While ambling along the palace garden path, Firgen spotted Áberd, who was undoubtedly waiting to hoist news upon him. Unable to bring himself to walk in the other direction, Firgen took refuge on the closest bench and sniffed a few roses, ensuring any casual observers would assume he was busy with kingly contemplations.

The keep cast a long shadow, its immovable bulk overlooking the palace. Snatches of Firgen’s memory ran along the ancient corridors as he recalled bullying his patient bodyguard with a wooden sword, then sprinted through the gardens to hide behind his mother after the man had forced an end to his antics with a menacing growl.

During his late adolescence, Firgen had longed for a chance to put his hours of training into practice and embarked on prolonged hunting trips. Several giant bears preserved in intimidating postures, the scabrous head of a massive hominid creature he had no name for, and a whole stuffed gryphon, haunted various dusty corners of the keep, an eternal reminder of his personal critter crusade.

It took six years of meandering around the kingdom, the death of a few close friends, and several close calls of his own, before he lost his fascination with martial prowess and chased Wenthelen, his queen, instead.

Firgen felt a nostalgic tug to be out there, astride a trusty steed, saving the kingdom one sword stroke at a time, embraced in his friends’ company, and the teasing charm of beautiful women. He slumped on his bench and blinked a few times. It didn’t matter how much he’d planned and deliberated, his life hadn’t followed his dreams. He stood and meandered towards Áberd.

“Sire,” said Áberd.

“What is it?” said Firgen.

Áberd pulled a wax tablet from his jacket. Firgen didn’t know why Áberd bothered with the charade, as he always memorized the tablets so he could answer quickly. Firgen resumed his walk and Áberd walked behind him.

“I’ll have the good news first.”

Áberd said nothing.

“I do like it when people are brief, Áberd, but isn’t that taking it a bit far?”

“There is no good news, Sire.”

“Bloody marvellous.”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Firgen sidled onto a new path and ambled into the rock garden. Áberd followed as Firgen wandered without any pretence he was trying to get to a specific location.

“Get on with it.”

“There have been several incidences of people disappearing within Winterdún, along with reports of Nihtgengan activity in the area.”

“The hills or the county?”

“Hills, Sire. There’s been no trouble near Témúða or along the Hrycgweg.”

Firgen nodded. He’d experienced several encounters with the blighted little buggers and the aftermath had always left him feeling sick. I’ll have to order the Winterdún Earl, Leofwin Vyvyan, to send some aid to the survivors; the self-absorbed prick won’t think to do so unless I tell him.

“Lady Quillinane has lost three shepherds and one-hundred and thirty sheep near Earn Tor. An eten has been blamed. While the loss of shepherds and their flocks is not a rare occurrence, it’s unusual for this time of year.”

Earn Tor was the other side of the kingdom from Winterdún, if there was a pattern, it was merrily avoiding Firgen’s brain.

“As to the validity of an eten being involved,” said Áberd, “no one can prove anything and it’s a convenient way of not placing the blame on the shepherds’ incompetence. It could also be a ploy to hide animals to avoid tax.”

Firgen began tapping his fingers against his arm.

“Last, and perhaps most important,” said Áberd, “there have been several, violent disturbances near Hwite Mylen. They resemble the troubles near Hymlic which prompted your succession decree.”

Why didn’t Áberd start with that? Useful news is good news, “What happened?”

“Several homes destroyed, fifteen dead, and a myriad of multi-hued floating lights, Sire.”

“Wisps?”

“Possible, but given the scale of the disaster, it would require more of them to gather in one place than I have ever seen, or read about.”

Firgen prodded a patch of lichen with his finger. That’s the trouble with servants who can read, they have opinions that are difficult to disregard. “They’re hardly the heralds of doom, yet people are dying regardless. Send a wagon or two of emergency supplies, but don’t tell anyone it was me. We can’t have people lining up at the palace with bowls and bangles.”

“Sire.”

“Well, don’t just say ‘Sire’ and loiter like a rodent: scurry away, Áberd. Scurry!”

Áberd whisked his tablet out of sight and glided away without disturbing a single piece of gravel.