The Cursed Land

PREFACE

Fifteen years recounting the tales of a single day. It had changed the people, and it changed what would and would not be tolerated. Many were weary to see or even speak of battle. The majority agreed that unchecked power led to the widespread damage the land still suffered. The borders of Methandar still showed the deepest scarring. Every building or highway just less than a day's lead from the Kin's stronghold was newly built or crudely reframed on remaining foundations. Many foundations never were built upon again, leaving some of the heat-scored areas with a cratered appearance.

Falk Cordin had been present in the ranks when the forces of Fledgrade had brought a challenge and the secret of a magical weapon to the Eastern border of the Master Kin's lands. But now, a generation later, his strongest memory of that day was also the strangest detail to now be recalling.

Battle lines had been formed, three days previous, on the now hoove-scored and heat blasted plain. No living thing remained, and the twilight winds pulled dust into the air. All that could be sighted two leagues down the east road, a rugged grotto granary, the nearest farming settlement, simply appeared abandoned. Even if an exodus had been possible, the attempt was made in haste and fear. Torn open sacks of winter stores still spilt forth bits of grain at the wind's incessant passing. The only creative motion came from in front of a thrown open door, where an empty, dark cloak lay caught. It billowed and twisted like one trying to remain, yet fighting against agony to break free from this place.

This was a place best forgotten simply to weathering and time until the miracle of rebirth and growth could take hold. Devastation called forth by a rogue warrior seeking command of a vague force. Forever changing the socio-political and actual landscape without warning in one tremendous blast of magical fire. None could say if the act truly came from a desire to erase a land's curse. The families of those lost would say one side or the other brought it upon those least deserving to die. Only superstitions would grow from this land for some time. Nature's cycle might make the land live again, but the people, if any remained, would never forget this day. The day magic was brought to Methandar.

The raven had been sent out for a specific purpose, to bring back to the court some sign of the Kin's men. If spotted, certainly a trophy of campaign victory would be offered up to the trained bird by a steward of one of the weary fighters, or by the Kin himself. Otherwise, any bloodied scrap or still-fleshed bone would be the bird's recourse and the sign of battle defeat.

All the fighters in the Kin's company knew his Challord's unusual sport bird. It was an extremely efficient hunter. Some of the men thought the bird's hunting instincts were too finely honed. It had often seemed to make a game of diving at the fighters' heads as they parlayed outside the armory. At a word from its master, it would sweep into the skies and slope downward at just the angle to swipe at the helmeted heads. On occasion, it would maneuver it's flight head-on and wisk past a nose or an ear, especially if the target's were unusually large, clapping its beak open and closed loudly in a warning chuckle. Rumors were that the bird really preferred men's flesh, and none of the warriors were really sure what the Challord fed the bird.