Doomsday: Dark Sage

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The piper of Shacklow
The fiddler of Fin
The old woman of Demon’s Dale
Calls them all in.

They said I was born of the Balefire, when the priestesses left the enclosure to open the womb of the land as the dark time fled. I did not know, not then.

She was of the Old People, small and dark, a plump figure hunched singing over the quern. He tended the goats and fowl and life was simple. I learned the ways of hut and hearth, playing in the dirt with the dogs, my feet always stained with the green of the grass.

I do not remember that they ever spoke my name. They called me little one or bright one because of my hair and smiled, and sometimes shared glances I could not read.

Grandmother shared our hut. She never moved from her…