A story started long ago

Stillness. It engulfed the meadow like a warm blanket. The only sounds were the splashing of the creek into the small lake, the song of the birds, and every so often, the soft breeze caressing the trees. A cricket jumped gleefully through the high grass. He was returning to the mushroom he had found earlier that day, hoping it would still be there. As he jumped high, he momentarily caught a glance of the world beyond the green skyscrapers, exhilarated by the view. At his next jump, he glanced down, shocked to see beneath him not the familiar brown of the earth and green of the grass, but a hunter green and dark brown boulder, with ivory appendages. As the cricket tried to jump away again, he was caught in a prison of ivory and hunter green. His screams went unnoticed.

         His captor grunted as she sat up, and lifted the cricket she had caught to eye level. Carefully she peeked into her closed hands, to see the cricket, who indignantly protested. She sorrowfully smiled at him, and carefully put him back down to the ground, where he hopped away cheerfully. Her bow was lying beside her in the grass, as was her sword belt. Stretching, she fell back into the comforts of the meadow. Closing her eyes, she imagined her home. The large silver-grey stone her family’s manor was made of. She pictured the purple flowers that bloomed outside of the house, right next to the moat, which her mother would be picking to be placed in the rooms. Her father would no doubt be in the courtyard, overseeing the training of the newly recruited men at arms.

         And her brother would be in the library, scavenging for books he would need at Manu Bahart. Her dear brother. He was merely two years older, but often made those two years count for decades. Aye, his wisdom exceeded hers by decades. He always had his nose in books, from the time he was a young lad. He enjoyed the outdoors, and also was an avid swordsman. But per his father’s request, he went into studies instead of training at the Queen’s palace. He would lead Tifften after their father’s death, instead of whoever she might marry. This had left her open to things other than motherhood.

         With a jolt, she sat up, tears falling down her cheeks. It was no use remembering the manor of Tifften. For it did not exist anymore, neither did the library, nor the purple flowers. The courtyard remained, aye, but it was no longer surrounded by towers and large silver-grey stone. It was surrounded by the charred remains of what was once Tifften.

         ‘The gods be damned,’ she rolled to her feet, grabbing her gear, ‘this is not over.’ She quietly walked a few paces before hearing the noise. Lithely, almost cat-like, she swung into the nearest tree, ambushing the ambush meant for her.



         Twiddling with the reins, Alvin struggled with his saddle bags to find the note he was looking for. He knew he had to remember where he put things; otherwise he would forever be searching for things. But alas, his mind wandered too often to remember to remember where he put things. After another few rummages through the bags, he eventually strapped them back to his saddle.

         At least this horse was more predictable than the last one he had. He was no avid rider and hated being on horseback for more than an hour or so. What he hated more than the rocking motion one experienced in the saddle, was falling off the horse. Hence his last horse, a war horse by training, had been politely returned to the Army of the Hawk’s General. He, in turn, had ensured that the pony Diddlus, who was riding now, would make his way to Alvin.

         The general at least knew not to underestimate him. Although he was hapless on a horse, and barely knew what end of a sword to hold, he was hardly a harmless man. His training at Manu Bahart had ensured that, as had nearly a decade at Nuncius, the city of diplomacy. His talent for hammering out treaties and cease fires had made him somewhat of a legend in Nuncius.

         Most recently, he traveled to Kendo, to draft a new version of the alliance it held with the Kingdom. The island far to the south of the Kingdom often needed their protection, but in turn it traded almost exclusively with the Kingdom. The goods had to travel a perilous journey over the sea, but once in the Kingdom, they were of great value.

         His mind was torn back to the present, when he spotted a chestnut mare, idly tied to a tree near a meadow. He halted, debating if he should come closer. He knew that whoever was in the meadow must have spotted him by now, so he dismounted from Diddlus and pulled him towards the meadow. Once there, he saw a man, face down, next to the mare in the high grass. He tied Diddlus up to the tree, and turned around with a start.



         The blade was touching his throat. The cold of the metal clashed with the heat of his skin. The long dagger extended to an ivory hand, with a slender, ivory arm. He knew better than to underestimate the prowess of that woman, and knew many a man had died due to just that kind of thinking.

         “It’s good to see you, Alvin,” she smiled sardonically. She sheathed the dagger, berating him. “Had it been anyone but me, you would be dead already.”

         “Like the fellow next to Nightwatch?” He turned back to his saddle bags, rummaging through to find that note, and maybe to find a clean pair of underpants.

         “Hmpf,” she turned and made her way to the body. Searching it with expert hands, she pulled out whatever knives and valuables he had, including a note sealed with the seal of the Hawk. “Look,” she said, holding the note out to him, under the belly of her horse.

         Alvin gulped, and bent low to pick up the note, before quickly straightening again. He thought he saw her smiling. But there was something about that smile; he had noticed it earlier. It was empty. Devoid of happiness, maybe even devoid of all feeling. “Certainly not his, this is a royal decree. He is hardly a royal courier.”

         She nodded. “I agree. There’s two more in the lake, help me get them out.”

         Alvin sighed, realizing he had no other pair of clean trousers. He turned to help her fish the two men out of the water, also both not royal couriers. She removed from their pockets and other hidden places all valuables and weapons. He silently watched her expert hands move at almost lightning speed.

         “We should burn the bodies,” she said, matter-of-factly.

         “You killed three men, Ira,” Alvin’s words were soft, gentle almost, but with a hint of steel in them. “Why did you kill these men, when you could have kept them for questioning?”

         “They attacked me.” She turned to face him, her face pale and full of something he had never seen in her. It was not anger, nor range. It was something almost animalistic. “Tifften is gone.”

         The words she said, simply, devoid of emotion, felt like she had pulled that dagger out again. He fumbled for words, of sympathy, of outrage, of utter confusion. But nothing came out. He moved close to her, her eyes cast down. He put his hands on her shoulders, trying again to say something, but instead just pulled her close. At first, he thought she was shaking, and then he heard the sobs. He was motionless; he had never seen her cry before. They stood like this, in the middle of the beautiful meadow, with the sun shining down on them. Eventually, her sobs ebbed, and she pushed slightly away from him. He pulled out his handkerchief, searching for an expression on her face as he handed it to her.

         She smiled, wiping her tears and blowing her nose. He was a good friend. He could be a dangerous man, this hapless looking guy. It was the reason he could not be married. The women he wanted to marry often did not see his brilliance and that he was far braver than most knights. Where knights had skills in weaponry and great numbers, Alvin often stood alone, surrounded by those that wished to harm him. He had been a hostage five times now, and each time, his cunning and diplomacy ensured that he made it out alive. No, women did not know this man as she knew him.

         After Ira had lit the corpses, she went back to make a fire for the both of them. Luckily, Alvin had saved some of the dried meat and bread that he bought at the last village, as well as a cantina of ale.  Ira sat, staring at the fire, lamely chewing on a piece of dried meat. “What happened, Ira? Why are these men dead?”

         Her eyes looked hollow, and she took a big swig from the cantina. “Tifften was burned to the ground by raiders. They killed my father’s guards, each and every one. My mother’s household was rounded up and executed in the courtyard. My mother herself was raped by the leaders of the raid, and then beaten to death. My father, trying to protect her, was tortured to death. I have no idea where my brother is; he is not at Manu Bahart.”

         “How do you know this?”

         “One stable boy survived by hiding in the hayloft. He barely escaped when they set the stables on fire. He was heavily wounded when the soldiers of the Army brought him to me. He had walked from Tifften to Pomira. Once there, he collapsed, and they brought him to me only because they saw the signet ring that he had taken from our manor. The doctors could not save him, but he lived long enough to tell me what happened. He was seven years old. Seven years old, and he saw horrors that a seasoned warrior would struggle with. I imagine that death came as a release to him,” she buried her face in her hands and sobbed loudly.

         Alvin put his arm around her, and drew her close to him. She muttered undistinguishable words, but he thought he caught their meaning. He stroked her hair, and once again forgot about the three men, whose corpses were no more than hot ash on the other side of the lake.