The Shorn Vale: Prologue

The forest breathes.

The forest breathes, my friend. But lo! I speak not of the fauna and other denizens that dwell within its groves or writhe below its roots. Nor do I utter of the restless trees, nor the mosses that flourish nor the creepers that clamber upon the damp earth, in recesses ever shielded from the sun’s penetrating gaze.

No, I avail none of these. For within this darkness lurks a deeper dark, one borne of shadows cast long ago, when the land was an untamed youth. A darkness wherein is stirred what ought be left to lie. And, in answer, it awakens to a new dawn, and scores upon scores of fresh souls to consume.

The forest breathes.

—“The Forest Breathes”
Old Keht Parables
Unattributed
CY -?

* * *

First breath of spring, 1163
The Wraithfens

The solitary white raven perched atop the dilapidated tower, alabaster feathers glistening in the light of the waxing moon. From this vantage point, it could see all: rolling, forlorn hills covered in copses of barren, twisting trees that reached up to embrace the cloudless sky as hundreds of its brothers and sisters flew hither, bespeckling the dark of night.

A great battle was once fought here during an age long past, and when it ended the white ravens descended to feast upon the dead, their crimson-stained plumage taking on a horrific likeness to the bodies they pillaged. Though savage winds and rain had long since cleansed the grounds of blood and bone, ruined limestone walls yet bore the memory of those who had fallen.

As ravens littered the tower, a preternatural aura fractured the chill air, drawing them rapt. A foreboding presence stirred amid the grove, one not known to the world for generations of pale-winged scavengers. The unfettered night crooned to its awakening.

There would be no feasting on rotting flesh, this eve.

* * *

Many miles removed, in the village of Wren’s Hollow, the soothsayer looked down from the belfry, touching a weathered hand to a tangle of gray beard, ignoring the chittering of rats in the rafters above. Much like the crows that haunted the bell tower during the day, the disciple of fates found utility in being able to survey the village from up high. He shivered and drew in his cloak as a cold breeze carried in from the west.

Nearby, plumes billowed from the chimneys of the village’s lone inn whilst the groaning of wagon wheels resounded over the din of its taproom. The wagon itself, pulled by two Kilvaran horses and decorated in the blue and white heraldic pennants of the Blue Banner Trading Company, was encrusted with hardened mud from its travails, the posts framing its bed adorned with disembodied toes and claws, driven into the wood with iron spikes. When finally it wretched to a halt, an armed contingent gathered round, warily eyeing its freight.

Chained to the wagon’s frame were a dozen emaciated men draped in matted hides: indentures from a scattering of hamlets set low in a distant valley to the south, forged eons ago by great seas of moving ice. From under the earth, salt deposits buried in ancient seabeds were excavated through perilous catacombs as valuable trade fodder across the vale.

Their labored, uneven breaths rasped from faces marred with dark stains, the result of incisions cut deep under the skin and cauterized with fire, a process known locally as “bloodmarking.” Likely these men had completed their indentures or grown too sickly to be of use. Dregs scraped away to clean the basin and be made someone else’s problem.

Rid them north to procreate broken sons, thus the never-ending cycle endures. Deliver me of the old gods, once more.

The militia would see that none were let inside. Had the field marshal been present, the slavers would have been routed from the village with quarrels sprouting from their backsides. But, as it was, the wagon would be sheltered out of the way and find passage into the surrounding hills before the first light of dawn—for a few errant coins or spare ingot of iron. Either way, at least the rabble would be gone.

Following a brief exchange with the driver, the wheels bleated again to life and the wagon continued rolling past. The shrill cry of a white raven echoed in the night as it landed on the tavern’s steep-pitched roof.

The soothsayer drew in his cloak more tightly, made a warding gesture across his body, and looked on.

* * *

Amid the prisoners aboard the wagon, one passenger was hidden. Of barely twenty winters, her bone-white flesh peeled beneath tattered clothes. Once-gray eyes were flooded, stained red with blood.

As the guards drew near, no one saw the subtle movements of the salt witch’s hands, nor heard the quiet droning of her incantation as she called upon primordial spirits that lingered in the darkness around them. All around them, unseen...