A thick, sticky globule of fluid spattered onto Dolwillen’s face. It was dark inside his tent and the warming pan had lost all its heat. Dolwillen shivered and wiped the droplet away with the back of his hand, smearing the viscid fluid over his forehead. A second drop splattered on to the tip of his nose. Dolwillen peered at the roof of his tent.

Something is up there, but it is too dark to see.

He fumbled about until his hand closed on a handled flint, shaped like a pair of scissors. He brought it close to a lamp and squeezed. Hundreds of sparks flew out, igniting the wick.

Dolwillen stood and held the lamp as close to the top of the tent as he could. A stick had been driven through the chest of a crow and hung from the top of his bed. It had a small crown of yellow flowers.

Dolwillen was enthralled. The glossy black feathers were coated with blood and blotches of red stained flower crown. His annoyance faded.

Who’d left me such an exquisite gift?

He squeezed the fist sized yellow stone dangling from the silver chain around his neck. Dolwillen continued to stare at the dead bird for several minutes.

“Your Grace,” said Guntard, sweating. “You called.”

Dolwillen pointed, “Who left me such a pleasing present?”

The Drýmann shuddered, “I’m not quite sure I understand, your Grace.”

“Get it down from there, I want to have a closer look.” The Drýmann traced a few symbols in the air and the bird flapped from its perch, dropping into Dolwillen’s outstretched hand and coating his hands in fresh blood. The crow quivered, then broke.

“Fascinating, I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, your Grace. They do not always stay still once you cut the magic.”

“Aren’t you a revenant?”

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“I am undying, not undead. At present, I am still breathing. I would not call upon spirits and souls my lord, they are not so easily bound, but a momentary breath of life, to a small creature that is still warm, is more a trick than true resurrection.”

“What are these flowers?”

Guntard leaned forward, “Kings-foot-trefoil, your Grace. The stake is green willow.”

“Does it have any special meaning? I want to know what my secret admirer is thinking.”

“Do I look like a travelling crone or a dancing hermit, your Grace? I do not pay much attention to the superstitious ramblings of the great unwashed.”

Dolwillen waved the Drýmann’s encased beating heart in his face, “An answer, Guntard.”

“My heart will not save you forever, your Grace.”

Dolwillen ran his thumb over one of the symbols. A shower of red sparks flew from the stone onto his yellow silk pyjamas and warmed Dolwillen’s chest.

Guntard gasped and fell to his knees, “What I meant to say, your Grace, is...the message behind your gift...the green willow, symbolises false love, the kings-foot-trefoil, suggests misanthrope. I imagine the crown on a crow means carrion king, or something similar. It’s meant to be you, the distaining king who brings death and is loved by no one, only feared. The message is mocking you, your Grace.”

“I like it.”

Guntard stood up, “As for why someone left a dead bird above your own bed, it was a threat and was undoubtedly ordered by the King to let you know he can kill you any time.”

“Then why didn’t he?”

“He prefers a straight fight.”

“He’s an idiot.”

Guntard bowed, “Yes, your Grace. However, the King has someone who can sneak through twelve thousand men, several layers of magical protection, dump a dead bird above your bed, and get away with it. How will you respond to this insult?”

A headache began systematically squeezing Dolwillen’s thoughts, leaving him dizzy. He massaged his temples.

“The ageing buffoon is probably having a good chuckle at my expense.” Dolwillen curled and uncurled his hands, “I won’t be laughed at.” He paced up and down on the patterned wool rug that covered the floor of his tent, “I refuse to be ignored.”

Dolwillen reached for a decanter and gulped brandy straight from the vessel, “He will bow to me and only me, then I will slit his throat and feed his carcass to his loyal retainers one silver spoon at a time.” He tossed the empty decanter on to his bed.

“Wake that tub of lard up and tell him to assemble the men.” Dolwillen growled. “I want us on the move by dawn.”