Whistler

Chapter 1
Clouds, dark and ominous, bloomed menacingly out of the north. Slowly, throughout the day, mass piled upon mass, higher and higher, as if those leading the vanguard were being overrun by panicking hordes behind.
Eyes that had been lifted casually towards them in the morning became narrowed and concerned as the day progressed, for the clouds were grimly unseasonable. Sour-natured weather was to be expected as winter fought to hold its ground against the coming spring: dark skies and blustering, buffeting winds bearing cold rains, and perhaps even yet a little snow would offer no great surprises. But this . . .?
This was surely a monstrous blizzard pending, the kind that was rare even at the heart of winter.
'It'll only be a thunderstorm,' some declared, knowingly, though more to hear the reassurance in the words than from any true knowledge.
For there was no tension in the air, no tingling precursor of the tumult to come, raising the hackles of men and beasts alike.
Yet there was something hovering before this dark and massive tide, something that flickered elusively into the senses like an image caught in the corner of the eye that disappears when looked at directly. Something that was unpleasant - menacing even.
Something primitive. And awful.
None spoke of it.

The land that lay in the advancing shade of this strange tide was a great spur that protruded south from a vast continent. It bore the name it had always borne - Gyronlandt. Once, according to legend, it had been a single mighty state glorying in its strength and prosperity, and the name still resonated with that past. Through the ages, however, that same legend declared, Gyronlandt had been riven by terrible civil strife and then by invasions of desperate peoples from across the seas, fleeing terrors and wars of their own. And despite many attempts to hold to this ancient unity - some wise, some foolish - Gyronlandt had drifted relentlessly towards what it was today, a land of a score or so different states living more or less peacefully together. A land that had been thus ever since ringing legend had dwindled into mere history and the thundering rhetoric of mythical heroes had become the ranting and mewling of an interminable list of political leaders in whose wake lay, inevitably, a long tangled skein of unfulfilled promises and broken pacts and treaties.
Nevertheless, the notion that 'one day' Gyronlandt would be united again still held some charm for almost all the peoples of the land, and often formed a rosy backdrop to any revels of a remotely patriotic nature. That the several states were ruled (and misruled) by as many different institutions of government, and that these institutions were frequently changed - sometimes peacefully, sometimes not - did nothing to further any cause towards such unity. Nor did the equally persistent idea that the present disunity was 'of course' due to 'them'. The identity of 'them' varied from time to time, depending on which neighbouring state was in or out of favour, but certainly it was never 'us'.
Gyronlandt was separated from the lands of the northern continent by an intimidating mountain range, across which only occasional traders and other desperate men would venture. The forces that had formed these mountains had also thrown up a craggy rib down the middle of Gyronlandt which culminated at its most southerly point in a region jagged with a jumble of lesser mountains. This was Canol Madreth, the smallest and most central of Gyronlandt's states. It was also the only one whose boundaries had remained unchanged, though this was due mainly to the fact that no one saw any benefit in fighting to annex a land that consisted mainly of mountains and steep-sided valleys of uncertain fertility. Still less could anyone see any benefit in holding sway over the inhabitants of Canol Madreth - the Madren.