HisStory

Dreams. Everybody has them from time to time. Some are frightening. They bring to life our deepest fears and force us to stand trembling before them. Often one wakes from these in a cold sweat, terror clutching at their very soul leaving them too afraid even to close their eyes for fear of what they might see. Yet other dreams may transport us to new and wondrous worlds, taking us to places where we can experience our greatest desires, exploring lands made from pure imagination where we can do and be anything we want. There is however another type of dream, one only afforded to certain people, to those with the power to see. Some say it is a blessing, others a curse, in truth it is a gift, a magical gift to be precise. Those who hold it are able to see things that have passed, things that are here and although they may not know it, things that are soon to come.
 

My name, for those of you who do not know it, is Ezrah. It is my job to rekindle the once bright spark of imagination that is so often lost to us, by telling my stories to all those who are willing listen. Every day I sit here, in this market square of Nedra and fill the air with tales long forgotten, but this tale is unlike any I have ever told before. This is a story of dreams, a tale of fear and thievery and a reminder of the magic that once blazed like a hungry flame through our land.
 

No more than a century past, Nedra belonged to one of four great and powerful kingdoms that ruled peacefully over our land of Inala. To the south lay the bountiful kingdom of Clathe; green and luscious, whose people prospered for many years from the fruits of their toilsome labours. To the east could be found the realm of Tiran; great leader of the mountainous Farlands and to the North; the harsh red desert, regal land of the Uther plains. Nedra was ruled at this time by a good and kind king whose gentle hand brought wealth and happiness to all in the land, but his heart was wounded beyond repair the day he heard tell of the death of the woman he once loved. So it was, that mere months after the news was told, his life was passed and the kingdom fell instead into the waiting hands of his wicked son. Mad with power and fears of betrayal and treason the prince turned against his own people setting his army upon his subjects in the village. The village was burnt to the ground. Many died, and hundreds of others were left destitute and homeless, but the prince’s crimes did not go unpunished. Cursed for all eternity by an enchantress, whose warnings he had so readily ignored, the prince retired to his empty halls, never more to emerge and Nedra was left without a king.
 

Life in the land turned hard. Food became scarce as trade with the neighbouring kingdoms slowed to naught and many people struggled to rebuild the shelters that they had lost. Some people were learned in the art of magic and used their craft to ease their troubles, but although many tried to offer their services to those of less fortune they were soon shunned for their gifts. Jealousy and resentment clouded the hearts of even their closest friends. Angry stares soon turned to harsh words and harsh words led to deadly fights. Soon enough those with the gift were turned out from their towns and forced to live on the edge of the kingdom in solitude and isolation.

Like a poison the anger of the people spread, following them as they left Nedra to seek work in the neighbouring kingdoms. Soon it was not only in Nedra that those with magical ability were starting to find themselves noticed. All through the land people began to turn on others with the gift and though they fled to the borders, as far from their tormenters as possible, it was not enough to quell the sudden thirst for magical blood that had exploded across the land. Anyone found to be using magic was in grave danger. Some were captured and held prisoner by their kings, forced to use their gift in his service until their usefulness was exhausted. Others were punished for their alleged crime; drowned, burnt or hanged in the town square as a warning to others of their kind. It was soon the practice for lords to dispatch hunting parties after these outlaws, as if they existed purely for sport. Those with the gift were made into the enemy, a tactic that kept the people of a kingdom firmly by their ruler’s sides, too afraid to consider thoughts of treason or revolt. As their numbers dwindled the existence of those with the ability was all but forgotten and to many of the new generation magic became a thing thought only to be found in songs and fairy tales. The gift was almost dead, its once plentiful bearers faded away into myth and legend.

Or so it might seem.
 

***

On a cold moonlight night a black carriage wound its way through a white and dusty valley, two hooded men sat quietly in its driver’s seat. Within the folds of their sleeves gleamed two long silver stocked crossbows; rare and expensive weapons bought to guard their priceless burden. A man in a sky blue cloak waited tensely in the bushes, as his target drew ever nearer. Many years he had waited for this moment; searching, spying, collecting everything he needed for the day that he would finally obtain this; the ultimate prize, the last part of the ancient puzzle. The horses drew closer pulling the heavy carriage in their wake. The man stirred, lifting his ebony limbed longbow before him. With a practiced eye he stared down the shaft. He inhaled slowly, carefully, waiting until the drivers cowled face was centred just above the sharp tip of the arrows head and then, with a twitch of his finger...

THWANG!

A glistening black arrow flew through the air to meet its startled target.

THWANG!

A second arrow followed suit. The riders lay dead in their seats, bright red blood blossoming through the fibres of their dark green cloaks. Finally, the treasure was his.
 

Nathaniel started awake, his heart hammering loudly in his chest, his mouth hot and parched. It was midnight, the full moon shone in through the window and a gentle breeze ruffled the curtains. Slowly he sat up; wiping the sleep from his eyes, but the dream remained like a painful image engraved on the inside of his lids. Stumbling he made his way across the bedroom, that is I suppose, if you could call it a bedroom. The whole house was really no more than one large room, where the bedroom ended and the kitchen began was truly a wise man’s riddle. The floorboards creaked ominously as he shuffled towards the small wooden bench on the wall opposite the bed. An old wood fired stove sat beside it, embers still burning low in the grate. Lifting a pot of water from under the wobbly table he placed it on top of the stove to boil. There was no use trying to get back to sleep now, he knew that from experience. Four nights running he had had the same dream. Four long gruelling days he had gone without sleep and once more he would have to face a day’s work in the fields with only a hint of consciousness, but tired as he was he must work. No work, meant no pay and no pay meant no food for the week and he doubted very highly that Lord Merrin, keeper of the fields he tended, would be kind enough to supply a loaf of the bread that he had made from Nathaniel’s hard labour. Even if he did, he would hardly know who to give it to; Nathaniel had never even met Merrin, it was, to him, some disembodied name used only to tell travellers precisely who`s land they happened to be trespassing on this time.
 

Nathaniel had first started working on Merrins fields when he was thirteen. Before that the streets of Clathe had been his home, the charity of others his wages. That was until he met Sam Thimbleton, although he never did call him that, to him Sam had always been Kay, however neither he nor I could tell you why. Back then another unasked for series of dreams had been bothering him and he had been just as restless then as he was twelve years later. When the tall, sandy haired figure from his dream had come across his path one day, whilst he sat huddled beneath an old shopfront, rain falling like the upended contents of a giants bathtub on the streets, it was relief more than fright that had struck him first. It was the relief at finally being able to act, to do more than just watch as his dream played out before him that spurred him to discard the soaking cloak of a blanket around his shoulders and rush to the edge of the road. Grabbing hold of a bewildered Sam he pulled the man backwards under the shopfront sail just as a blazing bolt of lightning struck the earth on which he had surely been about to step. Since that day the two had made fast friends. Sam insisted on bringing Nathaniel to come and stay with him in the small one roomed house which stood, nestled snugly in the trees that divided Clathe and the Farlands. Under his guidance, the older gentleman had taught Nathaniel everything he knew about tending fields, and growing crops. Curiously, Kay was in possession of an unusually green thumb, especially for a man of his age. The farmer had seen almost 55 years, he was blind in one eye and had a terrible limp in his right foot, yet not once did he fail to bring in a full and bountiful harvest and never did a crop wither under his watch. If Kay planted a cornel then rain, shine, fire or flood, sure enough by seasons end there would still be corn to harvest and thick and juicy it would be too.

In their time together Kay became more than just a friend to Nathaniel, he became the closest thing he had had to a father in many years, and in their hidden cottage; deep in the forest of Clathe, high above the snow white sands of the Farlands, the two lived in happiness and peace for many years, that is until the illness struck.

 

The illness had spread through the land like wildfire taking with it young and old alike. Nathaniel, only twenty one, had been well and untroubled by the deadly plague, but Kay having just reached his sixty third year had fallen prey to its foulness. Dark substances had built up in his chest, breathing became a chore and his injured foot was bothering him much more than usual. Nathaniel had taken over his duties in the field and that was when the arrangement was first made that payment be delivered to the house, saving the old man a painful trip into town. But unlike the others, when the illness passed Kay was left frail and weak and despite Nathaniels protests he refused to see the physicians. “It won’t do son,” he`d often said jokingly “they`ll soon notice my green thumb, won`t they, and then where will you be? Ha! To be afraid of a thumb, can you imagine!?” Chuckling he`d subside into a coughing fit that would leave him hoarse and out of breath for hours to come.

 

It was on the third evening, of the fourth moon, after Kay`s sixty fourth name day, that Nathaniel had put his old friend to bed where, to the boys deepest grief, he was never to waken again. The boy had buried Kay himself as he had had no other family and no spot paid for in the town’s cemetery. Indeed Nathaniel often wondered since he had taken over Kay’s duties whether Lord Merrin was even aware of his best farmers passing. Sometimes, when a particularly fine crop had been harvested, Nathaniel would take a single kernel, the most perfect he could gather and lay it beside the small, handmade marker stone in the trees behind his house; “Here lies Kay farmer, friend, father.”
 

Pouring the now boiling water over a pinch of dried leaves from a jar above the desk, he took his mug over to the dining table where he sat sipping his tea and staring out the window. The bright light of the full moon shone blue as it danced mesmerizingly across the sandy plains below.

2: Stolen

It was the last day of the month by the Utherian calendar. That night the full moon would blossom and with it a new month would arrive. Ophira sat in the classroom staring absently out of the full length windows that lined the left hand wall. “Princess? Princess are you listening? Princess Ophira! Please, pay attention!” Professor Partamius Dench snapped loudly, closing the book he had been reading from aloud  with a terrifying crack. Ophira started at the noise, then realising it was only “Magical Misconduct: Clearing Out the Weeds. Volume Three.” She sighed and went back to staring out the window.

“We really could not have asked for a nicer day.” She groaned yearningly. “I saw a wren before; beautiful, bluer than the sky itself, but the poor thing was missing a leg. I wonder what happened to it?”

“Princess, believe me when I say that I would like to be outside enjoying the sunshine just as much as you would, but...”

“Then let us! We shall have the lesson outside today.” She interrupted the man, excitement bubbling in her silvery voice.

“You know as well as I do that your father would not approve. You are easily distracted as it is, and I am afraid we must finish this wretched book by the end of this week if you ever wish to be ready for the ceremony. Your father will never allow you to join council if you cannot even remember your own history.” But Ophira wasn’t listening, her attention had been grabbed by a slip in the professors speech.

“Wretched book?” She asked “Do you not like it sir? You are the one teaching me.”

“I… yes, you are right, and normally history fascinates me it is just this part of it. Sometimes, I feel...” he hesitated, the girl was looking up at him expectantly; probably the most focused she had ever been in his classroom. “Princess do you know the meaning of the word bias?”

“Of course I do. It means you favour one thing more than another.” She replied smugly.

“Yes. Well, these texts have always struck me as fairly bias... against those with the gift.” He mumbled the last part, suddenly intent on cleaning the delicate golden spectacles perched on his slightly crooked nose.

“The magic folk you mean?” Her brow crinkled prettily. “But I do not understand, the gifted people are evil, they stole our land and sickened our crops. How can you be bias against something everyone already knows is wrong? Unless...” She paused, her blue green eyes opening wide with shock and wonder as she whispered hoarsely, “Sir, you`re not…are you a protector?” The princess was referring of course to the small group of rebels. Thieves who occasionally made news in the kingdom as they stood up for what they called the ‘noble arts’, usually through the ransacking of a minor lords estate, or the kidnapping of a Barons child for ransom.

“No! No of course not.” He waved his hand dismissively as he placed the glasses back on his nose. “Those people are nothing more than misguided delinquents looking for a fight. No princess, sometimes I just wonder if history might be...neglecting to mention some things.” He sat down looking suddenly thoughtful. “I remember,” he said, “when I was younger, back when I lived in Nedra my father Azere and I would often pay visit to a family; friends of his called the Dantes. They all had the gift, but none of them ever struck me as cruel or evil. Of course they left just after Nedra fell, and I never really heard from them again, but sometime I just wonder if his highness might have the wrong impression about the gifted ones. ”

“Professor please!” Ophera felt suddenly defensive. “You are verging dangerously close to treason, I beg you cease these thoughts now. If even one kind hearted magical person was truly to exist, if they declared themselves to us, or pledged allegiance to my father, then I concede perhaps you may have right to such an opinion, but no such person exists. I know it. All who wield the gift are corrupt, their hearts blackened with jealousy over the souls they cannot possibly poses. As you taught me yourself ‘any true citizen with loyalty in their heart and love for their king will declare any and all knowledge of the whereabouts of a gifted person, whomever they might be, for they cannot, under any circumstance, be trusted!’” The professor returned her gaze; he looked somewhat flustered to find the princess watching him so intently and for a moment felt as if he could bite out his own tongue for letting it move so freely. He managed to gather himself then and smiled warmly down at the girl in his most teacherly fashion.

“So it appears I was mistaken on both accounts highness. I apologise for my words, they were undeniably out of line, but it has shown that you were indeed listening and that, I believe, warrants you a short recess in the garden with which you appear to be so fascinated. Be back before the hours end if you please.” He stood up, placing the book down on the desk at the front of the room. A dazzling grin stole across the princess’s face, all thoughts of treason and magic suddenly forgotten. She jumped up from her own seat and ran toward the door, with the excitement of a child, nevermind that she was just turned twenty two and by Utherian law had been considered a woman for quite some time. “Ohh and princess,” the girl spun round at her tutors call, blue black hair whipping across her shoulders. “I’d appreciate it if our conversation was to be kept just between ourselves, I fear your father may not be as forgiving as yourself.”

“Professor,” she smiled wickedly, “I have no idea as to which conversation you are referring.” He chuckled waving his hand as Ophera skipped lightly from the room.

Happy to finally be free from her lessons, Ophera made her way to the courtyard below, settling herself on the edge of a white marble fountain. She breathed in deeply letting the fresh morning air fill her lungs, the spicy smell of the red cypress tree taking her far away from the high cold walls of the castle. Next week she would undergo the Ordeal, a testing ceremony to become a member of her father’s council. There would be the oral exam of course, where she would have to answer long, tiring and honestly quite boring questions about the kingdom and its history. In what year did her great grandfather liberate the Uther plains from the tyranny of Morden the cruel? How many magic stricken refugees fled from Nedra into her father’s land? Describe how the leader of Nedra, a wise and kind prince, fell under the evil shadow of a witches curse. This last was the one piece of history that Ophera could always recall without effort, simply because from the first time she had heard it, she had found the story fascinating. There was a legend you see; one that had been written down and told by almost every storyteller in the land and sung by every minstrel before that. It was the legend of the Vulaestanian Trionomy, three of the most powerful weapons ever to be crafted. They were forged hundreds of years ago in the fires of the smith Vulaestus, a man who combined the power of magic and metalwork to create some of the most beautiful weapons and art forms ever made. It was said that whomever could unite the three; bring together the sword, shield and crown, would be the most powerful ruler the world had ever seen. With the death of his father, Prince Edrane of Nedra feared for the vulnerability of his lands. Prompted by the evil words of a village enchantress he sought help from the Utherplanes; twelve dozen men to accompany his own on a quest to search for the powerful Trionomy. He swore that when they returned home he would use the power of the weapons to unite the two kingdoms and spread their combined reign out over the entire land. Not long into the journey, disaster struck. The men sought first the crown of Veneta, the only one of the three whose whereabouts was known, but the witch had fed the king falsities. She had begged him not to take an army to the crowns hold, to seize it not by force, but by buying it with honest words. When the small company reached the place that it was held however, it was to find the fort strongly and heavily guarded. Furious at the woman’s deception the king stormed the fortress with the few men he had. The citadel sensing the attack, fought back; their guarding wizards opening up the floor before the castle walls. Over half the kings men fell instantly to their deaths, the other half blocked from entry by the yawning abyss. Seeing his defeat the king retreated to Nedra to gather his army, but first he sought vengeance upon the lying witch. With blinding rage he set flame to the village in which she lived. Unable to bear the destruction of her fellows the witch came to the gates begging for his mercy, but the prince refused ‘a life deserves a life’ he`d said and the men she had led to their deaths were worth a thousand of her kin. Angry at his refusal the witch turned on the man cursing him with her dying breath to live as the monster she believed him to be. So it was that Nedra fell and all hope of recovering the crown was forgotten as the people struggled to rebuild their broken lives. The legend of the Vulaestanian Trionomy however, lived on. Ophera`s own tutor had read the story to her many times in her youth, back before she had been burdened with the task of training for the ordeal.
 

Ophera sighed, many things had been better before she had been invited to join the council. She glanced up toward the north tower and was reminded of the second part of her ordeal. Tradition dictated that she would have to fight, well, at least in the past it would have been a fight, nowadays it was more of a formality. She would demonstrate her skill with a bow by lighting the torch atop the North Tower with a flaming arrow, a skill she had been practicing to master for the past six months. She wasn’t too bad at it either, but the Archmaster wished to be sure she would hit her target every time and in all conditions, for to miss would be to fail and bring dishonour upon all her family. If that wasn’t enough pressure, given that she didn’t miss the shot, she would then have to take part in the ceremony that night. Here she would have to, in front of members from every house in the land, swear fealty to crown and country laying her bow at her father’s feet. She would be the only woman to have joined the council in almost twelve hundred years, being the only female heir born to a king in several generations. She began pacing back and forth across the grassy courtyard with nervous tension, scattering the remnants of the dried leaves she had been fiddling with at her feet. Advising the crown was one thing, but ruling an entire kingdom...she could never wear the crown, and even if she wanted to, her father would never allow it. Sooner or later she would need to marry. Twenty two years old, her marital age had come upon her too quickly and yet, by years end, some prince, somewhere would be promised her hand, whether she liked it or not. She groaned inwardly, sitting heavily down on the edge of the alabaster fountain in the courtyards corner once more.

A cool breeze whistled through the bushes surrounding the grounds on either side and redirecting some of the fountains spray towards her face. There was a rustle in the bushes and out hopped the little one legged bird she had seen from the window. It watched her for a moment. Tilting its head to the side, it gave her a curious look before jumping up onto the fountain ledge beside her and staring fixedly at the bushes from whence it came. Ophira laughed, what strange behaviour she thought, watching the little creature as it began hopping in an agitated fashion beside her. Still staring straight ahead it seemed to get more and more worked up every time she laughed at it. Reaching out a hand she moved to stroke its glorious blue feathers, hoping to calm the poor beast in its frenzy, but as she moved something stirred in the bushes in front of her. She caught sight of a flash of cloth; blue as the sky above. A firm hand was placed over her mouth, stifling the scream that was building in her throat. Something tugged roughly over her eyes and before she knew what had happened she felt herself being dragged blindly through the prickly branches of the courtyards border, the dank smell of damp earth filling her lungs as they plunged down into total darkness.

                                                                                                                            *****
Nathaniel sat quietly at the small dining table, swirling the last dregs of his tea round the bottom of the mug. He was still staring vacantly at the bright moon outside as he waited tiredly for it to set and for his day to begin. A shadow passed over the moon, flashing bright blue in the soft light and a small wren came to land unsteadily on the window sill. Small enough to fit comfortably in the palm of Nathaniel’s hand, the poor bird had only one leg, but two of the most intelligent eyes Nathaniel had ever seen.

“Trouble sleeping little one?” He asked softly, “I guess that makes two of us.” The bird hopped off the sill and onto the lumpy unmade remains of the bed beneath. Nathaniel smiled and stood up, taking his cup over to the small basin by the stove he pulled down a dented tin from beside the jar of tea leaves. Fishing around inside the pot he pulled out a salt biscuit, the last of that week’s batch. Breaking it in half he crumbled one side of the small cracker into a handful of dry crumbs. “Hungry?” He asked, trailing the crumbs on the floor before the bed. The wren did not reply, but jumped quickly down and began pecking eagerly at the floor, her small beak making a soft tap-tapping sound against the creaky floorboards. Nathaniel sat back down at the table and watched as his guest ate ravenously. “You’re a long way from home aren’t you?” He asked after a moment. “What brings you all the way out here on a cold night like this?” The bird looked up from its small feast and stared hard at her strange host, it looked down at the ground again apparently considering whether it was full or could fit in a few more crumbs. It pecked once more at the floor, then spreading its wings jumped neatly up onto the table, its intelligent eyes watching Nathaniel with an unnerving intellect. Silently it cocked its head to one side as if taking in every detail of the young man’s appearance, then it turned suddenly around to face the window once more. With another hop and a glide it was back on the window ledge looking down over the red dessert plains below, yet it did not fly away. Instead she turned around to face Nathaniel once more. Undecidedly it hopped towards him and then backwards again, the reflected gleam of the moon in its deep black eyes made it seem as if her gaze were flickering constantly from the window to Nathaniel. The boy stood up, wondering if maybe the poor creature had needed more than just food. He moved across to the window to check if the bird needed his help, but no sooner had he knelt down on the mattress than the wren jumped from the ledge and swooped down over the valley below. Nathaniel watched it go, gliding gracefully on the cool updraft, its small shadow flitting over the rocky ground. It was then that he first saw it, well, really saw it anyway; a jet black carriage winding its way through the white valley below, two hunched figures in emerald green cloaks sat huddled in the driver’s seat.

Heart racing Nathaniel ran for the door. Slipping on an old pair of boots he grabbed his cloak from the hook on the back of the door; midnight blue with a silver lining, his fathers. Without stopping to think he sprinted round the back to the stables. Throwing a saddle over Freta`s back he stroked her gently on the nose before roughly pulling open his saddle bag. He put in it neither food nor drink, but a couple of large lead bullets and his sling, for a moment he considered bringing the spear sling he kept by the door to ward off foxes and, he shuddered to think, gift hunters, but decided the small Shepard’s sling would aim better from horseback. Vaulting himself onto Freta’s sturdy back he urged her out of the stall and down the steep mountainside toward the Farlands. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, he barely even had a plan, but he knew he had to do something. He was the only one who knew what would happen, the only one around to stop it, and stop it he would. Nathaniel had seen too many deaths for one lifetime and never had he even stood a chance of stopping them, but now, now he had warning, now he had time. If he was fast enough maybe, just maybe, he could stop them.

                                                                                                                                            ***
The two men were shrouded in their emerald green cloaks, marks of the shrine of Oppola. Each held a crossbow, loosely gripped with a cold hand, the other clutching the green velvet close to their chests. Out of the darkness a young man in a midnight blue cloak rode up beside them, both men jumped, suddenly alert. Doubling their grips on their weapons, they watched the young man suspiciously.

“I am Nortel, messenger of the king,” said the boy in a halting voice, “you travel unbidden in these plains, I suggest that you change your course immediately.” The men surveyed the speaker looking doubtful.

“We answer not to your king boy. We are warriors of the church, and we travel harmlessly through these lands on business that is not of your concern.” Said the larger of the two men, a dark hint of warning in his gruff voice that made Nathaniel shiver.

“Of course sires,” he replied “but I am afraid my liege shall not cede to such an answer, you must turn your carriage aside this moment. I bid you; travel instead through Clathes dark trees, beyond my master’s realm.” A note of panic was rising in Nathaniel’s voice, he knew he was running short of time, but the guards still held their pace. Desperately he made a grab for the reigns of one of the tired looking steeds hitched to the carriage; with a sharp tug he drew the cart to a halt

“How dare you! You insolent little child.” The smaller soldier hissed. Pulling a short black riding whip from the holder at his hip he slashed violently at Nathaniel`s hand. A burning pain ran across his fingers and he dropped the reins. From the corner of his eye he caught the briefest movement in the trees, and his heart rate quickened.

“What on earth do you think you are playing at?” Growled the other man, calmly lowering the hand of his companion before he could strike again.

“Saving your life.” Muttered Nathaniel. Dropping Freta`s reigns he used his good hand to pull the small sling out from his saddle bag. Before the guards could react he had loaded it and fired the leaden weight quickly into the woods where he had seen the disturbance. “Missed.” He cursed as the blue shadow flickered away through the trees. He was fishing around in his saddle bag for a second bullet when he felt the cold tip of an arrows point against his throat.

“Messenger of the king you say?” Sneered the smaller man, peering over the shoulder of his fellow, who calmly held the crossbow to Nathaniel’s neck.

“Yes sir.” He rasped, scared to swallow at such point blank range.

“But you are no more than a boy.” Said the larger.

“I...”

“Tell me, Nortel was it? Why would any of the kings men be wearing shoes so old that their toes can be seen through the holes?” The smaller sneered, flashing a wicked grin at Nathaniel’s tattered boots. Another flash of blue flickered by, closer this time. A fearful dread was rising in Nathaniel’s chest as he began to plead his case.

“Please, you have to listen...”

“To you?” Growled the other.

“Ha! Child, I hear it in your voice you are nothing more than a commoner from Clathe, did you really believe you could fool us?”

“No, I was trying to save you.” Said Nathanial, eyes locked on the uncomfortably close quarrel he continuing to riffle blindly and yet even more urgently through his saddle bag, panic making his hands slow and clumsy.

“Save us!” They scoffed. “From what pray tell?” Nathaniel had managed to find one of the loose bullets as they spoke and was clutching the cold metal in his palm.

“Him!” He gestured beside him to the bushes at their left, simultaneously loading the bullet into its cradle, but before he had a chance to fire three loud snaps exploded from the bushes to which he had just pointed. Two long shafted arrows flew gleaming through the air, burying deep into their targets hooded skulls. Within moments the two riders lay dead in their seats, bright red blood blossomed through the fibres of their dark green cloaks. The third arrow had missed Nathaniel by less than a hairs breadth as, struggling against the shock of watching his vision transpire, he had thrown himself sideways and urged his horse forward into the cover of the trees ahead.

The blue cloaked hunter watched the farm boy’s swiftly receding figure, his black eyes darting calculatingly between his missing target and the abandoned carriage. Making his decision he weaved his way through the harsh thicket of trees until he reached the blood soaked clearing by the carriage.