Carmarthen, in Wales, is a city on the rise. Lord Cawdor's lead mines at Nantyrmwyn are yielding record amounts - so much so that there's talk of building a smeltery to process it all. This means growth. This means prosperity.
This means the countryside is starting to empty.
In the hills and vales around Carmaarthen, nature is already starting to regain lost ground. Cottages are becoming overgrown as their inhabitants move to the city. Stones that stood for centuries to mark ley lines or ancient rites are being swallowed by moss, the creep of time accelerating to a jog by the lack of everyday use and observation.
Kayard Wyland notices this. While still in his his twentieth year, he can see the Goddess start to take back her realm. As his friends and their families abandon the lands of their forefathers in exchange for the prosperity of the city, he stands resolute in the gray rain, watching another caravan leave the collection of huts he still calls home.
"Alchemists," he mutters to no one in particular. "Think they'll turn lead into gold." He turned on his heel and headed down the narrow, winding path into the vale where his hunting camp lay. Hidden among the gnarled oaks and yews, it wasn't far from the the tiny village where he'd grown up. But it was far enough away that he'd be alone to hunt. The stags and boars and rabbits of the Welsh hills had fed his family and village for years. But now he'd found a different prey, one that would ensure his family wouldn't go hungry anytime soon.
As he approached the camp, he looked to the stand of trees where his latest batch of meat was hanging. A good twenty pounds or more, depending on if his offering had pleased the Goddess. It had been a good fortnight, and his latest kill had been particularly fat. He stepped over a fallen branch and looked up to the rack where the meat-
Wasn't.
He stopped dead in his tracks. He hadn't been gone ten minutes, and he'd heard nothing from the hill. He looked around quickly, but he neither saw nor heard another living thing. Cautiously, he crept towards the trees where his drying rack had been hidden. As he approached the circle of young oaks, he paused again. He could hear something - a low buzzing - coming from the circle of trees. Curious, he crept closer. He saw the flies.
It wasn't one of those clouds of gnats you get in the early summer evenings when the weather is hot and the breezes are gone. This was a roiling, boiling swarm of the largest, blackest flies he had ever seen. And they were amassed above the ground beneath his drying rack, crawling over and buzzing around... a pile of rotting meat. The stench hit him just as he realized that the meat hadn't merely fallen from the rack. It had been ripped down. It had been trampled.
Kayard covered his face with his shirt as he surveyed the mess. The hooks where the meat had been hanging were pulled almost straight. The meat itself had been thrown about the clearing in between the trees and, judging from the rather small footprints that dotted the carne-age, someone or somebody had deliberately stomped the drying meat into the ground.
Kayard noticed a pair of footprints were filled with liquid. Odd, since the cool June drizzle couldn't penetrate this stand of trees. He peered down into narrow print, brushing away the flies that were everywhere now. As he shooed away the swarm that had been feasting on this particular hunk of meat, a beam of morning sunshine fought its way through the canopy and lit up the liquid-filled print with scintillating hues of gold.
"What the f-?" A twig snapped. Kayard whirled around and in one smooth motion he crouched and pulled the longbow from his back, nocking an arrow as he did so. He scanned the forest for movement. He listened, but could only hear the blood rushing through his ears.
Slowly, he crept forward out of the ring of trees, his muscles as taut as the bow he held. Slowly he moved his gaze from left to right, right to left, looking for the slightest movemen-
By the time it registered who the riders were, they were almost upon him. Three men on horseback, dressed in the green and gold of Carmarthen, bore down on him with haste. While poaching carried severe penalties in this part of Wales, they were nothing compared to the penalty for murder. He dropped his bow and ran.
Or tried to run. For in his panic he had forgotten about the rotten meat, and had turned to flee right through it. Four steps were all he was able to manage before the slime of rot and the strange golden liquid combined to take his feet from beneath him. He landed in the meat with a splat, sending a warm spray of gold and flies everywhere. His eyes filled with the stuff as his face hit the ground, and it burned. He frantically tried to regain his footing. He stumbled blindly forward and into a tree. He saw stars as he hit the ground again. The stench stung his ears, almost as much as his eyes. He couldn't see, though he could hear the sound of approaching hooves over the din that was being made by the flies. He could feel the buzzing, tickling creatures landing on his face, entering his mouth. He batted at them wildly. He tried to stand up. The sound of approaching hoofbeats stopped.
"You've gotten yourself into a fine mess this time, Kay." He froze, his blindness keeping him from running. He heard one of the riders dismount and approach him. "and good GOD the stench! What have you all over your face?" He hear the others laugh. He visibly deflated. "When we get you cleaned up, it'll be the New Realms for you." He felt a hand take his arm and pull him forward not-so-gently. As he struggled to move forward without falling, he thought of his family, his town. How would they get by without him? How will they make it through the winter?
The sheriff helped him up onto a horse. As they rode away, a stinging note hit Kayard's nose, causing his eyes to water. The note was a sharp one, tinged with ammonia. It angered him and caused him to wonder: "Who the hell pissed on my meat?"
