Chapter I

The warm sea shimmered with the first rays of the dawning fall sun. The swift trade ships crisscrossing the Southern Sea of Islands in search of fortune were little specks far below, ants in the vastness of the blue expanse tracing invisible lines between the emerald isles. The weather had been fair these past many days but the black birds flying high above the sea had taken no respite from their long journey to rest in the gentle warmth of autumn. Their strong wings carried them with great speed away from the dominion of man. Soon the tiny ships below were few and far between.

Little trade was conducted these days between the great island of Funen and its lesser cousin Alsen but a small number of ships still navigated the treacherous Alsen Strait. The birds passed them one by one as they shot across the strait like black arrows. The power of the last grand kingdom of Alsen had long ago been broken; once rich cities had been reduced to smoke-laden clusters of mud-built houses built among the ruins of a long-ago past. The towers and spires that once strove towards the heavens had tumbled and their marble and stone been pillaged to reinforce the ramparts that marauding bands of robbers now made necessary. Faded glory hung in the air above the island and weighed upon the mind of the feeble duke of Alsen even as his people lived lives of drudgery. The black birds flew past it all.

The fog-shrouded forested coast of Jutlandia rose out of the sea behind Alsen. In the narrow strip of sea between Alsen and Jutlandia no ships braved the soft blue waves for there were no ports to call upon anymore in Jutland; the Black Forest had reclaimed what industrious men had once tried to conquer. When they reached land, the birds' flight slowed gradually; they felt safe above the undulating crowns of the innumerable trees. As far as their black eyes could see, endless variations of red and yellow rippled in the wind. It was as if the whole of the forest had silently and beautifully caught fire. Clear forest lakes mirrored the heaven above, and the black birds saw themselves reflected as they swooped down towards the forest. Winter would soon come to this land and with the cold of winter would come terrible storms, which would leave the trees bare and the forest harsh and unforgiving. The mountains rising in the horizon already had snowcapped peaks that glimmered like jewels as the sun began to set behind them. The birds picked up speed again, the end of their long journey almost at hand.

At the foot of the mountains where the forest gave way to shrubbery and tall grasses better suited to the thinning air, a coiled column of smoke wound its way towards the darkening sky. A wooden hall stood here in the shadow of the forest. Well-kept fields radiated out from the hall and small herds of goats and sheep grazed the nearby forest floor. The gables of the hall were ornately decorated with intricate patterns carved into the heavy wooden planks. This was a place of order and enterprise but not a person was to be seen.

The black birds landed with silent wingbeats near an open window. Long rows of leather-bound books lined the walls in the empty room behind the window. Parchment lay on the writing desk and a quill lay next to an open vial of ink. In a half-open drawer, a collection of elaborate seals could be glimpsed. One of the black birds tilted its head as it studied the empty room.

Hidden among the colored leaves of a nearby tree, a nightingale warbled sorrowfully as the sun sank beneath the mountains and abandoned the forest. Not long after an old man appeared in the room behind the window. He had long grey hair and a long grey beard, which was almost brown at the tips and nearly white nearest his weathered face. His left eye was cloudy and unfocused; a thin white line ran from above the cloudy eye down across it.

At first the old man seemed not to notice the birds waiting patiently by his window. From a stack of books piled high on a shelf, he found a dusty tome. Inside the book tight cursive letters filled the yellowed pages. The old man slowly paged through the book, reading a passage here and there, until he reached the empty pages near the end of the book.

At his desk the old man dipped his quill in the vial of ink. Black letters flowed like a dark river across the empty page. Then he stopped, squinting as he strained to read what he had written.

"Hmmm," he said and got up and began to rummage through the study. The black birds' watchful eyes followed the old man's movements. After some time, he found a candle which he lit with the touch of his finger and placed on his desk. The bright yellow flamed danced softly in the stillness of the night, illuminating the desk and little else.

Almost as an afterthought, he looked out of the window and beckoned the black birds closer.

"What news of the west," he said "brings my faithful ravens."

One of the black birds croaked subduedly. The old man furrowed his brow. The other raven croaked a little louder and picked at its black feathers with its sharp beak.

"Hmmm," he said again and nodded as he began to write.

"Are you certain?" he asked after a little while.

His hand hovered above the page as one of the ravens croaked and then croaked again.

The old man put his quill down.

"And so at last an enemy of our enemy appears."