Chapter 1

The sounds of revelry filled the night air, drifting through the town with the raucous calls of the drunk and the smells of roasting meat, sizzling and dripping on spits over beds of glowing embers.

Children ran screaming and laughing, chased by their mothers in between the legs of their fathers, the scene replayed a hundred times over throughout the bustling streets. They were lit up by the guttering light of a thousand candles, flickering behind the warped panes of glass in the lanterns festooning the taverns and shops.

It was a night of warmth and light, when any struggles or difficulties the day might hold were forgotten, when ale and wine flowed like water and a hundred children were conceived.

The man drifted through the crowds, side-stepping the inebriated old and the energetic young with the ease of one long used to it.

One hand was at his side, the thumb hooked through his belt, fingers resting ever so gently on his hip, while the other was holding a slice of mutton.

He leaned forwards slightly as he brought it to his face and slowly tore off a strip with his teeth, the movement strangely delicate.

He paused next to an inn as the door burst open and a small crowd fell out, still shouting and cheering about something that had happened inside. Several of them vomited in the alleyway next to the inn, and one of them didn't even make it that far, and then they were past him, vanishing like smoke, lost in the swirling, seething mass of humanity that made up the festival.

As they departed the man became aware of being watched. He looked over in the alleyway and saw a feral dog gazing at him. It was small and scrawny, its coat matted with filth, but its ears were pricked up and it was staring at him expectantly.

After a moments consideration, he extended his arm and offered it the piece of meat.

The dog stared at the meat, occasionally lifting its head to regard him with something approaching suspicion. Perhaps reasoning that it had nothing to lose and a piece of meat to gain, it inched forwards, then, reaching no discernible decision, trotted over and took the food from his hand, wolfing it down and then licking his hand in the forlorn hope that more was to follow.

He scratched it behind the head for a minute before it turned around and disappeared back into the night, but now its tail was wagging slightly.

He smiled faintly, resuming his passage through the heaving throng.

The man's wanderings eventually brought him to the town square, a grubby affair of muddy cobblestones and even dirtier people.

He pushed his way through the crowds, elbows creating space where it didn't naturally occur, until he reached the front. There, up on the dais, surrounded by firelight in a ring of flickering torches, the fey was playing.

Pale and slight, small compared to the humans watching, it was almost the same size as the instrument it was playing.

It was sitting on a wooden stool, and clasped in front of it like some bizarre amalgamation of shield and lover, was a wooden instrument of most unusual proportions.

The neck extended up over the players head, while the body of the instrument was wide and flat, a deep hollow from which emerged a strange, haunting melody.

A half-dozen wires stretched down from top to bottom, and the left hand of the fey was dancing up and down them, flickering from one to the other like a spider made of silverdance.

He watched the fingers, almost entranced by the fluid rapidity with which they moved, the five of them skittering from one wire to another, three knuckles giving them dexterity beyond that of a mere human, and the thumb softly bracing against the wooden neck.

The fey's right hand was holding a long wooden bow, the horsetail fibres stretching over it and sliding across the wires, almost pulling the music from the instrument.

Then the fey started to sing.

His voice, or maybe hers, the androgynous features of the fey difficult to distinguish from a distance, was high and sweet, the tone gently ululating up and down.

The watching man smiled at the words, for he had not heard that tongue in a long time.

The fey sang of forgotten times, of legends born and long dead, when silver learned to dance and chaos first came to the world. A mournful and bittersweet lamentation.

Throughout it all, the fey never opened its eyes. It sat motionless on the stool, slender features highlighted in the firelight, orbits seemingly sunk into its head and providing an unearthly contrast to the filaments of spun gold cascading from its scalp.

The music continued long after the voice had faded away, sweeping through soaring highs one moment before descending into the lowest depths the next.

When silence finally fell the fey seemed to shudder slightly, as if something had been played or sung that perhaps shouldn't have. Then, without a word, it rose from its seat and walked off, carefully carrying the strange instrument.

The crowd parted for the small creature, some clapping, but the sound quickly dried up, sounding tawdry and forced, unworthy of the evanescent music.

But this was a night for cheer, and the crowd soon began calling to another to take the stage, and after a few token refusals, someone obliged.

They laughed and called out encouragement as the bard stood before them, tall in his ragged robes, bristling salt-and-pepper beard jutting from his chin and lending him an air of impromptu gravitas.

"Is it a tale you seek?" He cried out in mock surprise, and they called out their agreement.

"Perhaps a tale of darkness and the horrors of the night?" He asked, drawing his robes together and glancing fearfully at the sky.

"No, no," The crowd cried, playing along with the act.

"No?" The bard mused, eyebrows raised. "Maybe you desire something more suited for a festival. A tale of bold deeds and noble warriors?"

They cheered enthusiastically, every one of them knowing where he was going, but too caught up in the act do anything else.

"A tale of how Vanesh scoured our lands of the Skaelir?" The bard smiled slyly. "Or perhaps you want a tale of something… greater."

The crowd was full-throated in its approval, and those children with no shoulders to sit on began pushing their way between legs for a better position.

"Then I shall tell the tale of Andwulf the Great!" The bard declared, and was met with the loudest cheers yet.

The bard raised his arms, and silence fell.

"One day," he said, his voice deep and sonorous, staring out into the crowd and meeting the eyes of the children especially, "many years ago, there came to our lands a ship. A ship of unusual make, large and sleek and fast. None knew what to make of this ship, for soon after making landfall its crew boarded again and off they went, across the Eastern Sea."

The crowd was hushed, the children barely daring to breathe with eyes like saucers.

"Time passed, and when most had forgotten it the ship returned, only this time it was not alone. No!" The bard cried out, his voicing rising in pitch and intensity. "It had brought a hundred of its kin, and then a hundred more!

"And from these two hundred ships spilled a tide of men. Warriors and builders of the Eastern Lands, they built first a town, and then a great city, and finally a mighty fortress from the bones of the earth itself!

"These men from the foreign lands, these Outlanders, they killed and raped and plundered the land for leagues around. Their atrocities grew so great that even the gods were angered. Such terrors had not been inflicted since the Ymor were condemned!"

The crowd hissed and booed, and the man's lip curled, while the children shrank back.

"But as the Outlanders grew too greedy, as they marched forth to take what was rightfully ours" and here he slammed a fist against his chest, cheering alongside his audience, "there arose amongst the people of the central lands a hero like no other. A warrior unbeaten in battle, a leader unrivalled in wisdom, and a man so noble in character that there were none who gazed upon him that would not follow him into the Underland itself!

"With his wisdom he prevailed upon all the tribes to gather together and face down the Outlanders, and such was the need and the nobility in his words that all who heard them bent their knee and swore fealty to this greatest of men."

He was a warlord who beat them into submission and made them praise him for it.

"This hero gathered the warriors from all across the land, a thousand from the north, a thousand from the south, and a thousand from the heartlands. And though he gathered a host never before seen, the hearts of his men quailed when they saw the enemy. For the enemy warriors seemed without number, a horde to shake the world with its passing. Ten times a thousand marched under their foreign banner, and even the boldest of men hesitated to fight.

"But then, this hero, none other than Andwulf himself, spoke forth. 'Will you not defend your homes?' he cried out. 'Will you not fight these intruders? For ours is the cause of the righteous, and the gods themselves bear witness to our glory!' And his men were filled with courage, and gladly they followed him into the maelstrom of battle!"

The bard raised his arms, waving them around dramatically to emphasise the story, mimicking the supposedly heroic posture Andwulf apparently had.

"Into the battle, you pox-ridden sons of whores, or I'll kill you all myself!"

"And though the enemy greatly outnumbered them, such was the courage and might of Andwulf that not one man turned and fled. The battle raged for hours, and when night finally fell over the field of battle, there wasn't a single enemy left alive."

The audience was cheering now, and the bard had to raise his voice and then raise it again, fighting to be heard, describing the great slaughter Andwulf had wrought, the victory he had won for his people and the courageous deeds of his sons and war leaders.

Screams. Swords and axes hacking in a mad frenzy of hate and terror. Blood drenching the ground, turning earth into mud until simply standing was a trial, with exhaustion weighing their limbs like lead and their throats raw from screaming.

"Ever since that fateful day, the Outlanders have never dared to venture far beyond their great walls, but their vengeance was felt all too soon."

The bard's voice fell, so that everyone had to hold their breath and lean forwards to hear him, and when next he spoke they could all hear the sorrow behind his words.

"Not a year had passed before Andwulf the Great was slain, murdered in his bed by a wretched assassin."

The audience all groaned in sympathy, bewailing the fate of such a hero.

But soon they were clamouring for more, and someone passed up a mug of honeyed mead to the bard. He drank deeply from it before resuming his work, choosing another story to entertain them.

He spoke until his voice was hoarse, telling them stories of heroes and warlords, mighty leaders and wicked villains, of the Ymor and the giants and how the Judge loved a mortal and was blinded for it by the Mighty One.

They cheered and clapped and gasped in horror, lacing words with power and turning history into legend, until the torches burned low and needed to be rekindled.

Eventually the stories were done, and the crowd dispersed, buzzing with laughter, the children fighting mock battles underneath their parents feet, complaining bitterly about being forced to bed until they were bribed with the promise of some mead.

Then the town square was empty, the small cobbled area almost indistinguishable from the streets due to the mud trampled over it, and only one person was left.

The man sighed, drawing the cool night air deep into his lungs with something like relief, letting the wind caress his skin with a silken touch.

There was little to set him apart from the others. His age was indeterminate, his hair was dark and his clothes were worn but of good quality. He was neither handsome nor ugly. His cheekbones were a shade higher than most and his eyes were the grey of winter seas, with all the warmth.

His was not a face of joy.

He straightened, shaking off the brief moment of melancholy, and headed back the way he had arrived, then turned and entered the nearest tavern.

As he pushed open the door he was hit by a blast of warmth, the air smelled of wood smoke and stale beer.

The bartender, a stocky man, fat and red-faced as all bartenders seem to be, glanced over from where he was serving another customer.

"Evening, Lukas." He called out cheerfully.

"Evening, Tobias." Lukas replied, smiling warmly, if distantly. "Got a mug of ale handy?"

Tobias laughed and slid one along the counter for Lukas to scoop up. "Enjoying the festival?"

"Haven't had this much fun in ages." Lukas said as he took a mouthful, the lie slipping easily from his tongue.

Some of the patrons, perhaps feeling more generous than usual, called him over to a table by the fireside where they were playing dice, pulling up a chair for him as they shuffled round to make room.

One of them tossed another couple of logs on the fire, jabbing at it with the iron poker and sending sheets of sparks roaring up the chimney ad filling the room with warmth.

The next few hours passed in a blur of ale and crude jokes, the men laughing and spilling more drink than they swallowed, the losers buying the next round.

Lukas was always careful to drink slowly, never letting the alcohol overwhelm him, and if any of his companions noticed, they made no comment.

Eventually he grew restless, tired of the same jokes and games.

He made his excuses, of course drinking a final mug of ale to fend off the night's chill, and walked out into the streets again.

They were substantially emptier than they had been before. Most citizens of the town had retired to their beds long before, leaving only the most determined revellers.

The torches and lanterns had been left to die, the flames gone or else naught but tiny pinpricks of amber, a dying constellation in the darkness.

He headed away from the centre of the town, walking slowly down muddy streets and filth-strewn alleys. He had no destination in mind, but simply walked for something to do.

The High One's children were bright that night, he thought bitterly as he glanced at the sky, and their gaze was cold, watching his aimless wandering with apathy.

He reached the lodge where he was staying, paused, and then continued on. He was too restless to sleep yet, and needed to clear his head. In truth, he knew what he needed to do, but was uncharacteristically reluctant to admit it to himself.

His meandering took him to the edge of the town proper, and there he turned, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness as he walked his great circle. His feet found the way automatically, for it was a route he had walked before, more than once.

When he arrived back at his lodging almost an hour later, he knew that he couldn't put it off any further.

Entering the inn, nodding a greeting at the man unfortunate enough to be holding the night shift this evening, he made his way upstairs and to his room.

The moment he shut his door he relaxed, the tension he had not even noticed draining away from him, as it always did.

First he went to the cheap wooden chest, pulling out his clothes and laying down those for the morrow, then packing the rest away in his travelling bag.

Next he took out his sword, carefully, almost reverently laying it down on the wooden floor. Underneath this he placed two small blades of different shapes, the smooth precision of his movements speaking of long practise.

One by one he lifted them, tested their edges, and polished them with an oily cloth. There was no need to do so, but the action calmed him, and with each stroke of the cloth he felt better, his troubled thoughts easing, as if he were wiping free his doubts.

Finally, he removed the last items.

A small bow, unstrung and curving forward noticeably, made of dark wood and other materials, followed by a pouch of spare bow strings and a quiver. The arrows were checked carefully, the flights straightened when necessary, and then it was all laid out next to the bed.

The whole ritual had taken no more than a quarter of an hour, but by the end of it Lukas was ready. His breathing was deep and regular, and when he climbed into his sleeping roll he fell asleep in minutes.