came free from its sheath. It was thick and broad, twice the length of what a normal man could wield. The muscles in his arms bunched and corded as he raised it in readiness. The drumming in his ears combined with the beasts roars as it sighted its prey. The Nomad tensed, anticipating its agile leap over and above them.

It never came. Horse and rider burst through the forest. Hooves smashed the icy stillness of the river, sending shards of cool water slicing through the air like pieces of a broken mirror. Fording the tributary he drew the horse to an abrupt halt. They remained still apart from their chests which worked like great bellows as they sucked in huge mouthfuls of chill, refreshing air. He could see the pard pacing the boundary of the forest, snarling and sniping at their escape. The sleek ebony animal slowly withdrew back into the Many-Eyed-Forest until all that remained was its gleaming amber stare.

The Nomad fumbled with his sword and reins as he dismounted. His knees crumpled beneath him and he sprawled on the floor laughing. The deep, throaty sound echoed in the cool silence of the rocky valley. Taking a short cut through the Many-Eyed-Forest had not been, perhaps, the wisest of decisions. He had though made it a principle of most his adult life to avoid what was considered to be wise. Crawling forward he dunked his head into the revitalizing water. He came up for air gasping, pushing back the slick mass of his hair. Droplets dribbled down the angular sharpness of his face and across the broadness of his shoulders where his hair hung wildly.

After several moments of serenity he became aware of another sound, a tight thrumming as if the air was moving differently. Looking up he could at first perceive nothing different in his surroundings until he saw the strange light. As the light sparkled more intensely, the thrumming resonated louder until it scraped across his nerves like the claws of the pard. His eyes gradually adjusted to the unnatural brightness and he saw the light shimmer into the shape of a woman.

She walked directly across the river, but her feet made no dip or ripple in the surface of the water. The white blonde of her hair settled over her shoulders like a golden mantle. Her skin was so pale as to be almost transparent, a bluey-violet hue underlying the pure whiteness. The silver of her gown looked like the mail of armour, but the tiny rivets were cast from pure silver thread and not heavy metal.

“This can’t be happening again.” He muttered to himself, rubbing brusquely at the dirt on his britches before standing to attention. “What in Ebor’s name are you doing here?” His voice was scratchy, it had been a long time since he had cause to use that particular tongue. The Guardian of Eboracum glided to a halt before him, her face entirely unchanged from the last time he had seen it.

“I’ve come to bring you home, Prince Benedik.”