Nerthus frowned with concern as she eyed the report handed to them by Guiscard, Captain of the Guard. Nerthus had already deduced by Guiscards hurried entry into the Councils chamber, coupled with his glazed expression that the news was far from good. It was not, unfortunately, unusual of late.



30 years. 30 long years Nerthus had stood as ruler of Helgasker, ever since her dear father had passed away unexpectedly. And in that time not once had a Pillager raid entered their territory. Not once! And why should they? Some-one would need to be mad to cross the Ridgedow stream, not to mention the Giants Carcass, a mountainous region full of such dazzling high peaks, extreme weather and terrifying creatures. Legend said the terrain was in fact the remains of a fallen giant. And all the monsters that remained spilled from within the fallen creature.



But now, daunting tales of the harshness that laid between Helgasker and their sworn enemies of Hafrafell did little to comfort Nerthus, in fact they added to the level of panic beginning to eat at her in her dreams. Not one attack in 30 years… Now seven in as many days. What could cause men to act in such desperation?



This was the true seat of Nerthus’ concern. For days now her generals had spoken of how we ‘needed a show of force’ and that the Pillagers ‘thought them and their defences weak’. But Nerthus new better, she had her father’s journal to thank for that. The Pillagers of Hafrafell new all too well what horrors they awoke when they sought out the dark magic of the Witches. They sought to end the war, and ironically, they did. Although not in a manner they intended many were sure. But still, Nerthus knew the Pillagers would never attempt crossing the border for something as frivolous as gold or diamonds. They were not invading; they were running. But from what? What would drive them to such desperation?



Nerthus unfolded the muddy and (was that blood?!) fouled parchment and eagerly read the message within, thirsty for its news from the front. She instantly recognised the penmanship; Captain Oyvind of the Eastern Watch had been a close friend of her fathers.



The candles in the five dark wrought iron candelabras, suspended high in the Oak ceiling of the Councils chamber, shone a stuttering light across Nerthus’ face as she read. Guiscard watched his beloved rulers face with concern, looking for the slightest indication of news (good or bad). But still, she had been reading solidly for several minutes now, and not a shred of emotion had crossed her face; all except that frown. Nerthus had always had that same frown, noted Guiscard. He remembered it well. It was one of the things he first remembered making him love her so when they were children in her father’s court. Guiscard dreamt of becoming a knight; Nerthus a learned scholar. Both would seem, had excelled past their childhood dreams.



Still, that frown carried more wrinkles now, thought Guiscard. And since when did she get those bags under her eyes? Nerthus’s poker face may be excellent, but the news of late was beginning to take its toll on Nerthus, how lonely she must be? The realisation made Guiscards heart sink. ‘She has no one to share this burden with’ he thought sadly. He wanted to speak, to reassure her. A thought was on the tip of his tongue but then-



‘Well….’ Sighed Nerthus deeply ‘this makes for grim reading’. Nerthus dropped the parchment to her desk and rubbed her eyes hard, she was tired. The news was heavy and the day late.



Guiscard reeled mentally and regained himself in the present moment ‘what would you have me do, my Queen? What do you need?’ he enquired, still trying to puzzle exactly how bad the news had been.



‘Assemble the court’ yawned Nerthus, still rubbing her eyes ‘I know its late, but I want them all now. Send the guard door to door if needs be. And have the head of house prepare the chamber for a full court’.



‘A full… court?’ asked Guiscard dimly. The only time Guiscard had seen a full court was for succession and-



‘War. A war court’ replied Nerthus bluntly, looking up at his old friend’s kind face. Guiscard had always been handsome, in a jovial kind of way. But he more wrinkles than she remembered. And worry was written all over his face. ‘Have I done that to him? Have I aged him so?’ she wondered.



‘I shall rally the night guard at once my Queen’, replied Guiscard, a trace of excitement in his voice. The boy who dreamt of Knight hood and glory swept about on his polished heel, crimson cape of the royal guard flowing around him as he sped out of the council chambers. The girl who read of the horrors of war from her fathers journal tried to ignore the heavy weight that had dropped into their stomach, signed, and resigned themselves to the task at hand.