text: As the blue in the sky turned to black and stars began to shimmer, a harsh wind picked up. Drakaith tightened his new cloak around him. A bit of dried blood flaked off against his knuckles. The former owner of the cloak had been just the right size, it was neither too long and dragged on the ground, nor too short, allowing wind to billow inside. A very suitable cloak, he thought. Stepping to the edge of a small clearing Drakaith came to a stop. This was where his father had taught him to swing an axe for the first time. He must have been only ten summers old, but the lesson was harsh, physically demanding, with a teacher who wanted only one thing; exhaustion. First he had used small branches, then they had progressed on to larger ones. The size of the axe matched the size of the log. Father enjoyed the admiration from being the most skilled tree cutter in the forest and he was determined for his son to follow suit. Hours of punishment followed. Drakaith had enjoyed it to start with. The art of the swing, the aim of the sharp head, the thrill of the split. He swung away imagining each new branch was a fresh victim, ready to behead. His father praised his natural ability. The first kind words he had ever heard him utter. The pride was short\-lived however, for soon the skin started to rub away on his young hands and the blisters made the boy want to stop. This only encouraged his father. Blisters were a sign you were doing it right. “Be proud of them and hack harder. Pain purifies the soul.” he’d said. Drakaith chuckled. He was right about that at least. The branches of the trees above were still, all around him, yet the wind came blowing through. Not a noise. He stepped away from the tree next to him, his mind slipping back into cautiousness. He felt unwelcome. Something he was used to, but something to be mindful of all the same. A glinting in the grass ahead caught his eye. Looking around he walked out into the middle of the clearing and knelt down. A small silver coin was wedged in the mud. Picking it up, he wiped it on his cloak and moved to put it in his pouch with the few others he’d recently acquired. As he opened the pouch, he stopped. He was being watched. He closed his eyes and felt the magpie staring at him. He probed its thoughts. Nothing. The magpie flew down and stood on a tree stump staring at him. He opened his eyes and glared. The magpie glared back. “Silver for the season, a peck for the neck, reason is treason.” What a peculiar thought, considered Drakaith. The magpie cocked its head. Drakaith let his own thoughts speak to the creature, his mouth unmoving. “Nod your head if you would like this silver coin.” The magpie nodded. “Nod your head if you will peck me if I don’t give it to you.” The magpie nodded again. “Would you like a dull bronze coin instead? Nod for yes.” The magpie didn’t move. Drakaith looked around. The magpie stayed where it was. Reason is treason, which means he doesn’t want to be asked why he wants the silver. He just wants it. He’ll peck me if I don’t give it to him. But perhaps he’ll give me something for it. That’s what they do in the Iron City he had heard. His father would make the trip once a year, pulling his cart, filled with different samples of rare wood he had cut, some he had shaped. In return for the wood, they gave him little silver coins and a few dull ones too of bronze and copper. These coins sat in a jar, hidden underneath the cooking fire. Drakaith had watched his father dig the hole and hide them there. The coin meant nothing to him, but it obviously did to this magpie. Perhaps he could be useful. “The silver is yours if you find me... a snake.” The magpie shuffled slightly, seemingly deliberating the offer. With a flap of the wings it took off, soaring up into the sky and was gone. Drakaith put the coin in the pouch and sat down on the tree stump. The wind continued to blow, but the forest was silent still. Had he known there was so much more to the wilderness he would have paid it more attention. Living here, with such a dull tribe as the Poastas Clan, he had been more interested in the things no one else dared talk about. Death, sickness, pain. The Soothsayer once said he may become a healer, but the Poastas Clan did not have a healer and had no one to teach him, so the elders made him learn to swing an axe. His father was most pleased. Ironic that an axe to his chest had killed his father then. He’d thought that at the time. The arrival of the raiders was not a surprise to Drakaith. He’d watched them approach throughout the day, staying just out of their sight. When they reached the Poastas camp, he was safely hidden in a hollowed tree, with a perfect view hole to watch the slaughter. The axe that struck his father was unlike ay he had ever seen. Double edged, with a purple coloured grip at the base of the handle. It was made for killing, not tree cutting. That was obvious. The Poastas camp held about thirty people altogether. Seven families, with three elders who had lost their families to sickness. There were meant to be lots of different tribes in the forest, but with strict rules about where you could wander, Drakaith had never seen any. Until that day. There were fourteen of them. Six men, four boys and four women. Faces painted, carrying flaming torches. When they approached the Poastas men and women didn’t know what to do. A confrontation was obviously about to take place, but with so little interaction with outsiders, they were unaware of the danger. Emelles, the eldest daughter of the largest family, stood tall and proud as they approached. Drakaith had always admired her, she never did what she was told, unless she wanted to. She was fierce. Everyone knew she would be the camp leader when she became an elder. But that was many years away. The warriors carried weapons of all shapes and sizes. None as impressive as the axe, but still dangerous looking all the same. Emelles beat her shoulder twice, as is the Poastas custom. A tall dark haired man smiled, the paint on his face cracking as he did so. Then he thrust his sword under her chin. He did it with such ease. No second thought. No hesitation. Just like father cutting down a tree, he had thought. Swift. Decisive. Emelles had shuddered and then the sword was withdrawn and her body simply slumped to the floor. Blood staining the earth. Drakaith saw his mother grabbed from behind and her throat slit, as father begged them to leave. For such a stern man, he had broken so easily. As soon as the killing began, he fell to his knees. Others looked to him, hoping he might swing his axe. But he didn’t. He fell to his knees and begged. The dark haired man grabbed his head and put out his eyes. The screams were horrible. Then the axe came. If it wasn’t for his brother Kagraith arriving behind him, he would have stayed until the end. He would have enjoyed that. He had heard that the corpses go hard to the touch a while after Death had finished with them. That’s how Death knew he had done his job properly. He’d always wanted to touch a hard body. He had touched several now of course, prodding them each time with fascination and wonder. Grampian the hunter was the last of the Poastas to face the killers. When he rushed in, sweat glistening and muscles bulging, he had screamed a sort of war cry. He beheaded the first attacker, then swung and threw a knife into the back of another. Kagraith was crying and would make too much noise, so Drakaith grabbed his hand and ran deep into the forest. He still wondered how Grampian had died. Quickly most likely. A shrill ‘caw’ from above made Drakaith jump. He looked up to see the bird up above, circling him. It flew away, delving deeper into the forest. Drakaith followed. The bird would hover for a moment, to allow him to catch up, then continue deeper and deeper into the forest. Drakaith could hear no thoughts from the bird and so kept his eyes alert. Snakes were hard to find and always dangerous. As they moved past a small bubbling brook, the bird suddenly swooped low and then landed gently on a branch. Staring intently into a thick patch of grass and nettles. Drakaith took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His mind searching for thoughts of the snake. Nothing came to him. Some animals he could hear their every whim, others nothing at all, a few, like the magpie, he could get small scraps. Enough to have a conversation, or give an order. The snake it seemed, had no such connection with him. It simply stayed very still, watching him. Drakaith wanted to know what logic was behind the communication. Why some and not others? But these were answers he would need to be patient for. They would come, he thought. A noxious smell rose from the snake, Drakaith hawked and spat on the floor. He hated this smell, truth be told, he hated snakes in general. It was a shame he could not communicate with it, out of all the animals he felt a snake would be both wise and interesting. Instead it was no more than a nuisance. Sensing the rising danger, the snake coiled itself into a striking position. Drakaith grinned. The snake lifted its head, bearing two venomous fangs. Drakaith willed the snake to lift its tail. It did. The tail slowly uncoiled and lifted up next to the head. Bite down, he willed. The snake slowly took the tail in its mouth and sank its fangs deep into the scaled flesh. After a few moments the venom kicked in and the snake performed a sort of dance of death. Spasms throwing it around, the tail thrashing wildly. Drakaith was fascinated. Such pain he had never seen before. Not like this. Perhaps finding some more snakes could be useful. If he could harvest their venom he would be able to make a human dance in this way. It would surely make their soul taste all the better for it? As the snake came to its final position, dead on the floor, the magpie swiftly landed next to it, staring intently at Drakaith. The bird had come for what was rightfully his. Drakaith fished in his pouch and pulled out the shiny coin. The bird shivered, excited by the prospect of receiving this delightfully polished piece of metal. Drakaith hesitated. The bird cocked its head. “Come and find me tomorrow and I will have more shiny pieces for you.” the boy spoke. “Peck the snake if you would like that.” The magpie shivered and pecked the dead snake. “Very well, see you tomorrow.” He tossed the coin to the floor, the magpie quick as a flash snapped it up and was gone. Drakaith watched it fly away. I think I shall call you Shivvers he thought smugly. A very useful bird. Drakaith picked up the dead snake and walked back towards his village. He’d need some more coins and there was only one place he knew that had some. Under the kitchen fire. He wondered what state the place would have been left in after the killers had finished. Perhaps they had burnt it down, they had flaming torches after all. He dismissed the idea, a fire would not be a smart thing to start in a forest. Perhaps he would find an axe, not that he had a use for it, but it would be nice to have. An axe would go well with his cloak, especially the purple handled one. Such a thought filled him with purpose and he strode on, past the markings on the trees that signalled he was entering what used to be known as Poastas territory. Shafts of light had begun to break through the trees as morning approached. Shivvers would find him soon and there was much to be done he grinned.