A single crow hovered above as the sun closed its eyes on the horrors that the day had brought. It circled the encampment tirelessly as though it was waiting for something. Night had descended, and slowly the torches spread throughout the area began to fade until nothing was left except the murky darkness. Athelstan tossed and turned in his drunken sleep; it seemed that even he wasn't immune to the night terrors brought on by war.

King Edward the Elder sat on the throne. A crack of lightning flashed the room as Athelstan entered, now standing under the golden dragon archway that marked the threshold of the hall. He was a child again, squinting through the pitch-black as he watched the ominous outline of his father stand to his feet.

"You have failed me, my son..." the voice echoed around the empty hall.

"Father, I." The hairs on the back of Athelstan's neck poised with terror as he heard the slithering of a monstrous entity behind him. He looked up. Nothing. Something grabbed at his leg, suddenly binding his entire body. He squirmed in panic as he felt the golden scales wrap further up his torso and over his mouth. The dragon statue? How?

Another bolt of lightning struck the tallest tower above the throne room as his desperate eyes met his fathers; begging him for help. The light retreated, leaving a pair of murderous yellow eyes watching over the King.

"Father... Father." His muffled screams did not reach Edwards ears. Tears poured down his face as he helplessly watched the eyes approach where he knew his father stood. A roar louder than the most fearsome thunderclap, whipped through the darkness, followed by deafening silence.

The serpents grip grew tighter around Athelstan's neck. As his consciousness faded around him, a final jolt of lightning crashed to the ground. For the faintest of moments, he saw the black grizzly standing over his father's bloodied corpse.

This was not the first time he had dreamt of the death of his father. Each time he struggled in vain. Each time he watched him die. Edward the Elder regarded the Scottish people as equals, allowing them positions of authority in the Kingdom. That changed when he was found dead. Hacked to death by some sort of beast. His most trusted Druid-and advisor to the crown-gone.

*****

The crow had come to rest on the peak of the King's tent for some time now. Intermittent beams of moonlight peeked through the dense cloud cover, reflecting on the crow's glossy ebony feathers. Sensing the time was right, it silently dropped to the ground evading the detection of the two armed guards on either side of the doorway, and through a tiny gap in the canvas.

Once inside, the Phantom Queen--Mór-Rioghain--spread her wings, and suddenly a woman's dim shadow could be seen cast on the canvas wall by the candlelight from Athelstan's bedside. Her jet-black cloak was made entirely of tightly woven crows feathers. Dulled from use, it devoured any light that dared cast upon it, gently flowing behind her as she moved. With eyes like teardrops of obsidian, she lustfully watched over him as she observed the golden aura of power radiate from his body. It had been over a hundred years since she had been in the presence of a human King and something was enticing her closer. Closer. Closer still.

She closed her eyes as she slowly inhaled his aura, savouring the intoxicating smell as it emanated through her body and caused her flawless pale skin to prickle with goose-flesh of desire. Mór-Rioghain pondered waking the King and giving in to her yearning. She knew without a doubt that the offspring they would produce would inherit boundless power, but she would not take this man tonight, destiny had other ideas. Standing directly over the King she chanted lowly in her native Gaelic tongue,

"I have come with a vision O' Butcher King. Of your demise, by the hand of my descendants. Beginnings and endings all things must be, the one who will slay you three wolves head is thee." An ominous mist slivered from her slender fingers, shrouding the King who lay sleeping unaware of her presence.

A shrill scream cut through the night. Athelstan rose stiffly, at first dazed, then panicked; he grabbed for the knife that rested under his pillow and crept to his feet, warily making his way to the door.

One step. Two. Then --

His lead foot had stepped in something cold and wet. His brow furrowed as he glanced down and lifted his foot. It was dark, but not dark enough for him to not see what it was: blood.

Something was wrong.

"Guards." His words scarcely registered in the frigid air. No response. He stepped forward, peeling back the canvas door to the outside. At his feet the two night watchmen lay with their throats slit, white as winter ice. Casting his gaze upwards, the city of tents that encompassed the King's had been burned to the ground, only his remained. As far as he could see, his soldiers had all met the same fate, lifeless amongst the smouldering remains of the camp.

Why, he thought worryingly. How has this happened. His mind desperately tried to decipher the scene he bared witness to. From the corner of his eye, Athelstan spotted a strange figure on its knees, clutching something.

"You there," he demanded, breaking into a hurried jog towards the person. Getting closer he could tell it was a woman with long straggly grey hair. An old woman?

It can't be?, he thought in disbelief as he noticed what she was holding in her hands. It was Athelstan's golden armour, the chest piece was one of a kind, it had to be his.

"Explain to me woman, what happened here?" he once again uttered in a demanding tone. The woman continued to look down, hair covering her face as her crooked hands slowly wiped the blood from his armour. Suddenly she began to cackle, a most fearsome laugh that terrified Athelstan to his core.

Upon lifting her head, the King staggered backwards in shock. The hag peered through a single bloodshot eye, the socket where the other should have been was crawling with maggots, feasting on the rotten flesh. Numerous bulbous warts devoured her face, and the few teeth that remained in her mouth hung in a rancid fashion.

"Have you come to kill me?" he said gripping his sword firmly in both hands. The hag turned silent. She looked in pain as she lifted her arm to point in the direction of the mound he had stood on not hours before. A torn banner stood erect in the ground, the flag gently flapped in the whispering breeze. It was pure red with three white wolves' heads, each with a long blue tongue hanging from open mouths.

"What does this mean?" looking back towards the hag. Without warning she forcefully thrust toward the King with murderous intent, knocking him to the ground. As his head hit the sloppy ground, he awoke in his bed, gasping frantically. He gripped his chest in anguish, was it real? he thought to himself. The flapping of a bird's wing could be heard exiting the tent as he sat up to gather his thoughts.

Slipping sideways out of the bed, he placed his feet firmly on the cold wooden boards beneath him and made his way to the exit once again. Athelstan paused upon grasping the cloth doorway, was it all a dream? he anxiously considered again. His heart raced in his chest, thumping against his ribcage like a bull charging at a gate; furiously trying to escape. Peering through the curtain he could see an outline, a dark figure stood there, one he recognised.

"My Liege," Firmin said bowing.

"A new dawn is upon us." He shot a bemused look towards the King who was stooped down low, visibly shaken.

Realising his stature Athelstan stood tall, cleared his throat and announced, "R...Right, ready the men! We are to depart immediately."

"Yes of course, and where exactly would our destination be sire?" said Firmin still standing just outside the threshold of the King's quarters.

"And so soon after conquering Caer-Luil?" he followed up with a second question, perplexed at the request.

"I need to see a druid," Athelstan replied ignoring Firmin's questions. "As long as no one has been allowed to escape, one should still reside within the castle walls?" He expectantly raised an eyebrow.

"We have had the castle surrounded as you commanded, no one has entered or exited since your glorious victory."

"Good! Then we will head there now," snapping his jewel-encrusted fingers together, Athelstan withdrew into the confines of his tent. Firmin signalled towards the young servant boy who was slouched over a thick guyline, anchoring the King's overbearing tent to the earth. Standing to attention and pulling out of his sleepy disposition, the boy hurriedly disappeared into Athelstan's quarters, his flowing oversized tunic violently whipping behind him as he moved.

Firmin shook his head in disapproval before making haste himself to rally his fellow soldiers. Very few had served the King as long as he, yet Firmin was left bewildered at Athelstan's intentions. Conquering land was nothing new for a man in his position, he was as familiar with the Crown's protocol as he was with the feeling of running a blade through an enemy. Such protocol dictated that after a battle was won, the castle seat was to be surrounded and subsequently cleared before high nobility entered it.

It was not unusual for a few soldiers to remain in their castles--ever loyal to their clan--and put up significant resistance, even after their Chief was dead and clansman slain. It was common knowledge after all that a Scottish barbarian never surrendered, leaving death or victory as the only two options. Before the introduction of this protocol, many an English noble strode proudly into his castle only to meet his untimely death at the end of a Celtic arrow, horn or fang.

Firmin felt uneasy as he wondered why the King was so desperate to see a druid, after all, it was Athelstan who made the rule in the first place. Could it not wait a few days till we rid the castle of any danger, or even captured the druid? he thought to himself. Druids were valued by the Clan Chiefs for their knowledge above their strength, but their ability to shapeshift into a variety of animals made them unpredictable, especially when threatened.

They were a mysterious race without surnames. They belonged to no clan, yet, a druid could be found in the throne room of every significant Scottish castle. Descending directly from the Celtic deities that first inhabited the Alba shores, little else was known about the Druids. Whatever the case, Firmin knew he would come face to face with one soon enough.

*****

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