Thunder before White Fire: First Strike

Chapter One

~O~

            In the lands of Dainorn, warriors say that death is like lightning... If by some miracle you survive a fatal strike it is rare that you would be hit again soon after, for a brush with the white fire of death leaves you ever watchful of its approach from the unseen corner... The marks it leaves upon your flesh being the thunder that reminds you to be so, until time fades them away and you lower your guard like one watching the retreat of a passing storm... In the lands of Dainorn, warriors say that death is like lightning... Ready to take the unwary even when the storm has passed...

            The man lifted his gaze from the book on the table before him, though his fingers still lay at rest on the edge of the pages. Those pages bore the words spoken so long ago by the greatest of Dainorn's High Generals. That general was Othsar Hopelyre, more the name of a scholar than a warrior, but hope was what he gave the people in those last dark days of the Unending War. That war, a war so long that none knew when or why it had started; all records from before it gone to fire and dust. He was one who on the great plain known as the Golden Sea, known so for the long grasses that turned that colour upon the peak of summer, had strode out unarmed to stand between the armies of the Two Kingdoms and challenged them to strike him down. Both armies had simply stood there, neither moving, for none with honour and conscience would strike down an unarmed man be he enemy or not.
 

Standing there, defiant between them, Othsar had then uttered the words for which he would forever be remembered.

            'Why fight for a reason none know or remember? Why throw ourselves upon the blades and spears of our brother men? Why leave families grieving for those lost to these reasonless battles? I, Othsar Hopelyre, stand here before you all, unarmed, and yet none of you would slay me. If you have honour enough to spare an unarmed man, then you have honour enough to spare those who hold blade and spear to fight a war that none alive today even started. What will it be, men of the Two Kingdoms? Shall we spill our blood this day, turning the Golden Sea red? Shall we continue the Unending War? ...Or shall we in honour and conscience lower our weapons and walk from these fields not as enemies, but as brothers. Prove that this supposedly endless war can and will end, without any other lives cast to the fools who started this conflict between our two countries... What will it be, men of the Two Kingdoms? Choose!'

            As his words had faded into the still air it was one by one, and then many by many, that the men of the two armies had sheathed swords and lowered spears, before cheering as one while their two kings rode forth to stand humbled before the man that had shown them that they could choose a new path; a path of peace...

            The fingers moved; the hand they belonged to closing the book while the man's gaze remained upon the cobbled streets of Grey Tor visible through the window. The man was Aron Skyhawk, trained to the sword. A man who was once a soldier but now was no more. While the Two Kingdoms, Dainorn and Galnorn, had been at peace for almost a millennia, the countries to the south and west that had previously been happy to watch them tear each other apart, had upon the end of the war unleashed periodic attacks against what had been two terribly weakened countries.

 

Forced to watch outwards instead of concentrating inwards on repairing the damage from the war, they'd had no choice but to guard their borders against the attacks. It was only now, centuries later, that time and persistence had thwarted the sabotage of the Two Nations, as Krindir and Ankral were known. The Two Kingdoms, now stable and prospering as they never had in all of their known history, had disbanded a full third of their armies, the rest being more than sufficient to deal with the occasional raids from the Two Nations.
 

            He was one of those that had left service voluntarily. Having given up his position as one of Dainorn's High Generals he now lived in this farming town. Turning the basic forging skills he'd learned in the military and refining them with practice, he now forged nothing more sinister than hoes, ploughs, and the like. The former general was now just a blacksmith, one whose only fights these days were against the occasional group of bandits.

            He got up, wincing as he stretched out lean but well muscled limbs that had gone stiff with sitting so long at the table by the window. It wasn't often that he read that book, a book containing only a handful of pages that all soldiers knew by heart. But every so often that old life called to him and he found himself once again reading those oft quoted words of old. Habit, they say, is hard to break, and habit one is born to even more so. His father had been a warrior, his grandfather, and his before that, generation after generation of inborn instinct for battle edging at him constantly, catching him off guard now and then. Yes he still fought battles, helping defend the town when one of the inevitable bands of raiders should decide to try their luck against Grey Tor's handful of warriors, but nothing on the scale he’d previously been used to.
 

These days raids on Grey Tor were always unsuccessful. In the five years since his settling here not a single townsman or woman had been killed in one, and it was something that the people here took pride in by giving small perks to the town's few warriors. It could be something as simple as a free mug of ale at a local tavern, or the mending of a torn jacket without charging for it; just little things here and there, to show that their efforts were appreciated.

            In his case Aron got all of the small time blacksmithing trade in the town. Everyone knew he was useless at the more complicated things, but for small things like repairing cracked tools, or to get nails for building work, they all came to him.

 

A cracked blade on a hoe could be fixed by welding a piece of iron across it, and nails were apprentice work, so simple that a practiced hand could turn out hundreds in an hour though sharpening them took much longer. These things didn't earn him a lot of money, but they earned him enough to pay for his modest needs. That was enough to keep him happy, or at least that's what he kept telling himself.
 

Distant lands still called out to him, his hand still most comfortable holding blade rather than hammer. This simple life of peace was what many dreamt of having, but for Aron Skyhawk it was only that, a dream he'd thought he'd wanted and yet now realised he would never really belong to. He was only thirty-two years old and yet he felt like an old man, stagnating like water in a weed-clogged pond; stagnating here in Grey Tor when he still had over a century of life left ahead of him.

            Grimacing as he continued to stretch, he stopped and ran a hand over his surprisingly unlined face. Being exposed to such continuously harsh conditions, with limited food and often polluted water, for countless centuries had turned his people into a race apart. The hard conditions and early, usually violent deaths no longer cutting their lives short, the people of the Two Kingdoms found themselves had found themselves living more than twice as long as their Two Nations counterparts.
 

Resilient as no other humans in this world of men were, long life was a fact now that deaths from battles and raids were no longer so common. The people of the Two Kingdoms were regularly living to see their fifteenth decade, with most seeing at least fourteen, and one would be hard pressed to tell a Two Kingdom's man of ten decades apart from a Two Nations man of four. It had its downside though, causing much jealousy from the people of the Two Nations, and as such despite many attempts at peaceful negotiation they still refused to come to peace terms. Thus the border skirmishes would continue, keeping at least some warriors occupied. Aron of course wasn't so lucky.

            Speaking of the man, he was now slouching his way unenthusiastically towards the tiny stove at the opposite end of the room behind his workshop. He was young and stuck in a rut, one from which he was having a hard time seeing a way out of. He didn't even have the attentions of a woman to keep him occupied; though more than a few of the local girls had made it clear they were interested. The problem was that he wasn't, and didn't look likely to be as long as he remained so depressed.
 

Sombre and silent, he stopped by the stove long enough to discover that the stew pot upon it was empty, the nearby bread stale, and a glance in the pantry showed there was next to nothing left in there either. Cursing as he realised he would have to go to the market to buy food, it was only after it had rang several times that his mind registered that he was hearing one of the town's alarm bells, which meant one thing... bandit raid.

            It was with swift and efficient movements that he grabbed his chain-mail shirt from a rack in the corner of the room and the longsword from behind it. The wooden back door of his home banging open at the force he'd exerted on it, he sprinted down the street in the direction of the bell that was ringing.

He wasn't the only one on the move, and soon out of the corners of his eyes he caught glimpses of other men with weapons through alleyways as they ran in parallel to him on adjacent streets. By the time he and the other sixteen men that were the sum of Grey Tor's warriors reached the gate closest to the ringing bell, the attacking force of some thirty bandits were halfway down from the one forested section of slope on the hills surrounding the valley.
 

That forest had hidden them for a while, but now without its cover the bandits were sitting ducks. Three of the defenders had longbows, and even as their comrades charged forth towards the attackers they began to fire, and would continue to fire until doing so would endanger Aron and the others. True to form, they felled several of the raiders by the time the other fourteen men ploughed into the remaining attackers like a battering ram.

            The crash of metal on metal, the thud of blade meeting flesh, and the resulting screams of agony filled the air; the warriors of Grey Tor systematically separating the bandit mob into smaller groups that were quickly and mercilessly dealt with. It was thus that less than three minutes after the bell had begun to ring that the bandits were reduced to silent bloody mounds scattered upon the slope below the forest.

            As one man inspected a minor cut on his forearm, gained from blocking one presumed dead bandit who had gotten up and tried to stab him in the back, Aron sheathed his longsword and tied it in its normal place across his back.

            'That was careless, Lineir. You should know by now its better to waste a moment to make sure something is dead before you step over it, than to risk it not being dead and killing you from behind. You're lucky you heard him get up, or Grey Tor would have lost its reputation of never losing a man since I came to live here.'

            The man gave him a long look; his long hair and beard a dark red to Aron's short and neatly trimmed dusty brown. Idly swinging a short handled axe before hanging it on his belt he shook his head.

            'You take this far too seriously, Aron. This isn't the border country, where battles against organised and trained warriors from Krindir and Ankral are what must be faced.' He kicked one of the corpses. 'These were small time, with as much organisation as a group of drunks trying to march in a straight line... This isn't the war zone, Aron, the hills are impassable for an army, and the sooner you accept that and get used to it the sooner you'll be happy with your lot.'

            Aron began to glare at him, frustration that had been forgotten in the heat of battle rising to the surface once more.

            'Lineir...'

            The red head put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him at arm's length while shaking his head again.

            'Aron, you need to let go of the past. Yes, you were a High General in Dainorn's army, but here you're just a blacksmith and that by your own choice. You still think like a soldier, even so far as to thinking that if someone dies in a raid while you live here it would be a personal failure.'

Aron tried to interrupt, but got a light backhanded slap to keep him quiet. 'Don't try to deny it, your comment about "no deaths since I came to live here" says more than enough. Now you and I are going to the Leaping Trout to soak some of that depression out of you. Get you well oiled and laughing like a man should be.'

            The red head grinned, and still grinning he proceeded to drag the former general down the hill back towards the town while Aron did his best to dig his heels into the turf and stop him.

            'Now hang on a minute, Lineir! I have work to do at the forge this afternoon, and I need to get supplies from the market as well!'

            He continued to struggle but was wasting his time... as is generally the case when the one dragging you masses near twice your size...

~O~

            The thump to his back near sending his face into the contents of his tankard, Aron glanced at his drinking companion. Lineir continued to roar with a level of mirth far beyond the norm for someone, who was laughing at nothing more than one drunken man tripping over another just across the packed room of the tavern. Lineir may have succeeded in dragging him here to the Leaping Trout, but years of experience as an officer who had to remain coherent in case of emergency meant that he'd had no trouble switching his own barely touched drinks with the red head's depleted ones. Thus, over the course of the afternoon, he was only lightly fuzzed by ale while Lineir was so drunk that if someone had stuck a knife in him he'd likely just point at it and keep laughing.

 

As for Aron, after a glance at the man's tankard revealed that it was once again empty, he swiftly switched it with his own while the man continued to point at the drunken man who had tripped over. Safe from being offered another drink for at least a while, Aron then propped chin on hand and continued to watch the goings on within the establishment as he usually did on these enforced visits.

            The Leaping Trout was one of two taverns in Grey Tor, and it was by far the rowdier. Popular with the town's warriors, and with the farm hands, it was a rare day that would have it less than half full at this hour. Farm owners, the ladies of the town, and those less inclined to random fist fights tended to go to the Brook's Blessing, named after the river that made this valley so good for farming. That tavern, unlike this one, sold more than just cheap ale. The owner liked to keep a stock of wines and some of the less pricey liqueurs popular in the capital, and in general it was the place Aron himself preferred to drink. There he would face less noise, less flirting from the barmaids, and have no chance of having his face introduced to his ale by an over enthusiastic slap on the back.

            Giving his friend a brief grimace and a sidelong glance as his drunken mirth near sent him toppling backwards off his stool, Aron finally decided that if he was drunk enough to do that, then he was drunk enough not to notice his reluctant drinking companion slipping out the tavern door. This proved to be the case, and it was with great relief that the former general slunk through the growing shadows of dusk towards the market in the hope that perhaps some of the stalls might still be open. After all, he still needed to get something to feed himself for the next few days, even if going without wouldn't actually hurt him.

            Making his way towards the central square where the market was held, he looked around as one might if one were a stranger in a new place. Grey Tor was quiet at this hour, the last of the day's workers heading for home and hearth. Footfalls echoing softly from the irregular cobbles and the plain stone walls of the cottages forming the streets. Overhead the sky was quickly turning grey in the dimming light, as cloud came in from the coast to the west. It looked like it would rain tonight, the squat droplets of moisture falling from the heavens to thud against layers of wooden shingles and trickle into the gutters, before flowing into the great drains that would send them into the nearby river. It wasn't a large town. Barely fifteen hundred souls called it home. Simple log barricades with their bell topped watchtowers kept attackers outside, with the handful of warriors taking care of the rest. It had been his home for five years, and yet even now he couldn't find it in himself to see it as such.

            Upon reaching the market his fears were realised; most of the stalls were now empty, the remainder quickly being cleared by their owners. A swift sprint to the closest one selling food netted him several apples and a small sack of potatoes, and a sprint to another gained him a chunk of smoked ham and a glare from the owner. Not much all told, but it was better than nothing. Meat and potatoes were a luxury compared to some emergency army rations, and apples the sweetest of delicacies. Such simple fare would keep him going, and tomorrow he would be sure to go to the market first thing for all the chore he saw it as being.

            Booted feet taking long but easy strides down the street, it was as the first drops of rain began to fall that Aron Skyhawk, a former High General of Dainorn, walked off back towards the small workshop he still couldn't call home.

~O~

         It started as uneasiness, a lingering feeling in the gut that had him pacing back and forth, his movements causing the flame of the single candle on the room's small table to flutter. As he moved about restlessly he heard the town crier call first hour after sunset, and then the second, and then the third, until time came that all would be silent until the coming morn.

 

Like the shouts of the crier the candle itself was marking time, creeping ever lower until it was nothing but a last measure of wick spluttering in the pool of molten wax at the heart of the candle holder. When it finally died, as it did at some point in the dark hours of the new day, Aron had in a flurry of muttered curses fumbled towards his bed and thrown himself down on the straw stuffed mattress, stuffing his head under the bundle of old blanket that served as a pillow until the smell of unwashed wool forced him to use the headrest in a more conventional way. Something didn't feel right, his warrior's instincts were screaming at him, and yet his senses said that nothing was wrong. All was quiet, there was no ringing of an alarm bell, and no shouts of fear or surprise to drift on the night air and creep through the slatted shutters over his one small window. Everything was as it should be, and yet everything wasn't.

            He stared at the wooden ceiling above him, eyes picking out knotholes in the planks even in the darkness. For some reason he didn't want to close his eyes, didn't want to fall asleep lest his uneasiness prove to have reason. Sleep however is a master at creeping up even on the wary, and before he was even aware of it Aron slipped into fitful slumber.

            Ghostly shouts, shouts that he recognised from past battles, rang faintly in his ears before turning into the drunken laughter he'd heard just that afternoon. There was the feel of a hand slapping him on the back with enough force to send his face towards his tankard, and the muttered insult from the meat merchant at the market. He tasted the slightly over salted ham, and the smooth texture of potato that had been baked among the embers within the stove. The sour smell of burning pig's fat from the candle, not quite disguised by the herbs used to scent it, tickled at his nose to mix with that of the blanket he used as his pillow... And lastly, like a white-hot iron brand drawn across flesh with the speed of a whip, pain flashed across his torso tearing a scream from his throat even as he fell out of his narrow bed.

            Sweat dripping from his face as he gasped in agony, he leapt to his feet and scrambled to grab the nearby sword. A fresh candle, lit from the embers in the stove, revealed a room that was exactly as it should be but for the chair he'd knocked over while getting his weapon and the tangled mess that was his mattress and blanket half sprawled on the floor. The back door was still locked and the shutter on the window still secure, and a quick check in the workshop had revealed the front door to still be locked as well. Nothing and no one had broken in, so what was it that had woken him?

            Still shuddering, Aron returned to the back room and sat himself on the foot of the bed after nudging the mattress back into place. His longsword dropping to the floor from numb fingers, he wiped the sweat from his face with a muttered curse.

            'Lineir was right, I need to let go of being a warrior... What kind of blacksmith wakes himself up in the middle of the night with a nightmare about being attacked?'

             Shaking his head he set the candle he held in his other hand into the holder on the table beside him, before setting about untangling his blanket and 'pillow' so he could get back to his sleep. While he was doing so a faint tearing sound told him he'd ripped a seam in his nightshirt, and it was with another muttered curse that he pulled the thing off so he could put on another...and that was when he saw it.

 

There across the width of his chest was a livid red mark the colour a newly healed scar, and even as he looked at it the memory of the searing pain that had woken him rose to the fore. It was a shaking hand that rose to touch fingers to that stain on his skin; his wide grey eyes narrowing as sudden certainty came over him.

            Danger was coming to Grey Tor...

~O~

            'Dang it, Lineir, I'm serious!'

            The red head looked at him, expression incredulous but also holding a hint of pity. Aron had charged into the man's shop before the morning sun had even cleared the hilltops to the east, and was now staring at him as though he's lost his senses. Of course from Lineir's perspective the thought could be considered mutual. To him it looked like it was Aron who was losing it.

 

Setting aside the brace of dead chickens he'd been about to pluck ready to be cut up and smoked, the older man just shook his head.

            'I knew you were finding it hard to get used to life here, but I never realised you were this close to having a breakdown. Something's going to attack Grey Tor and kill everyone... just because you had a nightmare and whacked yourself so hard falling out of bed that it left a mark. Aron, if I didn't know you better then that talk of yours would be scaring me; scaring me that a military trained madman had walked into a shop with not a few possible weapons on hand.'

            Lineir gestured to the array of carving knives and cleavers either hanging on wall hooks or set out ready for use by the thick wooden chopping block in the far corner of the shop. He ran the town's slaughterhouse, and also butchered much of the meat that other traders bought to salt, smoke, or dry cure with personal mixes of herbs and seasonings. He prepared cured meats himself of course, and the smoked poultry he'd been about to start another batch of was considered a delicacy in Grey Tor. What woods he used and the amounts were a closely guarded secret of his, so closely guarded that he'd once used one of his many cleavers to take a finger off the hand of a would-be spy who had tried to watch him setting up his smoking hut in the back yard of his shop.

 

As for Aron, he was inches from wanting to grab the nearest meat mallet and pound some sense into his friend's head.

            'Lineir, you know me, and you know that I never make a false call when it comes to the safety of those around me. I was one of the High Generals. You don't get to that rank at the age of twenty-four unless you prove you have the skill and perception to make the call and keep your men safe. The youngest High General after me was fifty-six!'

            The red head cut him off.

            'Aye, almost twice your age and he weren’t promoted to the rank until he was halfway through his forties. I've heard all this before, Aron, and it changes nothing. You're high strung and antsy after only five years as a civilian, which says to a lot of people round here that you're itching to see some kind of action other than bandit raids... Give it up, Aron, and stop wasting my time.'

            As Aron began to splutter denials, Lineir grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him out the door of the shop, the door itself thudding shut followed by the grating sound of a bolt being shot home into the wooden frame. His friend of five years had just locked him out.

              Resisting the urge to kick the door in, Aron turned and stormed off down the street cursing under his breath. Maybe someone else in the town would listen to him.

~O~

            Head in hands, so close to the surface of the bar top that at first glance one might think he'd fallen asleep on his stool, Aron sat mentally cursing the clod headed townspeople who over the course of the day had effectively called him either “stressed”, “insane”, or said he was “suffering from a mental breakdown”. Every instinct he had was screaming at him that danger was coming, the mark across his chest throbbing occasionally like a portent of doom, and not one single person would take him seriously.

 

Deep down he couldn't blame them, since if he was in their position he'd probably say something similar. But that didn't stop their offhanded rejection of his warnings from being frustrating. After giving up around about mid afternoon he'd gone to the market to buy food, subconsciously picking things that would store well in the long term as one would in case of a siege. Taking what he'd bought back to his home and putting it away, he'd then decided to head to the Brook's Blessing. Yet again though, the whispered remarks of those who had heard of his 'exploits' today reached his ears even in this setting.
 

It was just as well that the rough glass beaker beside him held nothing but the blended fruit juice that the barkeeper kept on hand for those wanting to be social but not intoxicated. If he'd had ale or something else alcoholic in it then it was likely that “drunken hallucinations” would be added to the list of his supposed afflictions. As it was the current occupants of the Brook's Blessing seemed to be content enough for now to talk about the usual topics in general, with only the occasional remark about himself being uttered. That he could live with, and hopefully given a few days people would forget his “ravings” and things would return to normal.

            He lifted his head, picking up the beaker and taking a few sips from its contents. Maybe that's what they were, ravings. Maybe Lineir was right, he'd whacked himself falling out of bed after nothing more sinister than a nightmare, and the mark was nothing but a forming bruise. After all, it didn't really look like a scar, just a long mark the rose red colour of a recently healed one; like a wine stain upon his skin. Maybe he'd fooled his instincts into thinking that there was danger coming, being so high strung with frustration at his now quiet life that he'd created an imaginary foe to make it less so.

            He allowed himself a half chuckle, smiling a little as he continued to drink from the beaker. Yes, that was probably it; nothing more than the former soldier trying to make his quiet life a bit less monotonous and a bit more exciting.

            Tossing back the last of the fruit juice and setting the glass on the bar top, Aron flipped a coin to the barkeep with a nod and walked out into the approaching dusk to walk down a street scoured clean by last night's rain. Considerably more cheerful, he tucked his hands into the pockets of his rather beaten looking tan coat, his now relaxed demeanour prompting several of the people he passed to speak to him. A few remarks about “a bit too much merry making at the tavern yesterday”, with much of this town of gossip spreaders already knowing he’d been there for several hours, quickly alleviated the odd looks he'd been getting and left him and those he spoke to laughing off his “warning”. Who was to know he'd actually drunk very little, having foisted most of his ale off on an unsuspecting Lineir, and passing off his actions today as the result of a hangover was far too convenient an excuse for him not to use it. The quicker he buried his nightmare the quicker he could forget it.

            Word seemed to spread quickly, even at this hour, for by the time he reached his own shop and started to unlock the front door he wasn't hearing any more comments about what he'd said today. Just a few remarks of common courtesy and the occasional mention of so-and-so's recipe that was good for curing the results excessive drinking inflicts on one's head. All was quiet, with the town crier's voice carrying softly on the evening air as he called the hour of sunset, that golden orb having just passed below the tops of the hills to the west. The first stars were now beginning to sparkle faintly in the darkening sky as it passed from azure to indigo to deepest violet; a blanket of diamond studded velvet thrown over the land like a calming shroud.

            He entered the shop, locking the door behind him before strolling into his living area, shaking his head at his foolishness today. It didn't matter that the “bruise”, as he now considered it, continued to throb, and it didn't matter that deep down his instincts were still shouting “danger”. He ignored both, instead setting about cooking himself something after pointedly taking the thin book on the table and stuffing it in the backmost corner of the highest shelf in the room. Again Lineir was right, he had to let go of the past if he was to move forward.

            After a while, food in hand, he sat himself at the table and looked out of the window at the night streets of Grey Tor. The light of the candle a warm glow beside him, he picked up a long untouched pen and inkpot, dragging a sheet of rough paper towards him from a dusty pile on one side. Now was as good a time as any to write a letter to his sister, to let her know that her “blade brained brother” had actually decided that civilian life wasn't all that bad. Tell her that he was going to stop complaining about how quiet and slow it was.

 

That would make her laugh. He could picture it even now, that sunny smile of hers, the one that would sparkle in her jade eyes amidst the frame of her long auburn hair. That hair was her pride, inherited from their mother, and it had been the envy of many a girl when they'd been growing up and was still likely to be now.
 

Still smiling to himself he began to write, telling her of recent happenings and of today’s revelatory episode regarding his “nightmare”. That would bring a smile as well, that he'd look at his actions and find them amusing in hindsight. That in itself would tell her that he had accepted his new life after five years of being something of a misfit blacksmith. Perhaps he'd have a word with Jason, the town's other blacksmith. See about perhaps apprenticing to the man and teaming up as partners once he'd improved his skills in the trade. They weren't really in competition with each other, since Aron knew that Jason often had to turn work away because he simply didn't have time to handle it all. A business partner would be welcome, and he had to wonder if that was what the man had in mind all along by recommending that all the apprentice-level work be given to him. It certainly made sense.

            The pen continued to scratch across the rough surface of the paper, blotting ink here and there but nothing bad enough to make the letter unreadable. Once it was done he stuffed the now folded piece of paper into the pocket of his breeches, to make sure he didn't leave it behind when he went to the office run by the Messenger Service on the south side of the town in the morning. He'd done that several times in the past five years, just another thing that his sister had laughed at hearing about, her replies filled with words of amusement at his stories even as she told her own.

            He got up, taking his now empty bowl to the washtub in the corner and dropping it in. He could clean it in the morning, but for now he wanted to catch up on the sleep he'd lost last night. A distant rumbling reached his ears, a glance out the window showing that cloud was beginning to obscure the stars. It would seem it was going to rain again tonight.

Keys in hand he began his usual check of doors and window, making sure they were secure; not that there were people in Grey Tor who would thieve from others. With only fifteen hundred people here and gossip rife, it was all too likely that the stolen object would be spotted in short order and the culprit sentenced to three days in the stocks located in the market square. That was more than punishment enough to discourage thievery, since in a town this size it was all too easy for the traders and shop owners to make life difficult for those guilty of it. The most recent thief, three years ago, had been reduced to bread and water rations by the town merchants for several months before they began selling potatoes and small lumps of gristle veined meat to him again. To this day he still couldn't buy anything in the taverns, and anything bar the least fresh of the fruit and vegetables in the market were also refused him.

            Hefting the keys thoughtfully in one hand, Aron went round again, unlocking everything. No one in Grey Tor locked their doors and windows except him, so it was by and time to change with the times. Returning to the back room and hanging the keys on a hook by the door he listened again to the rumbling. It was louder now, and rather too regular in pitch and volume to be thunder. He frowned, opening the shutters on his window and looking out. Yes it was definitely louder, and had a faint counterpoint of rattling like dry bones tumbling over each other. The mark on his chest continued to throb, his instincts suddenly no longer screaming but shrieking at him as the roar of splintering wood ripped through the night air.

            He stumbled backwards, eyes wide as whole logs from the defensive wall soared into the air to crash down on the buildings within the wall's embrace. The bell on a sundered watch tower shrilled into the darkness, and the watchman who had been dozing off beside it wailing in horror before falling silent as other screams rose from around the breach in the wall. They too, one by one, became filled with horror, as whatever it was that attacked Grey Tor appeared before them.

 

Thought left him, instinct taking over as armour and weapons were donned with such speed that they might well have leapt onto him of their own will. Suddenly he wasn't just defending a town as he had for the past five years as if it were nothing but a job. He was protecting his home.

            The back door slammed open with such force that it broke free of its hinges, clattering to the cobbles as the hiss of sword leaving sheath sounded above the thud of booted feet sprinting down the street towards the destruction. As it had been just a day before... Only a day? As it had been then, Aron saw his fellow warriors in glimpses through alleyways, all of them homing in on the source of the screams.

They came out into the open at one of the small courtyards that once served as areas for social gatherings and parties, but now this one was death zone. The buildings forming its far side had been crushed by some of the falling logs, and those that had managed to escape the collapsed buildings had been mercilessly slaughtered by that which stood over their corpses with its claw-like hands dripping blood.

            The warriors skidded to a halt, staring in shock at the creature before them. It was like nothing ever seen in their legends or nightmares; a monstrous being nearly half as tall again as an average man, its arms ending in claws so long they near reached the blood-streaked cobbles. Its visage was hidden by the mask of a helm, deep black like the rest of its armour, and yet every inch held the iridescence of a beetle carapace in the flickering light of the flames which had begun to rise amongst some of the collapsed buildings. That was indeed what this creature resembled; some monstrous armoured insect that walked as a man on two legs so that like those of a preying mantis its arms could deal death to those that crossed its path.

            It took a step towards them, the rattling sound from before now revealed to be caused by its armour as it moved. A drawn out hiss emanated through narrow openings in the visor of its helm, before with a screech it charged towards them with clawed arms lashing out like a whip. Two warriors were downed where they stood; those sword-long claws literally slicing them to pieces as if their armour wasn’t even there. The rest of the men milled in confusion, until Aron’s shout jolted them into action.

            ‘Don’t just stand there you fools! Spread out and surround it! Force it to keep circling so that its back is always to one of your fellow men so that they can strike!’

            The warriors leapt into action, the ring they formed around the creature seeming to confuse it, leaving it unable to decide which of them it should attack. No sooner than it would take a step towards one than the man behind it would dash at its back to deliver a blow with sword, axe, or spear. One of the town’s three bowmen arrived, and soon the creature resembled a porcupine with arrows protruding from every conceivable gap in its armour; but still it didn’t fall.

            After delivering a blow that would have shattered the skull of an ox with his short handled axe, a blow that barely scratched the solid black plate on the thing’s back, Lineir ducked out of the way of a flailing claw while yet another arrow thudded into its shoulder.

            ‘By gods, what is this thing?!’

            ‘This thing is dead as far as I’m concerned! Dead for what it’s done to our people!’

The man who had shouted darted forward at the thing’s back, but his shout proved to be his downfall. In the blink of an eye the creature had turned and it was the man and his separated head that fell past it to thud onto the cobbles. The man’s brother, the bowman, shrieked denial before recklessly charging forward with a drawn dagger, all the while Aron was screaming at the top of his lungs for the men to maintain their positions.

 

The bowman, like his brother, dropped to the ground before the creature let out a strange wail that made the surviving warriors’ hair stand on end. It was answered, as one by one more eerie cries rose like the rising flames around them to fill the night. It wasn’t just one creature attacking… it was an entire horde.

            The sound seemed to break the will of the warriors, as all but Aron and Lineir fled leaving the pair to face the beast alone. It can be said that the black humour of a warrior can crop up in the most inappropriate instances, and Lineir wasn’t about to disappoint.

            ‘Well I can’t say I didn’t earn this… I’ve cleaved enough animals in two to warrant the same end myself. We reap what we sow, and in my case I sowed a great many steaks, cutlets, and smoked hams.’

            Aron cursed in exasperation as the two backed away from the creature, the beast slowly advanced towards them.

            ‘For cripes sake, Lineir, this is not the time for jokes!’

            The red head just chuckled, hefting his axe as he eyed the creature, looking for a weakness in its defence.

            ‘We both know that with more than one of these things rampaging through the town we’re all as good a dead… I hate to say it but you were right, Aron. Those damned instincts of yours were right, and if we’d spent today preparing for an attack rather than calling you insane then at least the women and children could have been evacuated. There’ll be none of that now, and all because we didn’t listen. Get out of here, Aron. Run! Someone has to survive to let the king know what happened here, and you’re the only one with the experience to have any chance of getting out of his hell hole alive.’

            Aron hesitated a moment before turning and breaking into a run, blotting out Lineir’s shout as he leapt at the creature, and blotting out the thud that signalled the man’s demise. He could mourn the people of Grey Tor later, but for now he had to survive, and Lineir’s sacrifice had given him the few crucial seconds he’d needed to duck out of sight into an alleyway.

 

Now hidden, he peered cautiously back around the corner and watched as the creature seemed to sniff at the blood tainted air itself for a moment, before trailing slowly in the direction of the closest screaming. From the glow lighting the underside of the thickening clouds above, most of Grey Tor was now burning; fires most likely started by panicked residents knocking over lanterns and candles as they scrambled to escape.

            Cursing again, he turned and ran as stealthily as he could in the opposite direction, using the darkness to conceal his advance past the usual piles of rubbish and such that cluttered the back streets of any town. He couldn’t worry about the people of the town now; they were doomed and nothing he could do would save them. Any attempt and he would just get himself killed.

            Stopping again for a moment, leaning back against a wall, he watched as a woman and her young son dashed down the street he’d been about to step out into. Their faces were masks of terror, and the reason why came charging past behind them with a clawed hand raised. Taking the chance he darted across the street behind the creature, using the woman and her child as a diversion even as he hated himself for doing so. Again he could think on it later, now he just needed to keep running.

            As he continued to make his way towards one of the gates in the defensive wall he continued to evade the creatures, stepping over the bodies of men and women he’d seen many a time in the street during the last five years, and every one he passed he swore he would avenge. Whatever these things were, Aron Skyhawk would not rest until they paid, blood for blood, for what they’d done here.

 

Sidling past a toppled pile of boxes close to the East Gate, the faint rattle that would have alerted him was lost among the crackle of flames and crack of collapsing buildings. He didn’t see the claw begin its descent, nor hear the creature’s hiss. All he knew was that a sudden sense of déjà-vu came over him mid stride…

            Without conscious thought he side stepped and turned in the same motion, his sword pulling free of the sheath on his back to come around in a great high sweep that bit deep into the gap between the creature’s helm and shoulders. The descending claw ripped through his chain mail as though it were paper even as his sword completed the pass that clove the creature’s head from its body.

 

Standing there in stunned silence as thought returned, he watched as it collapsed to the ground to ooze blood that glinted black in the light of the burning town. Too shocked to think, he turned and ran the last of the distance to the gate with no consideration given to stealth or concealment. He continued to run, Grey Tor falling away behind him as the maelstrom of chaotic emotions inside him made reasoned thought impossible. He kept running, further and further into the night, until exhausted he collapsed into a thicket of gorse high on the slope above the town and fell into uneasy slumber.

~O~

            The grey eyes that watched, as black armoured creatures gathered on the edge of the ruined town, were hard as ice and just as cold. The pale glint of dawn was visible through the morning mist to the east, that veil hiding the distant view of the Crescent Mountains that from where he sat, on a clear day, could be seen as a purple ripple along the eastern horizon. Smoke rose from the ruins to mingle with the mist, the scent of charred wood and flesh rising with it as Aron watched the creatures begin to march back from whence they’d come, taking a number of dead towns folk with them… At least he hoped they were dead.

            He got up, glancing at the invaders one last time to be sure of the direction they were heading. From what he’d seen of them they were single minded in their actions, and if that held true for their choice of route then they’d go in a straight line on their north-west path… the direction of the Ankral border.

            Filing that thought away he turned and left, walking towards the road that headed south from Grey Tor. If he followed it he would reach Fort Galinoth, the main outpost at the old crossroads of the coastal trade route. It would take about a week if he walked without stopping. It would be tough, but then the invaders weren’t the only ones that could be single minded when it came to travel.

            He paused, looking back at the ruins for a moment even as he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. Turning his gaze upon it he couldn’t help think but why. Why is it that when he had finally found it in himself to see Grey Tor as his home, it should be snatched away from him?

 

Putting it away he turned his back on the town, expression grim as his thoughts plagued him. Thoughts about the mark across his chest that was fading away as if it had never been; a mark that lined up exactly with the gash in his chain mail left by the claw of the creature he’d killed, a claw that should have cloven him in two.

In the lands of Dainorn they say death is like lightning… But why is it that I alone knew it was coming? Why is it that only I cheated death this day?