go yellow, I’ll be five.”
Madoc could not help but smile at the innocence
of the girl, however this was the first he had heard of
her, and her troubles.
“Your birth was in the autumn?” The little girl
nodded. “Would you like to spend the day here?” he
offered, he was hoping she would agree, the child
intrigued him, something about her held an innocent
trouble. She seemed unsure as she nodded. “I have
some toys, in the box over there,” he pointed to a
wooden box in the corner of the hut. Covering the box
were several books, the child headed straight for a
book which seemed to have caught her interest.
Oddly, she began to read.
Madoc stood; he was unable to think how a child
of five had learned to read a full adult book, given that
lessons in the camps did not start until the age of at
least seven. The child looked to Madoc’s bewildered
face.
“I like this one, Malgron, he was a poet, and great
lord of old, the world will one day be shaped by the
words of the poets.”
Madoc nodded and smiled taking no heed to her
strange words. He turned and walked back to his desk.
Behind his desk was a small door, beyond the door
were the records of every child in his camp. The
record room was filled with row upon row of dusty
bookcases, upon each one was a large bound file. He
searched for the child of bunkhouse thirteen.
His eyes searched the pages of house thirteen as
he sat at his desk. Peering over the book, he saw the
child silently reading, a sunbeam shone through the
small window which looked out towards the wood,
scattered dust floated and danced in the beam. The
old paper was crudely filled in, nothing but a location
was written in her space.
He read, ‘Farhope, child discovered alive, thought
to be five-months old. Unharmed, anomaly to the
back of the child’s shoulder blades, two protruding
lumps seem to cause no pain.’
Again, he peered over the book. He could see the
protruding lumps on her back, they showed slightly
through her ragged clothes. Clearing his throat, he was
hoping to catch her attention, but she was engrossed in
her book.
“Child,” he softly said, the girl turned, “do you
know, what happened to your back?” he awkwardly
asked.
She looked to the floor, she seemed saddened by
the question. Slowly she closed the book and stood.
“They say things about me,” she said with a
depressive tone, “they call me names, and say I was
hated by my parents,” slowly she walked towards him,
“I’ve always been like this.”
Madoc stood and walked towards her. He towered
over her with his hands behind his back. He leant
down; his wide gown tumbled to the floor. “I think
they’re wonderful,” he tried to make her feel a little
better.
“They are,” she affirmed, “you don’t see it now,
but one day they will be like the torb’s, but giant, I will
have the power to take the skies from dragons,” she
said with a wonderous tone.
“Wishful thinking,” said Madoc with a grumbling
laugh, “the dragons own the skies with the birds and
stars, it’s doubtful a fey like you could ever reach
them.”
The child remained under the care of Madoc, the
trouble began to slowly subside, the children left the
Unknown Girl alone, but as the girl grew, as did her
power. It was something she tried to supress, but
something was noticeable with the Unknown Girl. Not
only did her eyes intrigue Madoc, but also her hair, it
would darken as the year went on.
Most of her days would be spent wandering in the
old woods. A new staff member had started in the
camp. Dune, he was fascinated with the young girl, his
mentor, Nareena, stood by him as they watched the
girl wander alone into the autumn wood.
“Keep clear of that one,” she warned.
Dune seemed intrigued. “Why?” he had a
sniggering laugh, having heard her tone of irritation,
“what has she done?”
Nareena shook her head slightly, a hard look of
frustration in her eyes glared towards the girl. “She
don’t work.” Her tone of annoyance only grew as she
went on. “Madoc’s little pet, she spends her time in
the wood. People say the pooka are there, that they
come and visit her,” Nareena looked to Dune, with an
evocative tone she said, “the staff are scared of her,
they say she has powers.”
Dune followed Nareena as she began to walk back
towards the mill-house. “What kind of powers?” The
sound of chiming anvils echoed around the camps.
Nareena sharply turned. “The kind to get you
killed,” she warned, “now, on with you, I’ll answer no
more about the Unknown Girl.”
“Is that her name?” asked Dune.
“I’ll answer no more,” warned Nareena.
Dune followed Nareena, all while looking back at
the small girl as she disappeared into the dimness of
the misty autumn wood.
“Mother!” the girl called as she walked carelessly
through the wood. A rustle in the bush beside her
made her turn her head. She watched to see who was
there, fear seemed distant from her, the late autumn
wood was a friend of hers. Others would see mist and
fog as frightening, unpredictable, she saw it as magical,
beautiful. “Who’s there?” she softly asked.
She walked towards the rustling bush; a few brown
leaves still moved. “Mother?” she asked as she moved
the leaves, a black nose and long brown face stared
towards her. The face of a four horned deer,
unstartled, stood staring at her. “How are you today,
deer?” The deer continued eating the last few bits of
green foliage on the bush.
The Unknown Girl continued her day, she did not
see Mother that day, several rabbits, more deer, and
many birds were her company in the wood. She
collected stones, leaves, and twigs and left them in a
clearing, just inside the treeline. Odd behaviour to
most, made complete sense to her.
She was yet to be given her name; she did not
know how she would get this. She did not have a single
friend in the camps. Her dreams were her refuge. The
face of a strange boy she would always see on her
saddest nights glared towards her, she told no one of
the boy, she told no one of her dreams, and she told
no one of her adventures in the woods.
The mighty city of Cronnin was always a bustling
place of power and politics. Protected by a towering
white marble wall, there were only four ways to enter
the city, through four gatehouses. The streets were a
maze of market stalls and houses, passing trade was
constantly flowing through the four gates to the city.
&n
bsp; Battling through the market streets was a pleasure for
most, being the largest of all cities, it would boast that
you could get anything in Cronnin. The winding
streets played host to taverns, bakers, butchers, fine
jewellery from all over Cronnin, the hardest
swordsmiths, and the best horses, all sold on the busy
streets of Cronnin.
Something else haunted the streets there though, a
silent anger was looming, rising taxes imposed by the
council of Cronnin made the people work hard, those
who had chosen to fill their pockets fast, chose death.
The war was unending, soldiers were needed, and
their service would be paid for, whilst they lived.
The almighty palace of Cronnin stood central to
the city; its empowering white walls circled for a full
forty miles. The gargantuan building spelt power and
to some, greed.
Four buildings reached from the central point. At
the end of each was a large tower stretching to the sky,
atop each tower flew the emerald stag of Cronnin.
Through the mighty golden doors stood the pillars
of power. The entrance way had a step down, two
pools either side filled with exotic fish, a gift from
Xencliff. Behind the pool’s, doorways led to the secret
passages of the Cronnin palace. A step up led into the
mighty marble hall. A large fountain in the centre of
the hall overshadowed the mighty staircase, which split
off onto two landings, and a large mezzanine
surrounding, the walls seemed to be covered with
doors. The room to the left of the hall two mighty
wooden doors towered to the top of the first floor of
the palace, as the council of Cronnin began to meet,
the elderly robed men made their way into the hall.
A man of power, King Brenin Oakwood stood at
the top of the mighty staircase, his hands were caught
behind his back as he waited for his council to enter.
His fifty years upon the throne had taken its toll, his
face was a picture of youthful age. His eyes were a
haunting dark blue, set in the lines that a lifetime of
stress had caused. His heavy shoulders seemed
disproportionate to his slender frame. A short blond
beard held a few grey hairs, at only sixty-five he was
young, but a for a wifeless king, his age concerned his
council.
The first door closed; it was now Brenin’s turn to
enter. As he quickly bounced down the stairs, he
noticed a new member of staff as she came scurrying
past him. A small woman carried a pitcher of water
into the hall.
He gracefully warned, “Mind your way.”
The woman looked utterly numb as she froze
before him. “Majesty,” she gasped as she bowed to
him. “I apologise,” she said with a soft whisper.
Brenin said with a lengthy breath, “Worry not. I’m
assuming you’re new,” he guessed, “your name?”
“Mord, Sire,” she held her bow towards him.
Brenin smiled. “Well, Mord, lovely to meet you,”
he held a cheery tone, “worry not, mistakes are made,
I go in first, wait for a moment, then you follow,” he
suggested. She was shocked that the king seemed so
kind. It was her first time meeting him, the stories of
him being a pompous noble who demanded respect
were indeed, nothing but stories.
Bursting into the hall, Brenin quickly walked
across the echoing grey stone floor.
“Sire,” a disapproving call came from the side of
him. He stopped and turned. The man, Ryan, looked
down to Brenin’s side. Ryan was old, he was
traditional, his long green robes were like that of a
temple druid. “Sire, please,” he begged as he looked
to Brenin’s large broad sword. “You have no need to
carry them here.”
Brenin wore his sword with pride, black trousers, a
red tunic, and green cloak along with long leather
boots, he wanted to remain young, he did not want to
slip into his role of a tired old king just yet.
“My father taught me very little,” he continued his
way across the hall, “one thing he did teach is that it’s a
sword that determines the man, the better the sword
the better the man, no sword –” he stopped and
looked around the circular room, “well, I shall let you
all guess.”
The room was a circle of wooden benches, peering
down towards the centre of the hall, in the pit of the
political hall stood a single plinth, a small wooden
table stood in the centre.
Brenin made his way towards the back of the hall,
he climbed the dark wooden stairs which overlooked
the hall. He took his place upon his large wooden
throne. It was a shining symbol of Cronnin; the throne
was carved with all the flora and fauna found on
Cammbour. The back of the throne looked as though
the trees themselves had grown from the ground,
creating the large structure, it was a heavy seat for a
single man.
The blurred mumbles began to quiet as a grey
faced councillor took the floor. He shuffled his way to
the plinth, almost bent over as he did. Neat grey hair
sat adorn a head filled with spotting wrinkles, his age
was ancient, fingers like twigs he reached towards the
He called out, “Gentlemen!” His voice was high
pitched, there was not a single part that age had not
been cruel to on his living corpse. “Calling this
meeting to order,” he said with a slow, yet, well to do
accent, a clear sign of superior breeding seemed
rooted in him. “Today’s order of business, we have
several issues surrounding the northern camps.”
Peering around the door, Mord waited, Brenin
soon noticed her, holding his hand up he waved her
in. “And what of the camps in the north, Bart?” a tone
of annoyance seemed to catch Brenin.
Bart slowly replied, “Issues,” he turned to the
papers on the table, slowly he began to sift through
them, he stuttered, “with the pooka and torb,” he took
some papers and began to read, he looked around the
council hall, “they are telling us that the camps are
showing signs,” he fidgeted with the papers, “of
overcrowding, and cruelty.”
Brenin was a man of little patience when it came to
council affairs. Throwing his arms in the air, Brenin
could not take any more. “Bart, you’re boring me,
what is the problem? And can it be solved?”
“Doubtful,” replied Bart with his mouth curled
down, “the issue isn’t with their location, we don’t
seem to have enough of them, too many children, not
enough parents,” he was unfeeling towards the
predicament.
“Fine,” huffed Brenin, he said with a high tone,
“that’s all you needed to say.” Brenin stood, his voice
was filled with power as he called, “the funds from the
camps will remain with them for the next three turns,
send the masons. They roll off enough linen to find
the funds, some additional workspace is needed as
well, the war, Gentlemen, is not settling, we need to be
sure we can fund our efforts.” A ringing mumble
began to fill the silence of the hall. “In the meantime, I
will do my best to settle Bushwell and the pooka.”
Instantly the room erupted with disapproval, it shook
Mord to her core as she leapt up. Scurrying from the
room, Brenin began to follow. “Until you have
calmed, I will not return,” he ordered.
As he came to the door, he saw Mord readying
herself to take another pitcher of water in. “With me,
Mord,” he ordered. She was grateful that he had called
for her to follow, the room was still erupting with
arguments of money and greed.
Mord followed, they passed the corridor to the left
and made their way up the huge marble stairs. Brenin
happily bounced his way up the long stairs, the thick
green carpet stopped any sounds or echoes. At the top
of the stairs the huge walls were lined with pictures of
power. Ancestral kings and queens glared towards her
from the ancient canvas’. To the left was a long
corridor, to the right a second corridor, but they
followed the mezzanine to the right and followed
towards the top of the bottom hall, Mord hurried
behind Brenin, her hands were shaking, and legs felt
weak. The echoes from the council hall still erupted as
they rushed towards the large wooden doors to
Brenin’s chambers.
The guards, statuesque and silent, all wore the
same neat green tunic, black boots with trousers
inside. Their long green capes bore the emblem of
Cronnin, the white stag. Each wore a sword around
their waist and held long wooden spears, with a large
point to the top. The guards parted as Brenin and
Mord came to the carved wooden door.
Mord stood silent inside his chambers. His
quarters were one of the mightiest rooms the palace
held. A colossal room stood before her, a large red
carpet covered the floor, the extravagance was clear in
the bright and airy room. To the right and left the
walls were covered with bookcases, too large to reach
from the floor, a mezzanine allowed for the bookcases
to reach as far as the mighty intricate coffered ceiling.
The smell of pipe smoke and parchment filled the air.