Prologue
Pictland, Fall 793
The dry autumn leaves cracked under the bare feet of the woman who ran through the forests as though the Barghest was nipping at her heels and spurring her forward.
She reached the land of the Kernow under the cover of darkness, cloaked in shadowy robes and trembling in fear. How she had managed to escape when so many of her people had not was beyond her understanding. The Deirans had to be pursuing her still, though she had traveled far from her homelands to the north.
If it had been any other time, she would have stood her ground and fought off these southern invaders, she would have died with her people – with her beloved husband. But she could not, not in this battle.
This is why she had made her way, on foot, to the land of Margh Kernowyon, the child-king of the Kernow. She hurried forward; weaving through the trees, hiding in the shadows and praying to the Goddess Mother that she could reach the sanctuary of Margh’s hall in time.
Suddenly, a soldier of the Deiran burst out of the brush, sword drawn and prepared to kill her then and there. With a swift war cry, he raised his blade and brought it down across her back in one fell swoop, carving a rather large gash from her left hip to her right shoulder.
She cried out and unsheathed the dirk that had been hidden in her boot, slipping in forcefully into the Deiran’s torso – between the ribs and into his lung.
He coughed and blood spurted out from his mouth. He let out a gurgling sob and collapsed, writhing around for a moment longer before expiring.
She breathed a heavy sigh of relief and replaced the blood-blackened dirk before she continued on her way to the sanctuary that was the hall of Margh Kernowyon – the only place she knew she could be safe.
It was the first glimmering rays of the sun that heralded her arrival to the lands of Margh Kernowyon. She stood at the edge of the forest, debating the possible ways to cross the open field that surrounded the great hall without being ambushed.
Finally, she decided to risk all for this one chance at freedom and broke into a sprint, running at full speed to the great wooden doors – her robes fanning out around her.
She reached the hall of Margh Kernowyon – the huge wooden fortress and the walls that protected a small village of peasants who pledged their allegiance to the Lord and the land.
She slammed her fists against the wooden, splinters embedding themselves in the flesh of her hands. “Margh! Margh Kernowyon! I beg of you, sanctuary!”
She began to lose consciousness and the wall of the great hall was the only thing that stopped her from collapsing.
One of the sentinels opened the doors and saw a woman, who was badly wounded, leaning against the outer walls. She looked half dead.
He quickly ushered her inside with the help of several men and called for his Lord, “Margh! Margh! There is a woman!”
The fair-haired young Lord looked at woman, instantly recognizing her as coming from the north – a fact he noted by the blue ink marking she bore on her face, near her temples and cheeks.
In her arms, she clutched a sleeping babe.
She coughed, opening her brown eyes and looking upon Margh fondly, “Margh Kernowyon, please – care for my son.”
Margh took the small dark-haired child in his arms and noted that he, too, was marked with similar markings as his mother. Looking back at the wounded woman, the child king nodded, “I shall, benen.”
