(Draft 1) A Twist of Steel

Chapter 1

The sound of rustling branches jerked Krum from his dazed vigil, his bleary eyes blinked twice before uneasily surveying the leaf-laden ground underneath the crooked trees that made up Darwood grove. The orange light of evening filtered through the dry, golden leaves that wilted from the jagged branches, casting flickering shadows and creating an eerie beauty.

Krum was oblivious to this, he was recalling the sweet birdsong that normally chorused through the wood, where did it all go? He shifted his stiff bulk nearer to the parapet and peered closer at the undergrowth. A flash of orange-hued skin brought a sob to his throat.
Cranaks. Raisets, by the look of them, the auburn skin was renowned throughout Rawthawn and not for good reasons. 

The other guards were spread out along the western and southern walls that surrounded Darwood Keep, they wouldn't have seen it. He had to raise the alarm, he had to- his scrambled thoughts halted, cleared by recognition of the creature that had appeared.
The ragged eyepatch, the dark, spiked spear and the fierce steel helmet reached one conclusion: it was him.

This was Krum's moment but he had to play this carefully. The muscled Cranaks next to the leader were armed with dark-wood crossbows and their poised stance showed they knew how to use them.

Krum crouched slightly, never taking his eyes off his target. He slid a newly-fletched arrow out of his tattered quiver and nocked it gently on his bow, he stretched the string taut and aimed.
Sweat dripped from his scruffy fringe and dribbled into his eyes, he dared not wipe it away, the sudden movement could cost his life. 
Krum grimaced as his target turned  in response to a comment from his companion but the Raiset quickly resumed his position, it was now or never. He muttered a quick prayer to himself before letting the arrow fly.
The thunk of the arrowhead hitting wood brought a groan to Krum's lips, a half-finished groan, a groan halted by two quarrels buried in Krum's chest. 

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Dorma smiled through black lips as the sentry's body crashed to the ground, the near shot however troubled him; he was getting old. But no matter, he whistled lightly sending a dozen Raisets careening through the bushes in the opposite direction of his army. Their crashing brought several guards to the east walls. This was too easy, he set off toward the northern gate his spear swinging by his side. The bastards would never know what hit them.

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The sun was not warm in Rawthawn, but it was beautiful. A myriad of crimson and orange sank over the rough hillocks and plains that surrounded the heavily fortified walls of Dunhold.  Garion Duncaster was the younger son of Jaden Duncaster, thus, while the throne of Casterland had fallen to his elder brother Lonon he was granted the title of the Regent of Rawthawn. This prestigious entitlement gave him rule over the cold, ragged land surrounded by steep hills and sparse copses.
The honour had been bestowed on him twenty-five years ago, he was the longest reigning regent of the past three centuries.

Garion shifted his fur cloak frowning at the sunset from the ramparts of Dunhold, the letter had arrived two nights past.

'Dear brother,' it said, 'I know we do not always see eye-to-eye but recent occurrences have caused me to deign to ask you to board my daughter here as your ward. She is in good need of the challenges of life in Rawthawn, some humility would benefit her greatly. I apologise for such short notice but my hand has been forced and we will arrive before the next moon's turn. I shall accompany my daughter along with the traditional entourage. We must further discuss the worrying situation you have currently been having and a certain proposal I have received may interest you greatly. Once again I apologise, my brother, but different times demand different measures.
His grace, King Lonon Duncaster, Liege Lord of Rawthawn, Casterland and the Grey Sea. Heart of the Golden Circle and Thane of Nixrym'

"And the damned most annoying brother a man could be cursed to kneel to." Garion muttered to himself before shoving the yellowed parchment back into the frayed pouch hanging at his side.

"My lord?" Garion turned, it was Sir Rosby.

"We have had a messenger, he awaits in the Iron Hall."

"Very well." Garion took one last look at the bloody sunset before turning.

More bad news he thought sourly as Sir Rosby respectfully followed him down the carved stone steps and through a latched wooden door. 

His steps echoed in the whispered restlessness of the hall. Garion rested himself upon the great steel chair that adorned the end of Iron Hall. A dozen hearths lined the walls, numerous shields bearing the coats of arms of every major lord of Rawthawn situated themselves above the mantlepieces. Garion gaged the messenger in front of him, it was just a boy, of no more than fifteen years.

"Yes?" Garion asked impatiently. It wasn't common curtesy and as his booming voice echoed down the hall he could see the teenager cringe.

"My, my Lord I bring terrible news." The hall grew silent in anticipation and the boy seemed to shiver as he thought of how best to say his tidings.

"Darwood has fallen, Lord and Lady Darwoden have perished and it is believed all of the garrison and residents have been slaughtered." The boy waited in terrified trepidation for Garion's reaction.

A wave of nervous whispers and exclamations swept through the hall, the numerous knights and visiting Lords exchanged glances of horror.

Garion buried his hardened face in one of his hands, his breathing came out in ragged hisses.

"And who, pray has taken Darwood?" he asked, already anticipating the answer.

The boy lowered his eyes at the ground, "Dorma Spear-Lord led the attack."

                                                                          

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Author's Note:

Thanks for reading the first chapter of my book! Please leave a vote if you enjoyed it and want to read more!

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