The Fifth Tower

by Richard Lafayette Cox, V.

Prologue

The harvest moon hung low in the late hours of the autumn night sky, a pale testament to the steady approach of winter. Under the lunar gaze a small village stood silent, its occupants entranced in a deep slumber. In the shadows cast upon houses, stables, and fields reaped of all claimable bounty, man and beast were in blissful peace. But it is always the quiet hours just before moonset and sunrise that the peace is broken, if only for just a moment - the involuntary cough of an unconscious child, the faint howl of a wolf on the outskirts of the town, or a midnight traveller and his horse, galloping gracefully down the dirt road to another city or land.

And tonight would be no exception. The subtle tremble of hoof against stone was repeated into the unwavering silence, beckoning the attention of any creature attune enough to notice. A horse trotted in from the village's Northwestern trail, a small but oft used path for officials and agents of the omnipotent vassal. The horse carried a slim, cloaked figure; masculinity defined by broad shoulders. The rider bid his beast to stop near a wooden post in the extremity of the moonlight, and it obeyed. The man's face could not have been made out at all, for as he dismounted he was lost to the shadow cast by the wide, erect post.

He reached to his mounts side and removed his utensils from a satchel. A poster was unfolded, and with a few taps of his hammer, two nails held the proclamation for all to see in the coming hours. The cloaked man turned and stepped into the moonlight, revealing a scar that jutted across his chin and up to just under his eye. He mounted the horse, and without any further action, rode away.

In the remaining twilight hours the village would slowly begin to wake. In the morning, the words upon the poster would be read. And without fail, the words would surely have some consequence to them. For words in themselves can be an action.