The Shadow Scrolls: Series Book One, The Vale of Blood. PD Ph.D. Lorenz

edge of the lake from the cover of a bramble of trees on the opposite shore. He could clearly hear their voices as they expressed their frustrations which reverberated off of the clear mirror-like body of water. They were not soldiers that much was clear, for their grumbling spoke of the frustrations of a foiled hunt and how close they had been to catching their nemesis of twenty winters past. From the distance, their clothes spoke of the commonality of their livelihoods. One, the shorter of the two, waddled with a limp…

      Hunters, thought the king to his self. By and by, they made their way closer to the king’s camp and didn’t even notice him until, if the king had had ill intent, they were within range of head lopping.

      “You’re flustered over the hunt, hey?” stated the king.

      “Hey, hoy!” shouted one of the men as he practically jumped out of his skin and into the lake. He was an extremely thin chap whose legs appeared as if they could barely hold up his frame as they poked out from the bottom of his deer hide robe. If it were not for the wideness of his hatchelled feet, he probably would have tipped over in the lightest of breezes, but he had a good and innocent face all the same. The other was stout and spoke with the growl of a bear through a thickened black beard.

      “What would be bringing you to our neck of the woods?” asked the stout one.

      “I’m on a journey my friend, only passing through,” stated the king with an air of humility. “Would that be fine by you?”

      “Depends,” grumbled the bearded fellow.

      “Yah’, that d,d,d,depends… It d,d,depends on…, well, it just d,depends…” The thinly man seemed to be at a loss for words, and maybe even a loss for thoughts.

      “It depends on your intents and motifs’,” said the stout one with a deepening of his voice as if to thrust his courage ahead of his fear, for each of the men had finally noticed the war horse and the hilted sword and slung bow upon the stern frame of the stranger.

      “As I have stated, I’m only passing through your dale.” He could tell that the men did not recognize him and he wasn’t the type to thrust his authority upon anyone. “It is your dale, is it not?” questioned the king.

      “It is but one valley in the Realms of Irenay. It is not our valley, nor our lands, but the king’s alone. He has been gracious enough to allow us to fief to upon it,” stated the bearded one.

      “Well said, and cleverly crafted. I can see that you are learned,” said the king. “By what names are the two of you called?” he inquired.

      The king could see that the thin man wanted to speak for his face twisted and convulsed as he struggled to spit out the words upon his tongue so the bearded one continued as the pause hung on the edge of embarrassment…

      “This is Oliver Hunt of the House of Hunt and I am his kin, Salmon… also of the House of Hunt. We come not only from the finest hunters in the realm, but equally, the surest trackers as well.”

      “I’ve heard of your house, and I hear that it is a respectable one… What were the frustrations that the two of you discussed?”

      This time, the stout man called Salmon grew even more grumbled. “My cousin here foiled the trap that I had set, and it snapped upon my foot. A bit of blood, but I’ll make it,” groaned Salmon.

      “D, don‘t… you mean a fountain of blood, cousin?” shrugged Oliver.

      “Aye, spilled blood is the test of a man is it not?” asked the king.

      At that, he snapped his finger and Diokalees responded with a start. Both Salmon and Oliver backed away when they saw the approaching horse and it separated them from the sight of the soldier-king. By being in the shadow of the immense horse, they didn’t see how effortlessly the rider had saddled his courser and they were startled when he suddenly spoke down to them with a voice of authority they had not previously heard, his hands resting upon the golden horn of the saddle.

      “If you are willing,” the king said from his height,” Go back the way that you came and you will see that the bramble thicket beyond has served as a trap for the prey that you seek... God speed you men.” With that, he nudged his faithful steed and together they sped away amidst flying mud that segued to dust.

      The men stood in silence, contemplating the company they had just kept. In time, Oliver addressed Salmon. “S,s,s,…s,s…..s,…spill your thoughts, cousin, because I have none.”

      “I was thinking that I could not possibly walk back to that thicket upon the foot that you have butchered even if I wanted to,” Salmon stated with an unforgiving gripe.

      “Let’s s, see how bad it is now.”

      Together, they sat on a nearby boulder to have a look at the wound. To their utter astonishment, they found no laceration, only dried blood beneath one robed leg. Salmon was amazed and tried to brush away the still fresh blood for it had previously been a gaping gash that, until that moment, had been more or less pouring from the wound.

      “Water… quick… Get me some water!” shouted Salmon.

      “Right,” replied Oliver as he filled a satchel that had been at his side.

      “Pour it here,” barked Salmon… “Nothing..., there’s nothing! No wound, no cut, nothing! I don’t understand, am I mind-broken? Did I not receive a gash from your bumbling?” asked Salmon still mocking his cousin. Salmon stood to his feet and walked on his legs to test their strength, nay, even jumped upon them. “Nothing… nothing… is wrong!”

      For a moment, the two just excitedly looked at each other and then together, as only the best and closest of friends could do, simultaneously leaped in the direction of the bramble of trees. They then ran toward their goal one passing the other until at last, they reached the tangled wood.

      What they discovered there has been written of and studied for generations, and what they did afterwards has been told around a countless number of hearths since. There, amongst the twisted brambles, was caught a buck of magnificent proportions. The points of its horns were six apiece and its shoulders nine hand lengths. Too tired to fight any longer, it lay on its side knowing that it had lived its last moment and that it was time to give in to the sacrifice.

      “What has just happened?” stated Salmon with his hand to his head and in a state of awe. “Who was it that spoke to us, cousin?” He nearly found himself at a loss for words as well.

      Oliver, always the cousin with the least ability to place his thoughts into speech, created for his first time in his life, a most “cleverly crafted” and clearly articulated answer… “This deer shall feed our village throughout the coming winter, cousin. Once we deliver the goods to the store house, we shall track. Are we not the finest trackers in the realm? Together, we shall track this stranger who can be nothing less than a king. Perhaps even, our king.”

      It was an ancient valley carved by the receding of a thousand floods and it lay high atop a vista on the far reaches of the realm like a massive basin perched atop a mantle. In fact, the king’s castle and the ancient valley heights nearly stood as equals, separated by a relatively small measurement. Over time, it had become known as the valley of all valleys, for it was the finest of vales in the Realms of Irenay, naturally manicured as if invisible creatures tended to it like their own private garden. The trees were Willowfeld, of which we have already briefly spoken of, except for the fact that the branches of those particular trees were coveted and used for the fashioning of premium weapons, that is, the most premium of weapons. The Willowfeld were not tall trees as some would assume them to be considering their age, but they were rather short and gangly. From their stems proceeded fragrant blossoms of lightening white pedals which, once they had escaped the confines of their buds, would quietly germinate in the ground only to re-bud once again into fresh pearl-white flowers that made the landscape appear to be snow covered. The rocks of the vale, as one would suppose, were highly uncommon as well. They were called Sturmstone, and were outcroppings of exposed natural marble columns that protruded through the soil at different angles and undulations. With various sizes ranging from the