Return of the Ancients

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The king sat astride his armoured horse, drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he looked out across the bloody plain below him. Broken bodies and armour were strewn over the entire field, and the smell caused him to bare his teeth and growl deep in his broad chest. He turned to an approaching warrior, and nodded for him to speak.

‘No survivors, sire.’

The king turned back to the field with sad eyes. ‘I know; I could already sense it.’

He snorted as if to expel the sickening odour of death, and shook his head in disbelief. ‘But how? Two hundred of our mightiest warriors cut down. How does that happen? They wouldn’t dare to attack us in broad daylight — they’re nothing but assassins, cutters of throats in the dark.’ He turned to the warrior once again. ‘But if not them, then who — who would dare it… who could dare it?’

‘Sire!’

The king spurred the horse to where another figure crouched down looking intently at something in the mud. He pointed and moved his gauntleted hand over the shape, and then looked up to the king.

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