And the end, the ignoble will rise from the shadows, usurping the throne, and stepping into his rightful place. He will bring forth the Age of Peace, after the Age of Crimson ~The Vaticination of the Witch
For years a grand pall loomed over the King, for years, the prophecy foretold by Red Lamia prior to her execution rang in his ears – even in the silence of night as he laid in his bedchamber, watching the shadows that played over the wall. The King, Ranulf the Proud had been known as a just man, a firm man, but a fair man. Now, Ranulf was known as the Ranulf the Cowardly who saw every male either he be peasant or noble as a man who challenged his throne. Men who were part of his army were placed there under threat of death and did not watch the borders as they should. Men who were part of his household were either threatened every day with their death if they drove one toe out of line, or the death of their family members if they were believed to be conspiring against the king. Men in his country were sent off to war even if they knew not how to use a sword of even wear armor, leaving the women widows or poor, or even both.
The country was falling apart at the seams, war threatened at every border, his armies spread far too thin to come in time to defend the once proud steeled gates of the once grand capital. Whispers lingered at the bazaar of large sea dragons being seen on the coast, only to disappear in the night. The forester reported seeing barbarians with axes slung to their back
brachiate through the trees as if they themselves were animals of legend. It was as if Ranulf had been far too pleased to see his would be armies
defile off in the horizon, sending would be traitors to the throne to distant lands to die while his own country would burn. His own actions giving
flack to those nearby countries who thirsted to expand their empires. So it was of no surprise when the church bells rang from the monastery, sending alarm and warning through the hills that intruders had landed upon the shores.
The
cloying smell of smoke lingered in the air as village after village burned to the ground. Widows, women, children left without homes, without food for their bellies, but they were left whole – unharmed. They ran towards the capital city only to find the gates barred and those who watched from the towers gave little sympathy. “You will murder us all!” An older woman cried, a gnarled hand thrown accusatory to those who paced back and forth slowly. Their cries falling upon deaf ears it seemed, as not one glance was given to them.
“The women
alow sire, they continue to scream, to cry, to yell.” The steward, a wisened old man who had been part of his father’s retinue so long ago that he was of no threat to Ranulf came in, his hand upon his forelock as he moved.
Ranulf lowered a glass bauble, a
gimcrack given to him by a princess something or other from one of the distant countries and peered at the steward for a moment, “is there a man amongst them?”
The steward wrangled his hands together for a moment, considering his answer before he slowly shook his head, “I reckon not, m’lord,” he said quietly. “Babes, children, women all, sire.”
Ranulf looked to the glass bauble once more as if such an item could tell him the answer. “Then so be it, allow them in and stop their incessant bleating.” Waving off his steward, he would settle back in his throne, his sword close by, in case his usurper would come this night.
The women were allowed into the courtyard of the castle, there they would be offered one bowl of gruel and no more. One tankard of water yet no more. They were offered pallets near fires, but no shelter from the possible rain that threatened the night sky. The women spoke in quiet tones,
hyperbole of who could be burning the villages down. Great devils sent from Satan himself to pay Ranulf for his crimes of madness. Sons of Red Lamia, the witch who had cursed their great king. Their own men returning under the banner of a great warlord. Whispers that lingered in the darkness well past midnight, yet the king did not hear such treasonous words. The men who marched in widdershins around the castle (as clockwise would be far too easy to track), ignored the clucking of chickens well past their prime.
The men who were soldiers did not notice the lone woman, a young woman who was only one and twenty if that sitting by herself by the barely lit embers of a fire left untended. The cold gray steel colour of her eyes glaring up into the single lit window of the castle, knowing that was where he – the Coward would lay his head that night. Her stomach had been clawed with hunger for so long she had forgotten what it was like to be sated. Her heart had been clawed with pain at the loss of her father, her brother, her would be betrothed for so long she could not remember happiness. It was as if her
livelong life since she had been a young lass had been filled with so much darkness, that light could never grace her heart again.
And now… Now the man who had been the cause of it, the cause of it all was within an arrow’s flight of distance.
It was an opportunity that the young woman would not let pass her by.
