Tân-y-loar by Matt Gilbert

3501.CE

“Thank you, child. An old man like me enjoys his simple comforts.”

“And here’s your blanket, Ur-pa.”

“You are a good girl. Now, it’s nearly the hour of the Wolf. The light is failing, and you should be in your bed before the People come for you. Now don’t giggle girl, the People are not some childish fancy. They are real. They are dangerous. I have seen them.”

“Is that what they look like, Ur-pa? They look strange. They don’t look real.”

“They are real enough my dear and yes, that carving on the wall there is a good likeness. Yes, take it down and hold it in your hands. That’s it, careful now. See how lovingly the figure has been carved from the wood. Close your eyes. Can you feel it? It feels alive, like the carving has sustained the wood and life still flows through its core.”

“How do you know about the Faery People, Ur-pa? You’ve never left the village.”

“Ho ho, child, you are too young to remember. Before even your father was born, I was one of our village’s Trakken, tasked with guarding the annual caravans plying the trade routes between the great plains here out to the great Galahir and into Letharac. One year, I even went so far south as Primantor on the shore and took a ship – a ship! Such a sight you’ve never seen. And the sea – I’ve never seen so much water! But that is another story. We have a little time and you are old enough to stay up a while longer. So settle down and I’ll tell you how it is I have seen the Fey.”

***

The air was cooling. Even under the trees where the temperature was reduced due to the shade, we could feel the turning of the seasons; the heat and wetness of the summer yielding to the drier, more tepid climate of the fall, and the inevitable chill of winter. The visual cues were there too; the colours of the forest beginning their transition, and the odd leaf here and there drifting down to the floor to be lost amongst the roots and undergrowth. What had been a canvas of green when we had arrived eight weeks previously was slowly transforming into what I knew would soon be a riot of browns, oranges, yellows, and reds. I had seen the forest like it once before when I was just a boy. It is a beautiful sight to behold.

We had been delayed. The caravan master, Per Vortlek, had dallied too long we felt, haggling over the value of the ox-hides we had bought with us in exchange for iron pots and tools. The master wanted unmade iron too in the bargain, knowing the smiths out on the plains were always in want of fresh supplies. The elves tolerate it, you see, but they consider it an unclean necessity. They are happy to trade it away for the right price. Per Vortlek was an unpleasant man, but he was good at his job, and meticulous in his negotiations, ensuring he got the best for his clients and his reputation. He did well that trip, so I believe he thought the delay was worthwhile.

We finally left Ileutherin on a cool, clear morning. Vortlek’s hired and permanent caravan guards took up their positions in the train, and the order was given to roll out. My father was in charge of our waggons towards the front of the train, and myself and two other’s from the village had made the trip as the men entrusted with the village’s wealth and goods. Once the train neared our village, we would break off and complete the last leg of the journey ourselves, trusting we knew the land and the risks travelling alone entailed well enough.

Two elves had been assigned to us as an escort to see us safely through to the outskirts of the forest. The forest is a paradox: both wonderful and terrible. The maze of paths can be treacherous and lead the careless far astray. Without an escort, it is a lucky man who easily finds his way through the trees. Even the widest trade routes, ploughed yearly by the traffic from the plains, can deceive and mislead, leading the unwary deep into the darkest places. Deep into danger. They had been with us for two days, waiting impatiently to get moving but keeping themselves apart from our camp. Or at least as far apart as decorum permitted.

The elves spoke little to the men and never to me. I could only observe them from a distance. My father had dealt briefly with them in the past on previous trips, but this pair only conversed with Vortlek, and then it seemed, only sparingly. Dressed in soft leathers that seemed to blend in and mimic the changing colours of the trees around them, they struck me as more a part of the forest than beings that dwelled within it. With long, slender bows lying across their backs, they eventually signalled for us to move out, and without waiting for acknowledgement, struck out along either side of the path, leading the way.

As the waggons rolled out and began to pick up speed, Mok, a huge hulk of a man from the arid wastes to the south, hawked and spat into the undergrowth. “Haughty, skinny bastards,” he sneered. “Bet they’d snap like the twigs they resemble in a fight. Think themselves too good for the likes of us.” He glared ahead and began cleaning his nails with a dirty, wicked looking knife which appeared from somewhere inside his jerkin. He was a hired thug, selling his sword arm to Vortlek for the first time this year. He was distrustful, arrogant, aggressive, and didn’t tolerate weakness, but as some minor incidents had proved on the journey so far, could handle himself in a fight and I suppose, if you are hiring muscle, that’s all that matters.

My father glanced at me to keep quiet, but Mok had irked me.

“We need them to help get us safely out of here,” I said as I lead my horse alongside the train. “Besides, they’ve done you no harm. It is in their interests to see the trade caravans in and out the forest, so providing an escort can only make sense.”

“What makes you an expert, boy?” I remember the demeaning, goading emphasis on the last word just as clearly today as I heard it then. “You can’t be any more than sixteen summers old, you young whelp. I bet I could snap you too with one hand.”

I felt a hand placed firmly on my shoulder. My father reached down from his seat in the waggon and shook his head. “Leave us, Mok. Go and bother someone else. Perhaps you’d like to tell our guides up there what you really think of them?”

Mok scowled and spat again on the path in front of us, before stalking off along the line.

“Steer clear of that one, boy. No point getting into trouble.”

***

We travelled slowly for three days, and it was clear our guides were getting irritated with the pace we were making. They probably wanted to leave and be home as much as we did ourselves. I was glad they had accompanied us though, for the path we took through the trees was unfamiliar and lonely. Not another soul did we see during that time – just the colours of the vegetation to distract us from the monotony of the trek. But after a while, even the majesty of the trees dwindled in our eyes as the path lazily rolled by under our column of trudging feet and creaking wheels. On the third evening, Per Vortlek called a halt as normal, and the command rippled back down the line. My father pulled himself on to his plains-horse, a feisty and powerful piebald that would enjoy the freedom of the grassland once we finally left the forest behind us. He trotted up to the head of the train to confirm the situation and returned shortly, calling out for us to make camp for the night.

“We are close to the edge of the trees, Eran. We settle here tonight and then can be a way clear of the forest edge before sunset tomorrow.” He jumped down from the saddle and handed me his reins. “Here. Water the horses and then help Weasel build the fire. Tolk and I will prepare the food.”

Weasel and Tolk were the village’s other Trakken; skilled warriors, and experienced scouts and guards. Tolk was the older, almost of an age with my father. The two of them often talked fondly of times when they were children and the mischief they had shared in. Weasel was younger, but still had at least five years on me and the scars to show it. His small pointed features and his knack of getting in and out of places he wasn’t wanted had earned him his nickname from a very young age. I never found out his real name. He didn’t talk much but was trusted well enough and fiercely loyal to the village. On a trade journey, where the village wealth was in your hands, such traits were essential. A village needs to know that the men who will take what they have to sell, and bring back what they purchased or bargained for, will return no matter the odds. Life on the plains was harsh, but trade sustained it and made it bearable, elevating the villages from their nomadic and tribal roots.

The mood in the camp was lifted that evening. The waggon drivers and guards could all sense that this step of the journey was nearly over. The traipse through the forest had become monotonous, but spirits were raised with the knowledge that we would soon spill out onto the plains, free from the forest in a place where we could feel the raw breeze on our faces – a feeling of liberty and the tug of home you can feel in your heart. Happy faces reflected the glow of the campfires, and at some point in the evening, after our supper, the singing started. We were an eclectic mix of cultures with a range of songs to match. Each singer was increasingly well received, and when Mok rumbled out a gruff yet surprisingly melodic ode from his homeland, even he received some cheers of encouragement, such was the feeling of goodwill. As Mok finished his song, there came from the furthest fire a voice like none I had heard before, and rarely since. A second voice joined in, and as the men around us fell silent, a hauntingly beautiful duet wrapped us in its gentle embrace. Tolk and my father closed their eyes, and as I did too the music entered my mind and body, becoming an almost physical experience as images of ancient times and places, emotions and desires washed around me.

I don’t know how long they sang for, but our daydreams were harshly shattered when Mok snarled and, rising from where he sat alone, kicked at the pots at his feet, storming off into the dark of the woods and muttering under his breath. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable with what we had collectively experienced, or perhaps his disdain for the elven singers eventually overcame his reverie, but his reaction broke the spell and the singing faded into the night. Silence took hold, and gradually the fires were doused and the caravan settled down to sleep.

A cold, dewy day greeted us as we stirred at dawn. After a brief, cheerless breakfast, the caravan organised itself for the last leg of the journey and slowly lumbered into the wearisome pattern of the last few days. I remember little about the early hours, but at some point I was aware of something strange, something different. Others had felt it too, and up ahead I saw our guides casting furtive looks into the trees and at each other. I shivered. My father and one or two others down the line loosened the weapons in sheaths and slings. At the raise of a hand from the nearest elf, the caravan came to a halt. I could see nothing in the trees, but the elves were looking west and fingering their bows. As we sat there, the absence struck me. No sound. No sigh of wind, no rustle of leaves. No scurrying, no scrabbling, no song of any bird. The silence rang in my eardrums louder than the sound it had replaced.

I saw the elves move, split-seconds before it crashed out the trees in front of them. I had seen and heard of these foul abominations – the warped and mutated consequence of experimentation and twisted magic. That mortals have conspired to willingly bring such grotesque monstrosities into the world defies belief. Born from the depths of the world and tempered with the fires of the Abyss, the huge, snarling and frenzied halfbreed thundered into the path, and with one ferocious swing of its axe cleaved the first elf cleanly in two. Not breaking stride, the fiend smashed into the closest waggon, stomping through the petrified driver, the wood and the helpless horses, and driving into our other guide who took a hefty blow and fell away. As waggon wood and bones shattered, it let out an almighty, sonorous, terrifying bellow. Fear gripped me then – I’m not afraid to tell you. The sound that thing made as it tipped back its head and roared its challenge stirred something in me that was primeval: the terror of hunted prey, the despair of the weak, and the hopelessness of flight.

The caravan exploded into life. Guards from all around charged in with screams and war-cries in a multitude of tongues – united in a common cause and a common revulsion. The huge double-headed axe of the Abyssal monster chopped effortlessly left and right, and its hooves stomped and lashed out at whatever the axe could not reach. The thing was a furious blur of fur and muscle, metal and blood. I saw three, four, five men cut down by vicious sweeps of that dreadful blade. As it turned, I saw a hideous gaping wound down one flank which looked alive with an inner fire and, even in the brief glimpse I had, decayed and festering. Perhaps this is what had driven it mad – a terrible wound that was rotting its mind as well as its body. I’ll never know for sure, but after all these years, that is what I believe.

As I came to my senses and started to draw my own weapon, two things happened. Our second elf guide hauled his broken body into a sitting position and drew his bow. Waiting but a heartbeat for a clear shot, he loosed an arrow which flew true and buried itself with a snap-crump deep into the flank of the beast. It roared in pain and reared up in an attempt to locate its tormentor; but then out of nowhere, it seemed, came Mok.

Bellowing his own cry, Mok swung his huge blade in a scything diagonal sweep. The beast barely raised its own parry in time, the two weapons meeting with a bone shuddering clang. The two of them exploded into a bewildering and brutal conflict and we watched, amazed at the strength and skill Mok displayed, as he matched the hacking and slashing of the Abyssal while still managing his own attacks and counters. They fought like titans, and time slowed as we watched in horrified fascination. Death prowled the scene, watching for a mistake, a weakness: so one might fall – as must surely happen.

The Abyssal made the error, overstretching with an arcing swipe. Mok dropped and rolled under the swinging blade and cut his own across the open, livid wound in the beast’s side. The monster screamed, and I covered my ears the sound was so painful – a cacophony of spite, anguish, pain and suffering. It instinctively lashed out with its front leg, the hoof smashing into Mok’s helmet and crushing his face and skull. The big man crumpled to the ground, the strings of life severed; the violent animation which had consumed his body extinguished forever.

A cry of despair rang out from the men, and we all moved to fell the creature. But it seemed it had no stomach left, or was too much in pain, as it launched itself from the wreckage of the waggon and crashed through the man nearest to it, making for the trees once more. The man stood no chance and was mercilessly cut down where he stood, his body trampled under the hammer blows of the beast’s legs as it fled into the darkness. The numbness and shock hit me first, but they rapidly dissolved into loathing; and without thinking, I kicked my horse into life and plunged into the forest after the monster.

“No, Eran!” Tolk cried after me. “Stop, stop!”

The man had been my father.

***

I don’t know how long I ploughed into the trees: time was meaningless. I was blind to my surroundings and unconscious of where I was heading. My focus was reduced to a tunnel – a path of destruction ahead of me and the goading, sneering hand of revenge, both pushing me on and beckoning me forwards at once. Emotions roiled within me just as my horse’s hooves churned the soil beneath us. Sadness, guilt, hate, and rage boiled through my veins and clouded my thoughts, leading me deep into the forest and hopelessly lost.

It was getting difficult to see. The gloom was oppressive. The shadows of the canopy seemed to merge and solidify, becoming a perceptible shroud that was relentlessly pushing down from above, the pressure squeezing the light and warmth from around me. There were noises, but they seemed as alien as the surroundings, and they echoed through the twisting, interwoven branches. The cries of solitary birds reverberated mournfully through the canopy. The ground was damp underfoot, and in the distance to either side I could make out a faint eerie glow between the great trunks. Cursing my youthful recklessness, I tried to turn and find my way back, giving up the chase now and seeing myself for a fool. I had left my father and the others just when they needed me.

To my despair, the trail I had created had seemingly vanished. Either I had taken a wrong turn or the plants had regrown by some foul trickery. The darkness and cold of the forest began to seep inside me, both into my bones and into my mind. To my right was a glow again, dimly radiating through the trees. A cool white light that seemed to somehow spread a little warmth as it washed across the forest floor. With nowhere else to go, the temptation of the glamour proved too great. If I was lost here for the night, surely some light for a camp would be a good idea? I could find my way again in the morning.

As I approached the source of the light, I could hear the dripping of water and could feel the dampness in the air. I slowed, now on foot and leading my horse which had become nervous and jittery. Trying to sooth the frightened animal, my skin too began to tingle as the trees opened out to reveal a shimmering pool of white, milky water. As we entered the clearing, tendrils of mist that snaked across the pool seemed to retract at our presence and evaporate or curl away amongst the roots which trailed into the water. Out the corner of my eye, but never there when I turned my head, I saw eyes, lights, and things I cannot describe. Just there, on the edge of reason.

I didn’t notice her at first, but once I had, I don’t know how I missed her. Sitting across from me, in the roots of a huge, ancient gnarled tree, sat a child. She was small and seemingly very young. Her pale green skin was smooth and delicate. Her clothing helped her blend in to the woodland around her. What struck me most about her though was her cascade of hair – pure white it was, with a sheen that was mirrored in the light of the pool. I tied up my horse and moved cautiously round the edge of the water. She had not noticed me, so engrossed as she was in her play. She was studying what I took to be a doll of some kind, a beautiful slender thing. She began to hum as she turned it over in her hands and then started to use what appeared to be a crystalline tool to gently carve more detail into the figure. I sat down, entranced, not ten feet from where she worked. I had not eaten since breakfast and now tired and weary, my stomach betrayed my hunger.

The girl’s head snapped round at the sound. I scrambled backwards until my back hit a tree. Rather than look startled, the young elf girl, for that’s what I thought she was, looked curious. She cocked her head to one side and gazed at me with wide, yellow, feline eyes. I stared back and felt the black pupils pulling me in. I was helpless, but not afraid. The tug was gentle and all my worries, guilt, and fear began to ebb away. I felt the girl understood me more than I did myself. As I thought of my father, a darkness started to pull me away, a small sob bubbling up as I battled with emotion. The girl smiled and moved to take my hand, and the moment passed.

She stood, and with a motion from a frail looking hand, indicated I should follow. Without hesitation, I rose and went to collect my horse, so trusting I was of this strange being. She waited patiently, unafraid of the animal that was still visibly nervous and many times her size. She cocked her head again – the same gesture as before, and held the horse’s gaze. It calmed, relaxing with a snort and began nibbling the leaves of a nearby bush. Taking my hand once more, the girl led us through the trees, her footsteps silent and graceful where mine were loud and clumsy in comparison. Somehow she move effortlessly through along a path I had not seen before, whereas I kept snagging myself on thorns and had to swipe trailing branches to clear my way. She turned back, smiled, and we continued.

We progressed for perhaps an hour like this, all the while the forest around growing darker as night fell. I was struggling and the elf girl must have realised, for she whispered something into the air – the first sound I had heard her make. Her voice was hard to describe; like bells tinkling in the breeze but also with an earthy, gravelly undertone, all on the edge of hearing. She cupped her hands and from all around us, tiny points of light like miniature floating suns, in a multitude of pastel colours, lazily drifted from the air and found their way into her palms where they merged into a beautiful orb of pale golden light. With another breathy command, the orb rose to float above us, and when we moved on, it followed, casting its light upon and around us so that my footsteps where more sure and my horse did not risk injury.

We stopped for me to rest. The girl must have sensed my weariness and indicated to sit. We had entered another clearing, and what little light was left in the sky merged with the glow from our orb to cast spidery shadows across the scene before me. I closed my eyes and lent back against a stone, and that’s when I sensed it.

The air had gone cold. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and an icy chill spread through my veins. The forest had gone silent. Our guide had gone still and rigid, staring across the space into the darkness of the vegetation opposite. I knew what was coming, but as the branches parted and the beast emerged from the gloom, I knew I had stopped breathing and could not move; muscles treacherous from the fear. The Abyssal stepped into the clearing, the light from our orb reflecting and running along the edge of the huge rune-encrusted axe it held at its side. I was reminded of the summer storms we have out on the plains, where the sky lights up with the dance of lightning as it plays its way through the clouds. Sometime the cloud edges glow silver, pink, purple – as the sky fire explodes behind them and the mortals on the ground quake in fear. The halfbreed was the storm, its hooves the thunder, and I could see the sky fire alive in the weapon it carried.

It was the look of fear in the eyes of the girl that ignited the fire within me – that, and my horse screaming and bolting from the clearing, crashing wildly through the undergrowth and lost to me for good. Our guide, this kind and gentle creature who had soothed our fears and was taking us to safety, now looked frail, small and vulnerable. Anger and memory returned. Anger at what the brute had done to my father, and anger at the distress and danger the child was now in. I scrambled to my feet and, grabbing the girl by the arm, moved her behind me and down into a hollow under a huge tree root. As I pulled my sword free, the Abyssal raised its axe and roared into the night; the same horrific cry that had paralysed me before but which now fuelled my rage and infused me with a heady rush of blood. Huge rippling muscles launched the monster across the clearing in two giant strides, and our weapons clashed with a screeching metallic ring that bounced around us in barely muffled echoes.

I blocked. I blocked again. It was all I could do to defend myself and the girl from the fury of the beast. As I fell to one knee, pushing the child further into the hollow, I glanced into the face of our tormentor and stared into the wild hatred burning in its crimson eyes. I stared into the Abyss that day, and but through the force of will I found to tear my gaze away from the depths of the hell I saw there, I would be dead now, my soul trapped within those demonic eyes. Of this I am certain.

The axe crashed down, and my weakened arm snapped with the blow as I raised my sword to parry. I cried out as the weapon shattered and flew from my useless hand. The monster snarled in triumph and reared up to bury its hooves through my skull. Just as the end was upon me, I saw the shadows move behind it – unfurling themselves from a tree and leaping onto the back of the Abyssal with a resounding leathery snap of wings and a piercing screech. Razor sharp claws dug onto the flanks of my attacker and scaled jaws snapped around its neck, trying to find purchase. The Abyssal reeled backwards, desperately trying to dislodge the bark-wry – for I now know that’s what it was – while avoiding the biting, searching teeth. It slammed itself into a massive trunk attempting to crush the sylvan-drakon with its bulk, but the wrym wriggled clear at the last moment and dropped to the ground.

I watched in shock; numb with pain, apprehension and wonder as the two monsters fought in front of me, locked in a whirlwind of snarling, ripping, bloody combat. The bark-wyrm was trying to claw the open wound I had seen before on the halfbreed but screeched in pain as the huge axe blade bit down savagely into its wing. Just before the Abyssal could follow up, there burst from the trees a host of creatures which seemed to boil over the ground and surround the monster. Green-skinned elves, surely the kin of the child, leapt through the branches, planting arrows with unerring accuracy into the body, the shoulder, and face of the fiend. The throng which engulfed it confused my eyes. I saw animals, sprites, fairies, and things for which I have no name. So many of them – snapping, tearing, and clawing. As my vision faded and a veil of darkness took me, the last thing I saw was the Abyssal disappearing under a rolling blanket of death; the last thing I heard, the horrific scream as a wicked soul was dragged back to the depths of hell.

***

I awoke with a start. The girl was gone and I had been propped up in her place in the hollow. My vision was cloudy, but I could see a light such as the orb had made; and as my sight cleared, I started in fright at the being sitting cross-legged before me. So alike the child she was: green-skinned although not as pale; slender and alien. Her angular ears were visible through silvery hair and her high cheekbones and complexion suggested youth – but her eyes, the same, yellow, cat-like eyes – regarded me with wisdom seemingly beyond her years. My movement had caused me to wince in pain, and she cocked her head in a way very reminiscent of the child. I heard her voice, yet her lips never moved.

“You are wounded, plainsman. You are trespassing and you are lost. You were not invited here, and yet here you are.”

I could only stare back. My wits had left me and I knew not what to say. I felt her there, a gentle yet firm presence inside my head.

“The beast is dead. The taint erased from the forest. My daughter tells me you fought for her. Protected her. Why?”

“She is just a child,” I managed to stammer. “She stood no chance against that thing. It killed already today. It kill…” I caught my breath. “It killed my father. I wasn’t going to let it take another life.”

“My daughter can take care of herself.” A faint smile touched her lips. “She also shouldn’t talk to strangers.” Rising to her feet, she looked down at me where I sat supported by the tree.

“You were brave and foolish and more the latter. However,” I felt a tinge of compassion flow through our connection, “you did what you thought was right and perhaps saved my daughter from harm. Your rash action has saved you from death. We do not tolerate unannounced guests.” She gestured to the clearing behind her. “As you saw for yourself.”

She turned back and knelt down beside me.

“You must return to your kind. We will do this for you. This time.”

She placed her hand on my damaged arm, so lightly I could hardly tell, but suddenly a warmth began to spread from her fingertips, and a wave of drowsiness rippled in its wake, washing through my aching body. Sleep began to take me, but I needed to know.

“Please,” I slurred, “what is her name. Your daughter’s name?”

The Fey regarded me quizzically, those deep, golden eyes holding mine as I fought to stay awake.

“Your crude language cannot express her true name.” She looked thoughtful. “And I would not tell you even if it could. However, her friends call her Tân-y-loar.” She looked up at the sky through the leaves and then back down at me. “Moonbeam.”

Sleep wrapped me in warm, muffling, comforting slumber.

***

When I came to, it was dawn. I was lying on the ground next to a waggon wheel, wrapped in a blanket. I raised my head slowly and watched my breath blow cloudy patterns in the cold morning air. Gingerly, I tried to more my arm. But for a dull ache – nothing more than you would get from sleeping on it – there was no sign of injury and no pain. Had I been dreaming? It had all seemed so real. I rose from my bed and was adjusting to my surroundings when I heard a cry of surprise.

“Eran! Is that really you? We thought you lost, boy! Gods be praised you are alive. Your father has been beside himself.”

“My father? He’s not dead?”

“No, lad,” Tolk put his hand on my shoulder. “Cuts and bruises, but it’ll take more than a beast like that to kill your old man, the stubborn ox that he is. Don’t tell him I said that, mind.” He winked at me then pulled himself up to his full height.

“You acted foolishly and abandoned the caravan. Your father is not happy. You will be punished for this, and your judgement called into question.” He indicated a waggon further down the line. “He tried to persuade the master to wait until this morning, hoping you would return. Luckily for you, our elf guide was too injured to move us out so has been taking the time to gather his strength. He must have communicated with his like, somehow. Two more of ‘em turned up last night, and we move out this morning. Gather your things and get ready to go. It’ll be hard for your father when he sees you. You have shamed the Trakken.” His face softened. “But he will be glad to see you nonetheless.”

I felt shamed, stupid, and strangely alone. Would people really believe what had happened if I told them anyway? I wasn’t sure what I believed myself at that moment either. Everything seemed so surreal. Dreading the day ahead and the journey back to the village to come, I stooped to pick up the blanket I had woken in. As I gathered it into my arms, something slipped out and landed with a wet thump on the ground at my feet. In the dawn gloom I couldn’t see what it was, but as my groping fingers located it and drew it to my face, my heart skipped a beat. In my hand I held a beautifully elegant, expertly carved length of wood, the likeness of a Fey looking back at me from what I had previously taken to be a child’s toy.

***

“Are you still in here? She fell asleep long ago you know, and the fire has gone out.”

“Yes, but the story had to be told. I’d like her to know.”

“I think she fell asleep before she found out.”

“Ah, well. It is a good story. It is worth telling again one day.”

“Come now, Ur-pa. You’ll fall asleep yourself. Kiss her goodnight and then leave her be. I’m going to pour us a drink.”

The old man gazed down at his grand-daughter and lightly brushed some hair from her face. The girl has fallen asleep holding the carving.

He bent down and kissed her on the forehead before pulling the blanket up to her shoulders.

“Yes, it is a good story,” he said. “Goodnight, Moonbeam. Sweet dreams.”

New blogs, videos and stories will be dropping regularly between now and the launch of 4th Edition in December 2025.

4th Edition Pre-Orders are now live and can be found HERE.

Watch out for more exciting Kings of War news HERE.