Prologue

A Chapter by shrikey

Lord and Lady Umbra of Blacklust have finally been given a son, but this birthing puts their entire House into danger.

One

Word travels quickly. It travelled along the Silk Road, over Land’s spine and past Redrun. Spreading like wildfire, it soon had reached the Grey Sea and travelled over on great merchant ships to Deverath. Then past Deverath, and on, at last, to the border cities by Dragon’s Breath.

‘Lady Umbra is with a son; Lady Umbra is with a son. The Blacklusts have an heir; Lady Umbra is with a son’. These whisperings scurried into the other Houses and the other Lords rejoiced and cursed in turn.

The forested valley of Blacklust celebrated. From lowly farmsteads to Highgate itself men and women praised the gods of the vale for their gift to their lord. The Knights of the Valley rode with the greatest haste to be the first to congratulate their Lord and Lady Umbra.

They rode day and night until they finally reached the great fortress of Blackgate. The pennants caught the breeze as horses clattered through the portcullis and into the lower levels of the town. Up through the winding main street and past the imposing Blackgate and into Inner Town, through there into the Citadel, across the courtyard and into the hall where they would pay their respects to their new king.

In his hall upon his throne, the father grinned, his gaunt face alight as he watched his son squirm and squall in the mid wives’ arms.

‘He has your face, Lord.’

‘No, he has his grandfather’s face.’

Eline nodded. ‘That may be, but he has your eyes.’

The lord looked, away, pleased. ‘I suppose. How is Cathryn?

‘Still weary, but happy. I should hope however that she stays bedridden for at least another day. She is still weak from birthing.

Lord Umbra nodded ‘Thank you, Eline, fetch me Scipio.’

The midwife curtsied and withdrew, taking the baby with her. A minute later, Ferel, the steward, entered, from a shadowy side door, and saw his Lord smiling softly.

‘Congratulations lord. He looks to be a fine son.’

‘Aye, Scipio.’ The Lord of the Valley said quietly, still smiling. ‘He will make me proud.’

‘I have no doubts, Lord.’ The steward said dutifully. Then, ‘You called for me?’

‘Yes’. Lord Umbra’s smile vanished. ‘What news from the other houses?’

‘They have all sent their congratulations, but many are disappointed. Several have their eyes on the Valley, and now you are with an heir those hopes are shattered.’

‘If it came to war, who could we rely on?’ Umbra asked.

Scipio thought for a moment.

‘Fyrdvein and Asquith still owes us their oaths, but only reluctantly. If they get a chance they will sell us out. Redrun will fight for whoever fights Deverath, if we can strike an agreement with them then we would also be able to field a dozen Whyte knights with all their men.’

Scipio turned away.

‘As for our own forces, we can put two dozen knights in the field, along with each of their men-at-arms and freeriders. Most Houses have twice that. We’ll have to allies.

Scipio turned to look back at Umbra, ‘This is assuming that there even is war.’

‘The Houses won’t permit an opportunity like this to slip through their fingers. I must protect my son until he can protect himself. There will be war and I need to know who I can trust.’

‘You can’t trust any of them lord.’

‘I know. That’s whats worrying me.’ Lord Umbra stood. ‘I shall retire to my tower. Come to me at first light tomorrow with my schedule. Thank you Scipio.’

Scipio nodded and backed out of the room.

Umbra stood, stretched and left by the door behind his throne. He climbed the stairs, and slipped into his chambers. Carolyne wasn’t back yet. She was sleeping in Scipio’s chambers with their child while she recovered. As he undid his heavy velvet doublet he wondered what he should name his son. A name befitting of Blacklust, a name that did his grandfather justice, Sirius, or Lucian, but neither of those names seemed to fit. As he slipped beneath the covers his thoughts drifted to what lay ahead. Umbra was certain that it would come to war, and felt a morbid certainty that if the houses saw their cause as lost, even those who swore oaths would not come to their aid.

As he drifted into sleep, he saw a Shrike land softly outside the window, its dark plumage causing it to blend into the night. The butcher bird, the commoners called them. Known to wound instead of kill, thought as savage, yet strangely beautiful. He didn’t know whether it was a portent of the slaughter to come, or a simply a coincidence, but he did realise one thing. Shrike, his son, the two blended into one. His name… Shrike…

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