The road, choked with weeds and beneath a veil of grey-green, stretched forever, snaking through a forest of ash trees, branches gnarled and twisted, ancient as the whisperer. Sir Simon Flint, his face bearded and etched with the lines of hard years, rode at a measured pace, his silvery cape billowing from his back. His golden-maned destrier's hooves beat a steady, somber tone against the hard-packed earth as two carriages, their canvas tops patched and worn, followed in his wake. The aging knight had chosen this road sworn the safest, though the longest and least trodden in the Black Bird Forest. He'd plucked two able-bodied men, Randel and Delton, from the squalor of Carol Street three nights ago, now riding only a few yards behind him. The carriage's owners, fat merchants with sweating palms, had paid the aging, debt-ridden knight a tidy sum for safe passage. Simon, his purse as light as his spendthrift wife's affections, had leapt at the chance.

  He felt a sting in his gut, spotting signs of black smoke ahead. He raised a gloved hand, the reins taut in his grip. His destrier halted, muscles tightening beneath its shimmering coat. The carriages creaked to a stop behind him.

  Randel and Delton, faces grim beneath their dented helms, rode closer. “Trouble, Sir Simon?” Delton rasped, his voice like gravel.

  “Could be,” Simon replied, his eyes, the color of faded steel, narrowed against the wayward gloom of the forest. He wheeled his horse to face them, his voice ringing with authority. “You two stay here. Anything looks queer, you ride hard. But stay with the carriages. There's a town not more than six miles ahead, well-guarded and thick-walled. See the carriages reach it.” His gaze hardened. “If they don't… I recommend you never show your ugly faces again.”

  “Aye, we'll get 'em there,” Delton grunted.

  Randel, however, spat on the ground, a crooked smile twisting his lips. “I'm not so ugly as all that, sir. Your little wife didn't seem to mind. Couldn't keep her eyes off me, truth be told. If things go awry, might see her again. She could be needing a new husband soon enough.”

  A flicker of amusement danced in Simon's eyes. “Woe to you then, friend.” He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound, and turned his mount, spurring it down the road.

  Simon settled into a slow trot, his gaze sweeping the woods around him. A prickling unease spread through him, a cold shadow creeping over his heart. Even his destrier shifted nervously beneath him, its breath heavy in the air. The old knight knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that something was wrong.

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  The road ahead was a charnel house. Bodies, twisted and broken, lay scattered amidst overturned wagons and the smoldering wreckage of a charred carriage. Simon counted at least thirty corpses, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. His gut clenched when his eyes landed on a naked boy, belly down, with grievous lacerations too vile to believe. What manner of men did this? He felt the urge to run.

  A crashing sound from the trees sent his horse rearing. Simon’s hand flashed to his sword, the blade singing free of its scabbard. A figure burst from the woods, a frantic, wild-eyed man, his clothes stained and torn. “A massacre! A massacre!” the man shrieked. “Oh, the horror… the horror… the little children!”

  “Stay back!” Simon commanded, pointing his sword. “Who are you? Name yourself.”

  The man halted, eyes wide, carefully watching the gleaming sword. He was short and strangely dressed, in brightly colored tights and a fur-trimmed vest. His hands were covered in a morbid, glistening red with small speckles splashed over him. With a graceful bow, one hand fluttering to his chest, the other outstretched, he announced, “Gelborn Longsy, sir. At your service.”

  “A lark?” asked Simon, incredulous.

  “Indeed.” Gelborn straightened, his demeanor suddenly shifting from frantic to composed.

  “You’re covered in blood,” Simon noted, grimacing at the man.

  Gelborn glanced down at his clothes, then at his crimson-stained hands. His expression twisted into a mask of sorrow. “I wanted to save them... all those poor souls… but I could do nothing. I hid in the woods and watched with my own eyes… the unspeakable horror. Men forced to beg before being cut down. Women dragged screaming into the shadows of the trees. Not one—not even the little ones—were spared.” He looked again at his hands. “When the madmen were gone, I checked for survivors... but it was too late. None lived.”

  “Except you,” Simon said coldly. “And you did nothing but watch them die.”

  “My death would have changed nothing, sir,” Gelborn replied, a flicker of shame in his eyes. “I am no fighting man, sir. I bare no arms. Merely a humble storyteller, whose glory is only from children's smiles.”

  Simon eyed the lark with disgust. Finally, with a sigh, the aging knight sheathed his sword. “Who has done this?”

  “Beasts of men!” Gelborn cried, suddenly animated, his hands waving, his feet dancing subtle steps. “Hearts filled with hatred! Chanting ‘Death to the Queen! Death to the Queen!’ So deplorable! The Queen must hear of this!” He fell to his knees, clutching his hands together. “Please, sir,” he implored. “You MUST tell her. She must know! Justice demands it!”

  “Have no worry,” Simon replied grimly. “The Queen will hear of this. And so will the Black Moon Legion.”

  “Wonderful, sir.” A smile crept across Gelborn’s face. “Joyous tidings indeed. That’s all I wish for.”