23rd March 1103

The snow had been melting for days so all that was left were muddy patches that sucked at Sigurd’s boots. In the valley everything was dank and wet and streaming, the rigid pine trees dripping with rain from every needle as a mist rolled up from the sea to settle at the foot of the mountains.

Sigurd was cold and uncomfortable, mud splattered up to his knee and soggy socks crammed into squeaking boots. He longed to go home to Varda, thaw out his feet in a bucket of steaming water and crawl into bed beside her hulking, warm body.

The King, who Sigurd suspected had developed a little cabin fever from the long winter cooped up inside the drafty castle, had insisted they go out to survey a new building site at the first sign of thaw. The morning had been relatively warm, a weak sun shining through a thin guaze of clouds but the day had grown progressively grimmer. Now, faced with the long trudge back to the castle, Sigurd wished they would soon turn towards home.

“See Lochan, wouldn’t this make the most perfect place for your castle?” Eallair smiled knowingly at the Duke who was looking entirely unimpressed.

“Your Majesty, if you permit me saying so, we have not even begun to finish the fortress. It is madness to even begin to consider a new phase of building. You need not be concerned on my behalf, I am quite content to remain in my lodgings in the castle. There are docks to be built, and barns to be finished. We are sorely lacking in men. We should not even be entertaining the thought now,” Lochan huffed, his face grim, “I believe Your Majesty needs to focus on more important things.”

An icy drop of rain slopped down from the branches above and trickled down the back of Sigurd’s tunic, sending an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He reached up to rub some warmth into the back of his neck and froze as he heard a soft crackle.

He swung around, eyes scanning the forest but there was nothing there. The rain was growing heavier, making pattering sounds on the mossy bracken and he turned his attention back to the King.

“But come now Lochan!” the King grinned, spreading his arms wide as thought to embrace the Duke and the surrounding forest, “look around you. Would this not be a fine place for a castle. The mountains to your back, a steep climb from the sea. Plenty of available wood. Certainly a bit damp today, but nothing a snug fire wouldn’t fix.”

Lochan stared at his cousin in trepidation, “I don’t know why you are even thinking of this now Majesty. We have not the resources nor the men. We must stay focused on defending the shoreline. Perhaps in a few years, maybe more. We just do not have the manpower.”

There was a faint rustle from the forest. The hair on the back of Sigurd’s neck stood on end as he peered into the gloom trying to determine the source.

“Did anyone else hear that?” he wavered.

“But have you not thought of the defensive possibilities Lochan?” The King went, apparantely oblivious to Sigurd’s concern, “What if the shoreside fortress were to fall. Where would we retreat to? There’s nowhere but the forest and a few scattered farms. They would have us surrounded in no time. But if we had a second line of defense, a fine, strong castle at the foot of the mountains we could make a stand. Even survive a siege. You must see the sense in it.”

It was probably just a frightened squirrel. He was just on edge because Varda’s time was so soon. Every little sound she made would wake him the night as he lay by her side, counting her breathing, terrified to hear a cry of pain.

“Well, Your Majesty. You certainly do have a point there,” Lochan gazed at the King appraisingly, “a second line of defense would certainly serve us well. But I stand by my point, there is no sense in beginning building on a second project when the first is not even near done.”

Sigurd was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable, though he could not say why. He peered again into the forest, heart pounding, looking for the squirrel, scanning the dark surroundings. Something felt wrong, his skin was tingling with it.

“Your majesty,” he mumbled, “I really think we should be heading home…”

“What’s that Sigurd?”

The King began to turn when suddenly the bushes exploded as a dark figure launched itself towards them in a blur of black and the frightening glint of silver.

Sigurd’s ears rang with the whistle of cold steel slicing through the rain as it struck out towards them. His heart thudded, a frightened creature shuddering in the depths of his chest and without thinking he tumbled into the King, awkwardly knocking him out of the path of those terrifying blades.

With are horrifying pressure, then release the blades sliced through Sigurd’s flesh, tearing and grinding against his ribs to skewer the hysterical creature leaving it twitching and jerking.

All around him was the clamour of angry shouts, the singing of swords ripped from their sheaths, guttural words spat in a language he could not understand. And there was pain, a great gushing torrent of it that spattered against his spine and burnt up to his brain. With a sickening slither his attacker dragged the clawed weapon from his chest in a welter of his own blood.

Blurry flashes as Lochan and Cordell’s swords carved through the mist, plunging into the dark figure again and again until he sank to the ground.

Sigurd coughed, blood foaming on his lips and dribbling into his beard. He saw the dark blots dropping to form fat splots on the ground at his feet. With trembling fingers, head spinning he felt the ragged edges of the wound, the meaty flesh ripped open.

“What in the blazes?” Lochan growled, “it’s a woman!”

He knelt just clear of the pooling blood that was gushing from the fatal wounds in her body, a tide that was waning since her heart had ceased to beat. With every spasm of his own, Sigurd felt thick blood oozing out between his clasping fingers.

“What the hell is wrong with her face?!” Cordell exclaimed, peering at the hagged, rotten green of her skin.

Lochan gingerly ran a finger across the dead woman’s cheek, “It’s paint is all, see underneath. She may be pale but she’s human enough. Only human.”

Human. Only human. Sigurd was human. Sigurd was torn, Sigurd was shredded, his blood pouring out of the hole he futiley tried to stop with his slender hands.

He sank to his knees, toppling like a felled tree as everything slowly went black. Beneath him the ground was slick with rain, mingling with the oozing mess that was his blood. Above him the menacing pines peered down their, needled heads bending ominously in the rising wind.

“Lochan! Lochan! Sigurd’s been hurt. Please Lochan! Help him!” Eallair whimpered somewhere far above, where the pine trees were.

“Oh God. Please help him.”

Arwaduhn, Inbar, Murchadh, The Royal Family