Prologue

He drew back the bow, azure eyes marking his prey some thirty paces from where he stood. He watched the arrow’s flight as it loosed from the string, sailing through the air until it struck its target.

The White Elk leapt away—startled by the sudden assault—and made speed to the east, toward the cover of thick brush.

Baldomar felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips and was joined by his companions—Cragath, Osric, and Brithun—as he moved to where the beast had been.

Cragath—Huntwarden of the clan—descended into a squat, arms outstretched to steady himself. He reached for a patch of scarlet upon the earth and rubbed the substance between his thumb and finger.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “Dark blood. You struck it in the liver, my headman. A good shot. I’ll wager half a stound before it falls—perhaps a little more if he’s as spirited as he looked.”

Baldomar was pleased. He pictured his lady-wife, Karga, elated at the gift and the other womenfolk green-eyed with envy.

They followed the crimson path as Baldomar reflected upon the reason for his being here amid the Gorvenn Wood: another stillbirth. The mourning of a life not to be.

Karga, understandably, was inconsolable. Try as he might to convince her otherwise, she blamed herself. And so, what he could not do with words, he set out to accomplish through action. He would obtain for her the pelt of a rare beast—a gift—to show that he had married the woman and not merely the womb.

Somewhere along the way, a drop of water fell upon the white mane of Thegn Osric, sworn-brother to Baldomar—his chieftain. Osric reached up to confirm the sensation, then looked to the heavens.

“Huh. Rain this soon? I thought the shamans said there’d be none until the morrow?”

Cragath cleared his throat, then spat upon the autumn leaf-fall. “A mist, maybe. Clouds aren’t fat enough yet.”

Brithun, a mighty huscarl sworn to Baldomar, seized the opportunity to make light of his kin, patting his portly stomach as he spoke.

“You would know, wouldn’t you, friend?”

The Huntwarden was quick to return the quip with a playful backhand to the bollocks, causing Brithun to tumble amid the jeering of his fellows. But the revelry was interrupted by a curious scent—quickly recognized by all as smoke.

“That’s not a campfire,” Cragath snorted, as Osric called to them, pointing toward a thin, dark trail scarcely etched against the cinder sky.

“Over there,” he said. “I wonder what that could be?”

They made haste—leaping over logs and ducking beneath branches—their nares soon harnessing a newer, fouler fragrance: carrion.

When they came upon a clearing, they froze as Baldomar uttered a curse.

“Gods.”

Before them lay what remained of a village. Once-humble dwellings stood as ashen monuments, the dead strewn about, frozen in their moment of slaughter. Crows feasted upon fallen flesh, withdrawing briefly, then returning to their macabre meal as the orcs passed by.

“Humans,” Brithun reported. “Southfolk settlers. From Kardia, by the way they’re dressed.”

Cragath retrieved an arrow from a corpse. “Elves. This is their craft.”

Baldomar grew angry at the mention of his racial cousins—who viewed orcs like himself as lowly as any creature not of their kind.

Of course, he thought. Not an able body among the fallen. Kill and take slaves. Their work, alright.

A sudden cry drew their attention. They searched for its source until Baldomar determined it came from what was once a storage house. Breaking in, he found a newborn cradled in the dead arms of its mother.

Baldomar wasted no time, scooping the infant into his burly arms, alarmed by its weakened cry.

“He’s starving,” Cragath explained. “We have goat’s milk to give, but he needs the breast.”

There was no time to waste. Baldomar wrapped the child in his furred cloak, fashioning it into an impromptu carrier.

“Let’s go.”

They returned to their horses tethered a short distance away and made all possible haste to Leoham—their home. Each of them prayed to the gods and ancestors that the boy would endure.

***

A few days later, in Leoham

Karga sat at the side of the marriage bed, staring despondently at an empty crib. Her handmaids hovered close by but remained silent in solidarity. The distant sound of an infant’s cry conjured fresh anguish for the grieving mistress, but she soon paused when it seemed as if the wailing were drawing near.

She nearly leapt out of her skin when the door to the bedchamber flew open, crashing against the stone wall. She gasped at the sudden appearance of her husband.

Baldomar looked as if he hadn’t rested in days, soaked head to toe from the rainstorm lashing outside.

“Karga,” he breathed.

Rushing to him, she peered at the cloak bundled within his embrace, peeling back the folds until she revealed a human baby boy—fair-skinned, golden-eyed, with hair of dark umber.

The weak cry of the babe prompted a let-down that wet her dress. Baldomar regarded her knowingly as she took the newborn from him and bared her breast. The little one latched immediately and suckled hungrily.

As she returned to the bedside, Baldomar regaled her with the tale of his discovery amid fire and death, shaking Karga to her core as she realized the child might have died and was now alone in the world.

“What will we do?” she asked, a hint of hope in her quivering voice.

Baldomar stood deep in thought as Karga hummed a soothing tune. Finally, he joined her and leaned in to bestow his answer.

“We keep him and raise him as our own.”

Where once despair had been rife, Karga now felt joy. She looked down at the little boy—her little boy—and tickled his tummy, her green skin contrasting with his own. He babble-laughed and swatted clumsily at her chest, having had his fill.

“Your milk has roused him,” Baldomar observed.

Karga brushed strands of hair away from the babe’s face. “Such a handsome little one.”

Baldomar felt a tug on his beard, far more resolute than he would have expected of a newborn.

“Strong, too,” he remarked. “A worthy son.”

The babe smiled at him with a gummy grin, appearing as if he were an old man. This elicited a laugh from Baldomar—until the youngling deposited a mustard-like fecal matter upon the cloak.

“Urk,” Baldomar gagged, fleeing the scene as Karga laughed. The handmaids, spurred into action, moved to assist their mistress.

“He’ll break many hearts,” one said.

“Such beautiful eyes,” said another.

“Oh my—and what a boy,” yet another remarked.

“What is his name?”

It was a question Karga had no answer for, and she looked to her husband, who stood leaning by the hearth.

“Lothar,” he announced. “After your father.”

Karga smiled, repeating the name to the babe, who seemed to coo in delight. A short while later, she was pulled aside, Baldomar whispering to her.

“We won’t try anymore,” he said, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “I won’t put you through that hurt again. I’ve seen how it wounds you.”

“But your line will end. Take a concubine, Baldomar—I cannot ask you to throw away—”

Baldomar placed a gentle finger on her lips and shook his head with a smile.

“I won’t shame you like that. And besides,” he nodded toward Lothar, “we have him now. Clearly the gods have willed him into our midst for a reason. Let us put our trust in them.”

They embraced and returned to Lothar, who was crawling about on his stomach to the delight of the maids surrounding him. And so the home of the chieftain became a place of joy, where not long ago it had been haunted by grief.