Year 1150 of the Third Epoch...

Around her, the woods kept quiet as it were before she ever set foot inside the forests. The absence of winds had made her wary, the branches and the leaves so still that she could not help but look askance at the tall, deciduous trees. Something was amiss, she thought. The Dark Forests had never a good reputation, but there was nary an eerie feeling whenever she had ventured into the shadowy woodlands that dotted the lands of Galacor for leagues, covering a little less than half of the wide country. But today, as her feet plunged into the heart of the forest, her skin tingled at the coldness of the land, the stillness in the wind. Even the air seemed unwholesome.

The look and feel of the forest would have sent another person running, but she...would never be afraid. Fear was uncommon for her, like it never existed. And if there was any, she never showed it. She was Keyara, Princess of Alkameth, and she was not going to be afraid of anything. Not even the dark, not even the shadows that seemed to peek at her from behind the trees.

If it were not for the tiny baby in her hands, she would have stood her ground and fought, but now, worried for the life of the little one, she ran, her feet forging her own crisscrossed path. The roots that cropped up out of the ground mattered to her not.

She was being hunted. Or rather, her baby. She had to save her little boy at all costs and the best way to lose her hunters was to get on the other side of the river. If only she could get to it. The river was still a mile away and her feet groaned of pain, having run for leagues. She paused for a while, her breath coming in heavy gasps. Her right hand placed on the nearby tree, one with the broad trunk and its bark as rough and sinewy as it could get, she stood, her other hand patting the bald head of the baby. Keyara had not named him yet. There had been no time. As soon as the baby had been born, they had come. Vile creatures born out of darkness, far north under the icy glaciers of the doomed mountains. Her summer palace had been destroyed, now probably lying under charred debris. Her people dead, most of them at least, their blood wetting the grounds once considered holy and favorite to the Gods. They had attacked -- through land, sea, and air; riding on their fire-breathing dragons, sailing on their ships with dark sails, and mounted on what she could tell were horses, only mutilated and evil-looking. Men and women had quailed alike, as most often did under the cold glares of the minions of The Brothers Dark. She had wanted to fight, but Valakh, her counselor, had advised her to seek the refuges of Alkameth, her father's city far to the west, and alert them to the rise of evil in the east. And she had run, shamelessly, oblivious to the fact that Valakh was surrounded by hellhounds by the time her feet paraded her out of her beloved palace.

An arrow struck the bark of the tree, its tip black and reeking of poison. The sheer force with which it had come left a whooshing irritation in her ears. She turned to look behind and caught a glimpse of her pursuers. They were still far behind, but she knew they would close in soon enough. A brief smirk decorated her face and covering her baby with a pink embroidered cloth, she ran again, this time her heart regretting the choice to not stand and fight.

She zigzagged through the woodlands, the dark figures howling at her. Arrows flew at her but always missed. Her hands caught hold of a wooden branch, thick and rough, lying nearby and swiveling, threw at it one of her pursuers who had almost closed in. The wood hit him right on his nose and he fell down on the ground with a heavy thud, grunting and snarling in pain, his hands clasped on his bloodied nostrils. She let out a loud laugh and ran again.

Up above her, the leaves began to rustle. Frowning, she looked above and saw a black smoke trailing, at its front and behind the figures of its arms showing, shaped like talons, sharp as a dragon's claws. 'Daemons,' she cursed under her breath and heaving a deep sigh, she quickened her pace and hastened to her right. Far yet visible, she caught a gleam of water; her ears pricked up at the sound of a gushing stream. She smiled and made towards it. She was so near to getting to her destination. The daemons would not follow her over the water. Not yet.

But her hopes were short-lived. The daemon struck the earth with a dark force that sent her flying into the trees. She clutched her baby hard, her eyes wide with shock. The daemons usually never set foot on the ground, yet this one had done so. Her back struck the trunk of a tree and she squirmed in pain. Nonetheless no shriek left her mouth. She looked at the baby; he was safe. For the moment. Breathing heavy, she looked towards the river and saw the daemon lunging towards her, a flaming sword in his hands, the hilt of which she recognized to be darksteel, forged in the fires of the dark castles to the north. Indecision swept across her mind, her body feeling helpless, but by the time she had gathered herself, the daemon had covered a lot of ground. Sweat trickled down her forehead as the hand that held the fiery blade raised to smite her.

At the last moment, her figure wavered and ducked under the heavy blow, catapulting the daemon towards the tree, its black head butting against the bark of a tree. Keyara, carefully holding the baby, slithered under the wide legs of the gigantic monster, and ran towards the shimmering waters of the river that she knew was nigh. She heard the daemon roar, the sound of which sent shivers down her spine. Terror overcame her for a moment, making her stop where she was, her limbs as if ordered by someone. The air became colder and breezier. Turning behind she saw the daemon face her, its darksteel sword still in hand, and lunge towards her like a snarling and hungry wolf.

She knew she could not fight both the daemon and keep her baby safe. There was only one thing she could attempt to do and get the baby to safety first. She shook aside the gripping terror, her limbs relaxing as her maternal instincts of protection flowed through her body. Quickly plucking a long, slender twig from a nearby tree, she muttered a short incantation. As the daemon came and pawed at her, she swished the twig in the air from left to right. The daemon howled and fell backward. A silver but transparent wall separated the creature from her.

Keyara moved the twig on the ground in a circle while the daemon kept up its attempts to shatter the wall. But Keyara knew that the wall would stand as long as she was nearby. She stood her ground in the middle of the circle, its rims burning with a lightning blue fire. Breathing heavily, she closed her eyes and held the baby high in the air. Her pink lips moving, her black hair waving, the baby soon dematerialized into the air. She heaved a deep sigh, her bones suddenly weary. The spell of teleportation, she had been taught, was a dangerous magic to cast, especially for novice magicians with no practice and experience. But for one such novice, she had come far enough. She knew her spell had succeeded and she had lived. The baby was now safe. Her lips quirking, she prepared herself for a fight, just in case. She looked behind. The river was now near, the gushing of its waters loud. But far away behind the daemon she heard the howl of hounds, many in number. The wall would not be able to withstand a full attack. And so she ran towards the river, the twig in her hand turning into a sword that glowed with a bright light that dazzled the daemon away from the wall.

She was quite near the water, perhaps a hundred feet away, when she heard the wall behind her break. With a quick turn of her head, she saw the daemon standing rooted to its place, but in place of him, the hellhounds racing towards her, snarling and growling, baring its bloodthirsty teeth. Their gray eyes seemed so full of dark it made her shudder. But throwing aside the fear, she plunged her sword into the ground, blue ripples circling towards her enemies. Most hounds yelped as the magic burned through their furry skins, but some jumped above and made towards the sword behind which Keyara squatted, her hand clasping its hilt, her eyes determined to kill.

***

About Eighteen Years Laters...

The morning light peeped in through a corner of the round windows, one among the three that dotted the brick walls of his bedroom. Kerrigan yawned as he woke up, the drowsiness still enticing him to lay back on the bed. A silent breeze gusted in through the opening by which the dawn had crept in. It was cold and shivery, he thought, even though the long winter had passed. A colorful spring had made its way to the western countries of Galacor and the snow on the Wickerone Ranges to the east was just starting to melt.

His ears pricked up at the noise of the running water nearby; a rillet that ran to meet the Great Sea to the west, originating in the mountains. He stretched his legs, cursing the sound of the gushing stream. The cacophony made by it was excruciating to his ears. All day, all night. Why ever did his parents had to build a house so close to the water? He would never know. 

He drew aside the ragged, dirty curtains, letting the sunlight through. The chill in the air suddenly vanished, the room getting warmer. What sleep he had in him vanished. Rubbing his eyes, he walked out of the room into a hall, which was empty. A frown encroached on his forehead, wondering where his parents had disappeared to.

'Mother!' he shouted. 'Father!'

Nobody answered.

The door, he saw, was open. His brows furrowed again. His parents were never that careless enough to leave the door open. Even though they had nothing precious enough for the bandits to target them, his father still liked to keep the doors closed unless and until necessary. Only during the summer, when the weather was hot and the sun burned outside with ghastly heat would he consider leaving the doors open, eager to let some wind in. Not that it helped, he had heard. The winds during the summer were hotter, though a little humid. His mother used to say the weather was much drier to the east. 

But he had never experienced the heat of the summer. It had been winter since he was born. Eighteen years had passed since his nameday and the cold had refused to relent. People had begun speaking of it as the sign of coming darkness; rumors had spread of daemons and witches scouring the world, eating any living thing that crawled under the sun. All through his life he had trudged through snow and never once saw lush greenery. Except for when the spring had arrived. The snow thawed and slowly the green was making its return. 

He called out to them again. Yet there was no answer. Silence except for the gusting winds that grew warmer as the day progressed. 

'Where are you?' he whispered, his heart beating fast. Had something happened to his parents? Had bandits struck their house at last, and when they had, having found nothing, did something to his parents? Chaos sprouted in his mind, torn in two about what was to be done. He could rush to the cluster of houses lower in the valley -- a small town called Sipleton that lay on the foothills of the Wickerone Ranges -- and spread the word among its people. But his family wasn't exactly any of their priority. They all looked down upon them, especially the ones who possessed gold in their coffers. His family was of the farmer's clan, one of the lowest, and according to the Councilors, they did not warrant much attention. 

His feet led him running out of the house. To his front, a huge green field spread for a league or two in either direction before it ended on the fringes of a dark forest, except for the west where the fields met their end on the moist banks of the rillet. As far as his eyes could see, he could not see any trace of his parents. Sometimes, his father did work the land early morning, even before the sun showed its face in the sky. But there was no sign of him in the fields today. He turned westward where the stream flowed, the water splashing amongst the black rocks that blocked its path downward. He could see the rich white foam on the surface of the water. A bucket lay on its banks, empty and dry, much to his surprise. It was even more surprising that he could see that it was dry even from standing thus afar.

Birds chirped in the sky above, flying from tree to tree. Sparrows and doves, pigeons and white swans, all nesting in the surroundings, all in absentia during the winter. The thought of them flying and the sound of them tweeting, save the guttural racket of the pigeons, made him happy. For a while. He forgot for that moment the absence of his parents. And when these birds had disappeared behind the brick walls of his house, the thought of them returned and he looked around with worry, creases appearing on his brows. 

'Mother, Father,' he shouted, his words carried by the winds across the land. Yet there was no answer from either of them. Where were they? Where had they gone? Did something bad happen to them? Dark questions made his mind uneasy. 

***

Down below in the valley, in the wee hours of the morning, the town of Sipleton had erupted into a celebration. Children ran amok through the narrow roads of the town, crying for their parents and elders, each having a wooden flute in their hands.

'The peddler has come,' they squeaked in their innocent voices. 'The peddler has come.'

Doors creaked open and out came the elders, gathering up their baskets and whatnots to carry the wares from and to the peddler. They had all been eagerly waiting for him to arrive. The winter had seen no trace of him. They needed his wares now, but most importantly, they wanted to hear stories, tales of the outside world. For years now they had gone without knowing the happenings elsewhere in Galacor and the lands beyond. And so as they breezed down the muddy paths, each wore a smile on their faces, their anticipation carrying across the town.

***

Kerrigan knew better than to follow the path to the forests. People spoke of the wolves that lived in them. In the beginning, he had thought they were tales to scare him, but a day had come when he had heard them howling. And where one wolf prowled, the pack that it led followed. The mere reminiscence of that event sent shudders down his spine and he cleared such thoughts away. No, his parents wouldn't dare go into the forests, not unless they had desperate need of wood, which they didn't, considering he knew there were countless logs of wood kept in their barn, and even if they did, his father would never go deep. He would stay in its fringes. But most of the time, his father bought wood from the village. It was expensive, but it was safe.

But the footsteps told him otherwise. He was sure the prints matched his parents. A pair of twos marching straight towards the dark woodlands. He wondered what madness had grasped both of them. Had they heard something? And if so, why had both of them gone? The whole logic of it seemed foolish to him. They knew they had a son who was sleeping in his room, oblivious of what was going on. But then, more and more he thought about it, he could not help but soothe down his misunderstanding. Where his father went, his mother would follow, especially if there was danger lurking. Had they left him because they had sensed something evil? He had no answers to any of his questions and it did nothing but irk him.

A crow cawed out loud as it perched on a wooden stick placed in the center of the field. He looked at it with great disdain. For some reasons he hated the passerine species. He distrusted the kind, especially the ravens. Crows, he tolerated, convincing himself that they were lesser relatives of the ravens. The latter he believed to be creatures of darkness, spies of the shadow. His belief was shared by many in the country, by almost everyone who hated and feared The Brothers Dark. 

'Shoo!' he cried at the crow, which did not bother about his waving hands. It, much to his annoyance, did not move and began to caw louder. And suddenly, it fluttered its wings, black as coal, and flew away towards the forests with nary a look at him. He found its behavior weird and as he took another step forward, a strange ache assailed him in the head. He knelt down on his knees and held his face in his arms, his mouth dying to scream. Yet no sound he made for fear of attracting whatever it was that lurked in the woodlands. His breath came in gasps. His eyelids blinked faster than usual and then drooped to a close. He fell down on the ground in a swoon. 

A blue circle of fire encircled him. He was standing on a chariot led by two horses, one black and one brown. In his hands he held a greatbow, his fingers clutching at an arrow he had made appear as if through magic. He took aim at his opponent, a middle-aged woman who stared at him with great confidence. She was a warrior. 

He let loose the arrow and it flew with the wind at the woman. And just as he turned away to pick up another shaft, in the corner of his eyes, he saw the arrow turn into a flock of ravens that turned back towards him and pecked at his flesh.

He screamed out loud, squirming in pain as skin left him.

'Kerrigan, wake up, dear,' said a woman in his ears. 

He woke up with a loud gasp and saw that his mother was beside him, a wide smile on her face, her light blue eyes looking at him with maternal affection. His father stood behind her, a look of concern on his face, his fingers on his dusky chin. 

'What happened, son?' his father asked. 'You were thrashing yourself on the ground as if grounded with pain.'

'N...nothing,' he stuttered.

His father did not respond. Yet in those eyes he saw that his father wasn't done yet. 

His mother broke the tension. 'Come along now. Back to the house you go and in the comforts of the bed you sleep. A field is no place for a young boy like you, especially when the cold has not gone yet and when the summer comes nigh.'

They led him through the fields back to their house, not far away. 

'Where had you gone?' he asked.

His mother smiled. Pointing to a basket of corn, she said, 'Gone to get some corn, dear. Will make you some roast for breakfast. You go and freshen up. Some cold water shall drive what remains of your dark nightmares.'

He nodded. 'Shall do, Mother.'

Just as he turned to go, a small boy, with disheveled hair, appeared at the door, panting as if he had run all the way uphill. His name was Petros.

'What's it, Petros?' his mother asked, sweetly. 'And why are you panting thus? Run far?'

The boy gave a nod of his head. Kerrigan could not help but smile. 

'The peddler is here.'

***

'The peddler has come.'

The words came sweet from the boy's mouth and Kerrigan had enjoyed hearing it. His face had lit up like fireworks, red and beaming. Ever since his childhood, he had heard tales of this peddler, who his mother used to say came often into town to sell his wares and would stay through the night telling stories of the outside world. But all through the winter, he had never come and the entire town had sulked. 

Kerrigan had never met the peddler before, but he seemed to know him quite well. Cutting through the fields, jumping on the rocky outcrops, he made his way downward to the valley, a smile on his face, eager to see the man of his stories. His parents screamed behind him on the path, pleading for him to wait, but Kerrigan did not pay a heed. He just ran as fast as his feet could take him. 

The road to Sipleton wound like a snake and would have been a longer route. The path he had taken was a short cut, but dangerous. To his right was a sheer drop, not so deep yet enough to break bones should one fall. 

Pebbles flew from beneath his feet as he crossed little tribulets and orchards of apple and grape. Dogs barked at him as he strutted across the breadth of the fields; some even pursued him. But he minded them not. His only thought was on the village and the peddler who visited it. One could say he was under a spell, mesmerized by the memories of the stories his mother used to tell. 

He finally reached the peaceful town; only this time, its roads were inundated with people who seemed in quite a hurry. He could not blame them. After all, even he had zigzagged through the wilderness to reach here, even as his eyes darted from house to house, wondering whether he could pinpoint the place the peddler would be staying in. He couldn't. 

Children jumped on the streets. He was sure his excitement matched theirs. Dressed in his nightly clothes -- a dusty brown shirt and black trousers -- he made his way through the walking throng, smiling at each as he passed the people by. They stared at him weird, their brows frowning. Some called curses at him, but he bothered not. He had become used to them. He belonged to the lower clans and the people who stayed in town did not like them. Him, most of all. What it was about him that bothered them, he could not tell, and he did not want to know.

The houses were made of bricks, just like his home. The paint of each varied depending on the choice of the household, but most were red or variations of the color. Ever and anon, he would encounter a green, and that house would stand out among the rest. 

Most people in the town were middle-aged. Most men, at this time, would be preparing for work, but courtesy the arrival of the peddler, all genders alike made way towards the huge clearing to the south where the peddler was rumored to have set shop. He followed the crowd, more excited than they ever were. 

The peddler was an old man with a gray beard and a bald head, and he sat on a wooden stool right in front of his magnanimous red tent. Behind him, a pair of burly men ferried furniture from one place to another, and another -- a slender man somewhere in his early twenties -- was labeling the items by sticking a piece of white paper and writing on it with a blue quill dipped in black ink. 

But his eyes returned to the old peddler again, the aura of the latter making him curious. The wizened-looking man sat still, waiting for the men and women of the town to gather around him with a calculating smile. Kerrigan began to get irked by his appearance. He had expected the peddler to have a good presence, but the sight of him sent tremors through his body. The gray eyes told him that the peddler was ancient of age; in them was wisdom and strength alike. 

When all had come, or rather, most, the peddler stood up and paced on the dais he had had erected. Kerrigan scoffed at the old man's inclination towards showmanship. A dais for a sale of wares, he murmured, smirking. But at the glares of the townspeople around him, he kept quiet. They did not like it that he was making fun of the one they had come to hear. Of course, he hadn't meant to joke about the appearance and the proclivities of the peddler, but they wouldn't know that. 

The yellow sun had become brighter, the sudden warmth forcing people to cover their heads with scarves and kerchiefs of myriad hues. He stood rooted to his place despite the heat and stared straight at the motley crew that worked without stop on the stage. His eyes taking him ack to the peddler, he wondered what story the old man was going to tell.

'Kerrigan,' someone called.

Turning, he saw that his parents had arrived and with them was young Petros who strived hard to get to the front so he could see the peddler enact the tale from the front rows where children usually sat. To Kerrigan's surprise, Petros failed as the men and women around him cursed under their breaths. The sadness that followed made him pity the small kid. He moved to bring Petros to where he was standing, aloof and on a stony outcrop, its surface gray in hue. 

But he was interrupted by the old peddler who began to speak. 'The town of Sipleton. I welcome you here,' shouted the gray beard, 'as I always have. I must tell you that the long winter has made me travel less and so might not have as much tales of the world outside to tell.' At this, the throng grunted. Some of them cursed. 'But that does not mean I have no story to tell.'

Sighs of excitement followed.

'Today, in this beautiful morning of the much-awaited spring, I shall tell you the tale of Atillor The Broad and the greatbow he possessed, the one famously known as The Gusserat, using which he killed the tall daemon named Gorthag.'

Many among the crowd curiously looked at each other and then at the peddler. Kerrigan could see the ignorance on their faces. But he had heard of The Gusserat, which was said to be a magical bow that could only be used by a person to whom it gave consent to. However, he only knew the tale in brief, having heard it from an uncle who lived in Ruthbox on the other side of the mountains. His uncle would not tell him more as he was but a child then, not old enough to hear the gore and the violence that came with the tale of Atillor The Broad. Today, he was eighteen-years-old, mature enough to handle the stories, but he frowned at the presence of the children. Their parents and caretakers did not move to send them away. For a moment, he felt a bit envious.

'Who's Atillor The Broad?' asked a man who stood just behind the row of children. Kerrigan remembered that he was none other than Blarc, the town physician. 

The peddler smiled. 'Patience, my dear Blarc; curious as always, aren't you?' he laughed.

Kerrigan raised his brows. He was surprised the peddler remembered the physician's name.

'But I will not delay now,' continued the old man, 'since you all seem to be hungry for stories and tales. Never have I met anyone as curious as the people of this quaint little town, somewhere isolated in the wilderness. Perhaps it is the lonely location in which you dwell that make you people yearn for the happenings of places more populated, always yearning for that noise and clamor. So be it then. Let me start the tale of Atillor The Broad.'

The crowd bobbed their heads in anticipation. Kerrigan could not help but join in the excitement.

'Once upon a time in the far northern settlements of Glaecea, the huge continent of which Galacor is part, lived a middle-aged man named Atillor. He had broad shoulders and was tall, and he was a farmer's son.' A murmur followed. 'One day it so happened that a royal carriage was passing through his lands, carefully making its paths through the swerving roads when one of its wheels got stuck in the soil. The retinue that accompanied it, all great horsemen, dismounted and tried to move the wheel out of the earth. Despite their strength, they could not lift it. Out of the carriage stepped a Princess, whose name was Lorelei. She was the daughter of the king of Armandor, the great monarch Brodstr. She was as beautiful as the radiant sun, fair of skin and golden hair that lengthened into curls behind shoulder. Her eyes were iridiscent blue, her nose pointed, and by nature a good judge of character. She had been traveling the northern fringes of her kingdom, the land now controlled by the Shadow. Asked she did the reason for their failure, to which the answer they knew not. They deliberated on how they could get out the wheel and for hours they got no solution. Afternoon gave way to evening and evening to night. The snow fell heavily that day and in no time they were all deep in snow. Shivering and their teeth warring against each other, they sat, their fires all extinguished, losing out all hope. The dawn came swift and even though the snow began to melt, the heat wasn't enough. Frost bit them.'

The children had their mouths shaped like an "O".

He couldn't help but smile.

'The ninth hour of the day came and up trudged the snake-like path none other than our Atillor. He had been seeking his missing flock of sheep and saw to his front the unfortunate situation of the travelers. Being the kind person he was, he ran towards them and cleared them of the snow. And then looking at the carriage, he nodded and removed the wheel with his one hand alone. The Princess was surprised and shocked at the same time. Her followers too could not help but admire the strength Atillor had in him. All enquired of his being, of what he did, and of how he was able to accomplish the feat. But he only gave them modest answers. To most questions, he was shy and answered in a word or two. Lorelei began to look at him amusingly and whispered to her retinue. The head of the horsemen, a man named Surd, asked him to accompany to the city of Portsmouthe, a citadel by the great ocean, where it was ever warm and humid, a place winter never touched.'

'Winter never touched?' mouthed another of the townsfolk. Kerrigan turned towards the voice but could not decipher who it belonged to.

The old peddler smiled. 'Yes, there was a time when the Shadow had not gained such a power as it has now, and winter was short, reigning the earth for two to three months. And Portsmouthe, it never dared to touch. There was ever warmth there, and hope. But let us not talk about winter any longer for the season bears weary memories, dark and hopeless. Let us talk of what followed.'

The crowd shouted excitedly.

'Atillor, with the blessings of his elders, accepted Surd's proposition, and journeyed with them to the South and the West. To Portsmouthe he came, and wonder took him. The magnificence of the castle, its huge walls of stone, and its royal splendor left him open-mouthed, which made him embarrassed all too often. Surd asked him to come to the barracks the next day, having acquired for him a small room for his stay. And so Atillor obeyed, punctual as he always was. Day after day he trained under the eyes of the warriors. With mace, he excelled; with swords he was deadly. But he became the master of the bow, a weapon recently acquired by mankind. To gain the skills of bow magic, he was sent into the forests and after long years he returned, bearing gifts unlike any in the world of men had seen. He could use magical arrows that far outranked those who had already studied them. Many said he was gifted by the angels.'

'Was he?' asked a young boy, eager for an answer.

The old man nodded. 'He was definitely blessed. But these gifts, though earning him many accolades, got him resentment as well. Many knew that he was the son of a farmer and considered him of a low caste. It was only because of Surd's recommendation that the trainers had taken him in. And now that he was growing in skill far beyond them, they could not help but envy him. Even Surd began to feel jealous. Even more so because the Princess Lorelei had fallen in love with him.'

The peddler stopped to drink some water from a jug placed nearby on a short wooden table.

'Now Atillor began to sense slowly the hostility his own peers bore him, although they weren't so open about it. The admiration they had for him suddenly turned into fear. But Lorelei's company made him forget all about the hardships. A day came when Surd rushed into the courtroom and spoke about daemons and how they had been sighted on the land's borders. He said that Gorthag was their leader and the king very well knew who that was. Surd had the courtiers clamor for Atillor's name. The Princess looked horrified when Atillor accepted the mission, to which Surd and his followers secretly laughed. Nobody had survived a duel with Gorthag. Lorelei offered to go with him and being a woman of tact, she argued that she knew the arts of healing and would be of help to Atillor. The King had refused at first but then finally relented, heaping the responsibility of her well-being on Atillor.'

He gulped a mouthful of water again.

'The duo traveled for leagues, over the mountains, and under the hills, through valleys and across woodlands; sleeping in dark caverns, its floors full of slick. One day they came upon a shrine dedicated to one of The Trinity. It was not a huge temple, but big enough. It had an aura that beckoned Atillor towards it and despite being a non-believer in the powers of the Gods, he entered the temple. There were a few priests about, all clad in holy saffron, their black hair knotted. A bright, white light led him through semi-dark corridors, followed closely by Lorelei. In one of the sepulchres, he found a greatbow lying encased in a transparent cocoon that burned with silver light. He grew enamored of it and paced towards the bow. Lorelei looked at it with knowing. She had read about greatbows in the library. "The Gusserat," she whispered, her voice echoing through the room. He bothered not about the name. His hand plunged into the cocoon and held the bow in his hand. The Gusserat shone, giving a sign that it had accepted Atillor as its owner as long as he lived. Taking the greatbow then, with the blessings of the priests, they continued on their journey. They soon came to the borderlands where Gorthag was last sighted. For two nights they camped at one place and the third night, Lorelei went missing.'

The children gasped.

'But,' the peddler said, smiling as he saw the looks on the children's faces, 'Atillor found her, gagged and held captive in one of the daemon's dens. A huge duel he fought with the daemon Gorthag and he finally killed him, the great General of The Brothers Dark.'

The children looked happy.

Kerrigan grinned. He knew the peddler had let go of the gory details of the battle, having hurried through it, knowing well the children were in the crowd. The adults seemed to heave in secret a sigh of relief. 

'What happened next?' asked an eight-year-old with black curly hair.

The peddler laughed. 'They returned to Portsmouthe and married each other with the blessings of the King. Surd and his followers were quietened forever. The greatbow lay in his possession for the rest of Atillor's long life. When he died, the greatbow just disappeared.'

'Are there any descendants?' ventured Kerrigan.

He could feel the old man's eyes on him. It felt like he was being ripped apart, his soul lain bare to the peddler. 

'Yes, there are, but where I know not. Brodstr's dynasty fell two kings after Atillor when the regime of Addam raided its shores. And after that, an army General who had served under the erstwhile king took back what belonged to Armandor and made himself lord. It is his line that rules Armandor now despite vehement opposition from a line that boasts of being descended directly from Atillor himself. I know for a fact that they are frauds as they are descendants of the last king's dalliance with his mistress. Bastards, all of them, and hence they do not have lawful claim to the throne.'

'But there are no legitimate descendants?' Kerrigan asked.

'I know for a fact that the last king had a son and a daughter through his wife. The son was killed in battle with a daemon soon after Portsmouthe was lost. The daughter, I think, fled south. Nobody has seen or heard of her ever since.'

'And where now do you think The Gusserat is? Has it returned to the shrine where it was once kept?'

The old man gave him a mysterious smile. He frowned. What signal was the old man giving him?

'The Gusserat disappeared with the death of Atillor the Broad. But it has been seen in many a hand since then. At least three that have been recorded in history.'

'And now?'

The peddler grinned wide. 'And now The Gusserat is in my possession.' The old one whistled to his followers. The two burly men pushed the greatbow, now encased in a silver cocoon just like it had been in the stories. The crowd stood awed at the magnificent craftsmanship of the bow, white like an elephant's tusk. 

'Behold The Gusserat!' the old man bellowed. 

***