Rosheen was up to her elbows in blood, baby piss and a warm placenta when the message from Torren came begging her for urgent assistance and the promise of abundant silver. She had been helping a midwife in Emerwick deliver a tavern owner’s baby, and the birth had been difficult, taking all night and Rosheen was exhausted, hungry and, of course, covered in sticky fluids and she needed a bath. Torren’s message was emphatic. Battle and bloodshed was inevitable and she had to come immediately. Even with Anzu’s powerful wings, the flight to Canwick Tor had taken most of the afternoon. Now the sun was high and Torren’s men were exhausted and close to defeat.

            The battle had been raging all day. Rosheen and her griffin Anzu landed on a high vantage point on a winding path that led to the tor, and found themselves watching with creeping discomfort. At first glance, the fighting in the field below made Rosheen think of childhood games back in Eru, when huge herds of village children would charge each other, or chase a ball across hills and fields with no sense of purpose other than pure joy. But this was no game. Torren’s men surged forward, crashed into the seemingly immovable ranks of mercenaries, then were driven back again. Some floundered in the mud and were rewarded with an axe in the back, or a broadsword biting into a limb. Cries of agony echoed around them, the voices of big men, professional soldiers, reduced to begging for death, weeping for their mothers. Children once more.

            Apart from a few localised skirmishes, Agrona hadn’t had blood spilt on its green and lush meadows for quite some time. A battle between two armies of this size was unreal. ‘There hasn’t been anything like this in… decades. Centuries, even.’ Rosheen ran her hand through Anzu’s feathers, something she caught herself doing when anxious. Anzu purred at her touch. ‘It’s like something from the chronicles,’ Rosheen said.

            It’s a slaughter. Anzu’s thoughts came directly to Rosheen’s mind with a gentle voice that only the mage could hear. Anzu always spoke with the confidence and conviction of an older sister, even though she was six years younger than Rosheen. There was something inherently aristocratic about griffins that would always add a few years of gravitas whatever their age, though Rosheen was quick to remind Anzu of her seniority if the griffin ever got too big for her boots. Who are these people? They look like mercenaries, but I’ve never seen paid men fight with such passion.

            Rosheen winced as she watched one man, wounded in the back and bleeding badly, trying to crawl from the thick of the battlefield. He was spotted by one of the mercenaries who strolled over calmly and, with a chilling inevitability, stuck her sword into his ribs. The wounded man jerked and a moment later his final cry of agony drifted up to the tor.

            Oh, gods. Do we have to watch this, Rosh’?

            Anzu wasn’t squeamish, but this was unlike anything they had ever seen. Rosheen knew she shouldn’t be dwelling on the carnage, but for a moment she felt like she was getting a glimpse into the future. Prophecy wasn’t one of her skills, but you didn’t need to be a seer to know that things wouldn’t be the same after this.

            Rosheen!

            ‘Uh, yes, sorry.’ She shook herself back to reality. ‘Let’s find Torren,’ she said.