Claw

Part One

Part one:

I was born to this life, I know. I know I have little choice in this and, if I wish to continue living, I must also continue on. But, standing outside my master's office that morning, I was beginning to consider the alternative. Not only because I was sick to death of this life where no one was who they said they were but also because of the mounting sense of foreboding growing in my stomach. The muffled conversation I heard through the thick, oak door did nothing to calm it.

"We could ask the king for assistance." That was the voice of Ethelred, my master's most trusted adviser.

I tried not to listen. It was rude, I knew. But their voices were so loud and my ears were so trained that it made politeness impossible.

"No, no! The king is nothing more than a boy! He knows nothing of these matters. He tells us not to fear the Sæll, yet he keeps one at his side to threaten us all. No, the boy-king cannot help us."

Whatever it was that I had been summoned for was serious if not even the king could help. Despite his words, I knew my master respected King Farrlan so if the problem had come to the point where he was referred to as the 'boy-king' then things were serious indeed. And Finnegan Freewood was generally well-liked throughout the army he led, even with his Sæll powers and childlike face.

They would not notice me standing only a plank of wood away no matter how long I stayed here. So I knocked.

Instantly, the squabbling voices inside vanished into silence.

"Come!" My master's voice came sharply after a moment.

I pushed the usually creaky, old door open without a sound. It took Master a moment to realise I had entered the room and look up from his desk.

There was a third man in the room, which I found disconcerting. How had I not felt him there? Perhaps he was like me with no presence at all. But that idea was ridiculous even at first glance.

He was perhaps a few years older than me, slouched in an armchair by the window, his chin resting in the palm of one hand. His thick, dirty-blonde hair fell to his shoulders in small waves. His long, straight nose gave his face a solemn feeling not helped by his gently closed eyes. He looked as if he might be sleeping. But the thing that cancelled any idea of him being like me was the way he was dressed; all in black, with a high collar and soft, leather gloves. He looked almost like one of those men that come from abroad, spouting nonsense about 'higher beings' and an 'almighty' but I recognised his costume as one an Orphanage-Father might wear. Still, there was something off-putting about him and I kept him in my peripheral vision as I turned to my master.

"You called, My Lord?"

"Yes, Claw, I have an assignment for you."

I bowed and Ethelred settled himself grudgingly in the last armchair not occupied by the mysterious man.

"Lord Damián is causing us a little strife."

I kept my head bowed and waited for him to continue.

"I want you to take him out."

"Forgive me, My Lord, what sort of problem is this?" I asked without raising my eyes.

It was not my place to know. I was only to receive the order and follow it out but the scraps of conversation I had heard earlier had piqued my curiosity.

"You have heard, I presume, of the fires to the south? The ones that destroyed that shelter for the homeless."

"Of course, Sir."

"That is his doing. As was the massacre of refugees along the River Vátr and the humiliating death of those in the Sæll camp to the west. You know of these incidents too, I trust."