The Bringer of War

Aven of still hollow crept silently through the trees, cloven feet leaving nary a mark on the soft earth. Gentle morning sunlight filtered through the canopy high overhead, jabbing slender spears of light across her path. She bore a haversack over her slender shoulders, lined with the hide of an otter to keep it waterproof. Her green eyes peered intently about her, insuring there were no prying eyes.

Setting the pack on the ground, she closed her eyes and summoned up a mental picture of her own features; Beautiful and feral, alien to human eyes but hauntingly similar in many ways. Mustering up her innate fey power, she began to make changes to the image, subtle at first and then growing more extreme. The first thing she changed was her curved, ram like horns, which she gently erased. Then she worked upon her lower limbs, altering them to appear as a mortal’s straighter ones. Lastly, she changed her lush, feline features into a more rounded and mundane human appearance. Holding the new image in her mind, her lips parted to utter the word of power than would channel her magic into tangible change.

“Tomorph!” she said clearly, and opened her eyes. She looked down at her new form, that of a peasant girl, perhaps more beautiful than most, but still mundane.

Satisfied, she reached to her thighs and pulled up the thin tunic she wore for modesty, revealing her nude form to the trees. Crouching low, she rifled through her pack and withdrew a simple, homespun dress and leather sandals. Dressing herself in the dark burgundy garment, she brushed a few wrinkles out of the skirt and picked up her pack. She concealed it in a nearby hollow log, covered in lichen and vines.

Soon she was walking on a dirt road well worn with wagon ruts. Stepping around piles of horse filth, she waved merrily at a middle aged man dragging an empty cart behind himself. His eyes lit up at her approach, and he put the rounded wooden beams he held in his hands gently in the dirt under his feet.

“Allison,” he said, smiling as he rubbed his sore hands. “well met, girl!”

“Well met indeed,” she said, returning the smile “just returned from selling turnips, I take it?”

“Indeed,” he said, patting the fat purse at his waist with a jingle. “I will be heading to the Hammer later this eve...will I see you there?”

She laughed gently at him.

“Of course,” she said “where else would I be?”

“You should find yourself a husband,” he said, shaking his head “no woman should have to deal with groping drunks and vomit strewn floors at your age.”

“Perhaps,” said Aven/Allison, twirling a bit of her curly locks around a finger. “But then, who would care for my infirm father?”

“Pity he lives so deep in the wood,” said the man, picking up his burden once more. “How ever do you avoid the wrath of the fey folk who dwell there?”

“By taking only what we need,” said Aven “the fey folk are not the child-gobbling monsters many purport them to be.”

“So you say,” said the man, continuing on his way “but know that I pray to the Allfather for your continued safety!”

She thanked the man and resumed walking. Her toes flexed and wriggled about in the open sandal, her new anatomy still somewhat a novelty. She could see the low walls of Ravenford coming into view through a haze of heat. The day had already grown uncomfortably warm, glistening her brow with sweat. She passed by several more travelers, all of whom seemed pleased to see her. Soon she was approaching the open gate in the man-height wooden walls. A guard leaned lazily on his spear, straightening up and smiling when she passed by. Aven returned the smile as she passed into the cool shadow of the walls.

Ravenford was not a large town, as one could walk all the way through it in under ten minute’s time. Roughly two dozen structures composed the bulk of it, built from the hardy gray lumber which could be found in abundance in the surrounding woods. The roads were unpaved but a modicum of attention had been paid to their upkeep, and no deep holes or ruts were allowed to obstruct the flow of commerce. She passed by the open stalls of foodstuff vendors, crafters and smiths, smiling prettily at each as she passed.

The creek which was the town’s namesake snaked through the center, sturdy wooden rails in place to prevent someone stumbling down the steep banks. She trod over a wooden bridge which spanned the muddy brown water, patting the head of a tow headed child fishing over the rail.

She turned off the dirt street and stepped onto the wooden boardwalk of a two story inn, a worn wooden sign proclaiming it The Hammer’s Head. Despite the early hour there were two old timers already ensconced at the bar. As the door slammed shut behind her, a portly man bustled out from a door behind the bar, a stained white rag in his hand.

“Allison,” he said with a smile “a good morning to you, my fair lady!”

“I am no lady, Brutus,” she said with a giggle “and good morning to you as well.”

The in keep was a massive man, good muscle still visible in his arms from his many years spent as a blacksmith. Though his waist had increased in girth over the years, and most of the hair fled from his scalp, his eyes still twinkled with the mischief of youth. He wiped his hand over the besmirched cloth apron he wore and began mopping at the polished wooden bar with the rag.

“If you would bring up some mutton from the cold cellar, that would be a boon,” he said to her without looking up from his task.

“Of course,” she said, walking behind the bar and donning an apron similar to Brutus’s but far cleaner. She trod down a narrow flight of stairs into a dirt floored cellar, sighing in relief as the cold air enveloped her. Selecting a haunch of lamb from where it hung suspended from a metal hook, she carefully carried it back up to the inn’s main floor.

“Looks like she handles meat really well,” said one of the old salts at the bar, laughing huskily at his own joke. Rather than be offended Aven grinned at him and even patted his wrinkled, gnarled hand as she passed.

“Don’t let your wife hear you speak of me so, Hurst,” she said merrily.

“I’ll leave her this instant if it means I can bed you,” said the old man with a lascivious wink.

“Don’t harass the help,” said Brutus darkly from behind the counter.

“It’s all right, Brutus,” said Aven as she carried her burden into the kitchen “I truly don’t mind.”

She put the haunch down and used a sharp knife to finish butchering it. Soon she had piled long strips of meat into a cast iron cooking pot hung on a hook over an ash strewn hearth. She took a bucket from off the dirty wooden floor and headed back out into the sunlight.

Aven filled the bucket at the town well, which provided better tasting and much cleaner water than the creek. Though the container was full to the brim, she did not seem to struggle overmuch with its weight. On her way back to the Hammer she stopped to listen to the town crier as he loudly bellowed the news of the day.

“Day of mourning is declared after Lord Higgins passes away at his estate,” he said to all who could hear. “The engagement of Sir Bruno Cromwell and Lady Katherine of Mannix has been regretfully dissolved! The traitorous village of Longbrook has been razed to the ground by the king’s decree! All subjects must have their taxes paid by Midsummer or face collection efforts...”

She walked on, her face twisting up in disgust. Aven had seen all to well the brutality and avarice involved in ‘collection efforts’ by the king’s men. Brutus noticed her scowl as she reentered the Hammer with her burden.

“Gnat fly into your mouth?” he said with a grin.

“No, Brutus,” she said, grinning back “just news that made my stomach a bit sour.”

Aven went into the kitchen and dumped the bucket’s contents into the pot. Using flint and steel, she managed to get a fat spark, and soon had a cheery fire burning in the hearth. She added sliced carrots and potatoes to the heating water as the smells of stewing mutton began to fill the air.

Returning to the common area, she used a straw broom to brush as much of the dirt out the door as she could manage. While she worked, Hurst and his companion chatted idly.

“Hear about Sir Rufus the Nine fingered?” said Hurst.

“Aye,” said his friend with a sad shake of his shaggy head “kicked in the head by his horse, he was. Got the brain fever and died.”

“I wonder who will be sent to replace him?” said Hurst.

“A tiny speck of phlegm like Ravenford?” said his companion with a harsh laugh. “Who says the king will bother?”

“We need protection from the fey folk just as much as any town,” said Hurst “moreso, as we have to contend with the Lady of the Forest.”

“Bah,” said the other man “myths and legends frighten me not.”

“Old Shaw says he saw her several days ago,” said Hurst.

“Shaw once told me an arrow went into his left ear and came out bloodlessly on the other side,” said his friend derisively.

“With Shaw,” said Hurst “I might believe it!”

They both laughed as Aven indulged herself in a self-satisfied smile.

** *

Roland’s office was a contrast to the man’s neat appearance, bearing stacks of paper and tomes which seemed ever on the verge of collapsing into a catastrophic mess. His furnishings were surprisingly spartan, with a wide oak desk bereft of any adornment, and a simple wooden chair with leather padding on the seat and back. Dozens of candles shone from sconces in the wall and ceiling, lighting up the chamber far more than even the throne room in the gloomy palace. The chamber had no windows and but one obvious door. However, with a slight twist of one of the wall sconces, bearing a curiously unlit candle, the large bookshelf behind his desk could be made to swing outward and reveal a hidden passage.

Roland did just that, after securely locking the standard door. The shelf slid almost silently outwards to reveal a dark tunnel out of which stepped Crown. The man was no longer dressed as a servant, but was instead wearing the garb of a minstrel complete with flute. Roland shook his head at the man’s foppish appearance as he stepped aside to allow his egress.

“A musician?” he said “really?”

“Who else can justify traveling far and wide,” said Crown while spreading his hands “and not be a target for bandits? For minstrels are a penniless lot, one and all.”

“You,” said Roland “the Grey Death himself, frightened of simple bandits?”

Crown bowed his head slightly and smiled.

“I never cared for that designation,” said Crown “and a healthy respect of long pointed objects is required for my profession.”

Roland shrugged, handing Crown a leather purse brimming with coins. Crown took the bag without opening it, considering it rude to count it out in front of the man (though he surely planned to do so later.)

“You have further tasks for me?” said Crown, arching his brows.

“Right to the point,” said Roland “as always. Yes, the King has decided that one of his knights Templar may be growing too popular for his own good.”

“I see,” said Crown “and you would like for him to have some sort of...accident?”

“Verily,” said Roland, nodding “but it must seem as if he was slain by the king’s enemies.”

“Are not all the king’s enemies dead?” jested Crown with a smile.

“New ones spring up from the very rock, it seems,” said Roland “It appears the remnants of the decades old rebellion have finally crawled out of whatever vile crevice they have been hiding in.”

“I will need specifics,” said Crown “if I am to carry out this task.”

“Unfortunately,” said Roland with a smirk “there is little intelligence forthcoming. The village of Longbrook’s denizens could provide us with no good leads, and the men who attacked the king’s soldiers have faded into the forest as if they were but spirits. It is whispered that they have faerie assistance.”

Crown whistled at the proclamation, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“It will take some time,” he said “to glean the information I require to properly frame them for his...abrupt exit.”

Roland smiled.

“His majesty is prepared to be patient while you ply your trade in your inimitable fashion, Grey Death,” he said. “Just be sure that the rebels are blamed. Be sure of it.”

Crown nodded, frowning a bit as he mentally ran through a checklist of what he would need.

“Who is the unfortunate fellow who has drawn the king’s ire?” he said at length.

Roland took a deep breath, as if the answer troubled him.

“Sir Bruno Cromwell,” he said.

“The black knight?” said Crown, eyes going wide “He is hardly the type to usurp a throne from its righteous ruler, my good sir. In fact, is he not known for his propensity for conforming, perhaps as compensation for his dark skin?”

The seneschel chewed his lower lip.

“This does not reach anyone’s ear but your own,” said Roland “but his majesty has been known to indulge in practices that some consider...heathen.”

Crown laughed.

“I am well aware of Drakken’s obsession with fortune telling and augery, my good man.” he said.

Roland nodded grimly.

“Well, the augers rarely agree with one another,” he said “but they have had a rare consensus of opinion; They say a man from the South will strike down Drakken and rule the North in his place. A man of great skill in arms, who bears the mark of shame upon him...”

“I see,” said Crown, nodding “well, of course I shall take care of it, but for such a fearsome foe, surely his majesty plans to be...generous?”

Roland sneered.

“I am prepared to pay double your normal fee, and that is all,” he said curtly.

“That will be most sufficient,” said Crown with a grin.