The Shivers was an oblivion of rocks.

Jagged and sharp as the teeth of a carnivore, jutted up and defiant against the crashing waves. The brine of the ocean misted the land, salting the earth, and the winds thrashed at any plants taking root. Hardly much grew except for grasses and shrubs. Farming was a pathetic affair, however, it was good grazing land, at least. A flock of sheep, numbered at around fifty, rotund and fluffy with wool, bowed their heads to graze upon the grasses. The shepherd dog, long-muzzled, black of fur, with ears as sharp as dirks, barked out warnings as Darius and Blacwin travelled over the hill. The men, having heard the dog barking, turned to face them. Amongst them was a shepherd while the others were warriors. The armour clad upon their persons reminded Blacwin of the gear that his late father wore: brigandine, gambeson, steel braces, greaves, pauldrons, and a visored kettle helm with an aventail, a chainmail veil worn over the face. Much of it he had to pawn for food, leaving only the gambeson and chainmail shirt that he wore now.

The long bearded axes in their hands gleamed in the half-light, and the aventails lent them a mysterious and dangerous quality that made the boy uneasy in the stomach, stiff in the limbs. He turned to Darius, who was decidedly assured despite the warriors numbering at ten. His hands were calmly resting at his sides, palms opened, feeling the blowing winds as though it was the long mane of a mistress. They continued walking toward the herd until the warriors ordered them to stop.

“Who goes there?” A warrior thrusted his axe forward.

Darius stopped accordingly, showed them his open hands as a gesture of peace, though hardly harmless with the blades girded on his hip. “Civilised travellers, my friend! And I hope you are as well?”

The warrior measured them up and down, judging the stock of their character like the teeth of a horse. His posture read as one of vigilance, caution, though when his study turned to the boy, his shoulders relaxed considerably and lowered his axe.

“You’d think some are animals from the way they conduct themselves.” He leaned on his axe like it was a cane. “Please forgive our cautious hearts. Many a folks have wandered into our lands, feigning passivity only to lash out with a great savagery! They would oft attack like rabid dogs to get at our sheep.”

“Aye.” Darius nodded. “An empty stomach can make animals of us all.”

The warrior nodded, too, in joint agreement, however, not all was as jovial as him. Another warrior, with his axe resting upon his shoulder, was staring twin-bolts into Blacwin with piercing green eyes.

“You, boy,” the green-eyed warrior said, “who is this man to you?”

“Oh," Darius said, "this boy is my—”

“Did I ask you?” the green-eyed warrior snapped sharply at Darius. “I thought not. So answer me, boy, who is this man to you?”

At once nervous and afraid, and angry that he felt that way at all, the boy swallowed the rock in his throat. “H-he’s my Swordmaster, and I’m his apprentice.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm. And he saved me from s-some thugs when they tried t-to…” He bit his lower lip, trying to regain composure. “... to take my things, my sword. I managed to kill one of the bastards, however, I would’ve died had he not intervened and killed the other two.”

The green-eyed warrior interrogated Blacwin with a grave, quiet intensity, then flicked his attention to Darius, interrogating him in the same way. After a solitary moment, he girded the long axe to a holster on the back of his waist, unfastened the chin strap and removed his helm. Short, golden hair crowned his head and his skin was the shade of hazelnuts. With his helm tucked into the nook of his armpit, an open hand was held out.

“I’m Cressa,” the green-eyed warrior said as he clasped Darius with a firm handshake. “Welcome to the Shivers.”

The first warrior who spoke followed suit and removed his helm as well. His hair was short, black, speckled with wispy greys, chin stubbled and square. “And I’m Harlow. You must excuse my friend. We have seen and dealt with many things.”

“Justifiably so.” Darius clasped Harlow’s hand too. “These are dangerous times.”

“We are always in need of honest men who are good with a sword.” Harlow knelt down and regarded Blacwin with a grandfatherly smile. “You look like a proper warrior, aren’t you?”

Flattery tugged on the cheeks, and the boy fought to suppress a smile, though his cheeks burned as hot as coals. Harlow laughed wholeheartedly as he rose up on creaky knees, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“Does the boy have a name?” Harlow asked.

“Blacwin, and stop calling me boy.”

“Watch your tongue, you runt,” said Cressa.

“Ah! It’s fine. Your blood was just as hot when you were his age.” Harlow turned to Darius. “Come. Let’s get you some food. You can colour in the details of your travels while on our way to Castle Longclaw.”

The beasts numbered few, at first. Drakonia was a mountainous place, difficult to traverse. So the beats within the territory were easy to cull, and for a short time the beasts from outside came in at a trickle. His spears and shields and swords managed to hold the line. That was, until a great host spilled forth from the borders of the Arklay Empire to the east. It was a flood like no other, and it rushed over the mountains. Horrendous forms crashed into their line, smashed their shields, snapped their spears, and shattered their swords. Darius and his men, as wolfish and hot-blooded as they were, bred rugged from a hard life in the mountains, found themselves forced back to Castle Blackdown. They intended to make a last stand, fight to the last man. And judging from the silence that choked him up, the plan fell apart to ashes.

In the end, Darius found himself alone, wandering westward without much of an aim. He found work wherever he could, guarding caravans, slaying beasts, killing men. It was only until he came to the lands of Reynmeer did his lonesome end. He discovered Blacwin and, of course, he conveniently left out the fact that he abandoned him at first, though all the same he did take him on as a travel companion in the end. And that was that.

“Ah. So you must be The Long Shadow,” said Harlow as they walked along the bleating sheep.

“The Long Shadow?” Blacwin asked.

“Don’t tell me you never heard the stories,” Cressa said, the switchgrass in his mouth wagging up and down like a tail. “Many a knights fell dead in the wake of this man.”

The boy looked up to his Swordmaster who, up to this point was forthwith with his past, was suddenly reluctant to say another word and quickened his pace.

Castle Longclaw sat upon a high rocky cliff facing the sea. The walls were weathered, an ugly grey; stones eroded from the constant spray of salty mist. A harbour jutted out from the cliff face, where longships and smaller boats were tethered and bumping against the wooden posts, as men climbed out with their nets and hauls of floundering fish. Down the sloping cliffs, beyond the high roughened walls, was a sprawling settlement of homes, a market, and even farther down where the land was flat and even were the fenced-in sheep pens.

A ghostly silence permeated the place from root to rooftop. Not even the sheep dared to bleat as the shepherd and his dog ushered them past the fence. Blacwin noticed something peculiar, wandered over to investigate, and there he found part of the fence was mended with fresh wood and rope, a layer of grass flayed like skin from the earthen body. It appeared to be made from a great footprint, thrice larger than that of a man.

“It was a beast,” said Cressa, “wandered in during the night and killed a few of our sheep… along with some good men.”

“Did you kill it?” Blacwin struggled to tame the waver in his voice, for he saw that the warrior had gone pale as a limestone.

“Them, you mean. And no, we have not. Though hopefully, with the help of your Swordmaster, we will.”

A pit opened up in his stomach as they passed through the gates of Castle Longclaw. A quiver stole his limbs. The warriors so far might have been kind, for the most part, however, the same could not be said about their lord. He could have a glutinous mouth, a cruel heavy hand. There was always the chance, for power was a drink that one could never stop at just one cup.

“Lord Shalehart.” The warriors knelt before a man.

He was broad in the shoulders, powerful as an ox, draped in furs and a heavy cloak. His crown was barren of any hair, though his beard was long. His boots, thick as a tree trunk, could stomp wells into the ground. He strode up to Darius and Blacwin, his expression as grave as a maelstrom. Then, his arms flung open, and with a smile as wide as a longship, gathered Darius in a great big hug.