Part of Ahma hated the young Master. He had not directly abused or mistreated her or the other servants, but he had placed them under the care of the Steward, who had no reservations about doing so. She hardly knew him; she had only seen him a handful of times when she was a girl, and then only fleetingly…he had never been around his own home much. She blamed him for at least a part of the heartache and loneliness his father tried so very hard not to show. He never checked on his servants to be sure of their well being, never returned to the manor to monitor his assets, and never tended to the estate his father had left him. He allowed the land and Manor that had been passed honorably into his hands to lessen. She knew the young Master had duties and responsibilities elsewhere…but aside from a three day visit to attend his fathers funeral and be sure that things were properly in order and transferred to him, he had never even as much as checked on them in all these months. To her, it seemed as if he was running away. She thought him a coward.

With a deep breath Ahma firmly put the matter from her mind and began the endless task of keeping things clean and in order. She started on the northern book cases, taking the thick volumes and brushing them down with a clean rag before carefully wiping what little dust had manage to accumulate in its place on the shelf since her last thorough cleaning. The Wingling woman hummed to herself softly, a melodious sound that filled the chambers. Her voice was moving, nearly ethereal in its lilting song. Ahma had never been properly taught or instructed in the art of a minstrel or bard, but she had the gift of song that nearly all of her race carried. The Master had often asked her to sing, taking simple pleasure in her young voice that seemed to bend any song into a perfect musical performance. More than once he had commented that she would shame a number of court bards if given the chance. He had even taught her a number of his favorite songs in the common tongue and a few of the shorter human ballads.

But now she simply sang for the joy of it. If her wings were unable to give her the joy her heart craved, then song would suffice well enough. Her hands worked lovingly along the leather bound volumes of the library, and a peace settled over her. She was content, for a moment at least. She was in her Masters study, she was busy with the efforts of her duty and secure in this place of words and knowledge and pages and ink, and the notes of her humming filled the room as it always had. Almost she could see him sitting in his chair, looking over a volume of words written in a tongue Ahma could neither speak nor read, one hand to his ear to better hear her melodious voice, a smile upon his lips.

A loud thud shook her thoughts back to the present. Her lovely brow furrowed slightly as she glanced toward the closed door of the study. The noise echoed through the hollow halls. The sound bounced this way and that, confusing the source and direction of its origin. Ahma straightened, book in one hand and her dusting rag in the other. She wondered what such a racket could be…then it came to her. The front doors of the Manor were extremely large, a door befitting the regal and lordly estate. Someone had thrown them wide, causing them to crash against the walls hard enough to be heard all the way upstairs and a good bit removed from the front foyer. It would take a mighty person indeed to move the enormous doors with enough force to cause such a clamor.

Ahma tried to resume her duties, minding her business. Before she had lifted the next book, however, her attention was taken once more by a deep, strong voice called out. The distance and the shut study door muffled the words, but she could tell the voice was smooth and rich. Moments later came the scuffling of several servants marching past the study and down the stairs. Their curious murmuring crept, somewhat smothered, through the cracks of the door.

Ahma hesitated a moment. When no further commotion came she turned back to the towering shelves and swept the cloth attentively across the rich wooden surface, leaving it clean and shining with a healthy polish. She pulled a book from the shelf and glanced over it. It contained the records of the ancient rising Faldrin clan and how it came to be integrated into Durinum society, if she recalled correctly. A short lock of shining brunet hair flopped across her brow. She glanced up at it and smiled wryly, blowing it up and out of the way.

She jumped and gasped aloud as a shrill scream ripped through the manor. Shouts and cries followed the scream, all filled with panic and edged with fear. Ahma let out a shakey breath. Someone had hurt themselves, probably either out in the fields with a farming tool or in the Manor while carelessly handling knives in the kitchen. The shouting and arguing and the sounds of bodies moving and jostling about was likely other servants coming upon the injured person and butting heads about how best to handle the situation. Surely that was all. Nothing more exciting than that had ever happened at the Manor. But Ahma was shaking, trembling violently really, and she was not at all sure why. She hesitated for a moment, then put her rag down upon the Masters desk. With a badly shaking hand, the Wingling servant opened the study door.

Her head stuck out meekly. She glanced around, down one way of the hall and then the next. Empty. Steeling herself, she crept slowly from the study, walking down the wide halls toward the front of the Manor. As she reached the stairs she spotted a rush of servants frantically charging upstairs and away from the foyer just below. Their faces were panicked and terror stricken. She opened her mouth to ask them what the noise was about, and jumped aside as a man stumbled and went sliding across the floor, nearly bowling her over before coming to a stop at her feet. He glanced about, scrambled to his feet, and dashed out of the room to catch up to the other fleeing servants.

Ahma shook her head, her brow furrowing once more, baffled at the bizarre behavior. Her stomach felt as if a pit had opened in it and sunk downward. Her dark chocolate eyes suddenly flew wide as the distinct, violent ringing of steel crashing upon steel filled her ears.

For several moments Ahma did not move. The sound was coming from directly below, in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs. She swallowed and gathered her nerve before she stepped toward the railing overlooking the foyer below. She tryed to be as quiet as possibly, though she was sure her heart was beating and pounding loud enough for the whole house to hear.

Her heart picked up an even faster beat when she gazed into the foyer. Despite her efforts not to, she began to tremble in fright.

Propped against the wall a few feet before her, sat one of the servants, a young boy she recognized as a runner who often carried information and food from the Manor to the men working the fields. He was young, a fair youth who would make a fine man one day, tall and lean and quick of foot.

Or he would have, at least. His eyes were gazing out into nothing and his face had lost its color. The front of his jerkin, normally a dull and worn gray, was stained crimson and torn along the belly. A pool of dark, sticky blood grew around his body as she watched.

Ahma’s eyes, shining with tears, glanced around the room. They stopped upon a tall man standing with his back to her, taking up the center of the foyer. His body was clad in light battle mail, the kind used by warriors who did not favor the hampering and heavy weight of full plate mail, but wanted a bit of extra defense than simple chain. Chain covered the body from shoulder to foot and left the arms bare, with a light plate mail breast plate over the chain. A long, flowing cloak with several rends in it was upon his back, hanging nearly to the floor from his tall shoulders. A naked and gleaming blade was grasped in his gauntleted hand, an enormous great sword that almost seemed too large to be wielded with any effectiveness. Locks of copper hair hung down his back. It was tied back into a warriors tail but had come mostly loose from the hasty attempt to bind it.

She watched, frightened and dry mouthed as six men stepped through the ajar front door, squaring off with the lone man. Their bodies were shrouded in darkness and cloaks, their faces hidden. The only part of their body open to view was their hands. They were small and bony, void of any color save splotchy gray blemishes. Like the hands of the dead, Ahma couldn’t help thinking. She shivered, developing an intense dislike of them immediately. They too held swords theirs short and little more than enormous daggers. One blade was stained red and dripping heavy droplets of syrupy scarlet liquid onto the polished marble floor. Ahma shuddered to look upon them, her stomach growing tight as they stepped forward.

Shifting her glance once more to the man squaring off against them, realization struck her. This was the Master…the new, young Master. She was sure. Besides his distinct coppery red hair there was the silver dragon emblazoned upon his blue cloak the family crest and colors. Despite the situation, Ahma felt a bitterness upon seeing him. He had brought violence to the house. What was he doing there in the first place?

Her Master’s enemies did not notice her. All their attention focused solely on the nobleman. Their eyes bore into the man intently, but they were hollow and void of any emotion. Ahma did not like the young Master, nor did she feel he should even be at the Manor. But she knew her duty, and did not like the odds of him facing six men. He would be slaughtered. She had to help him, somehow.

Quickly, Ahma sprinted back down the hall. She quickly found the back stairs and rushed down them, turning left and dashing to the kitchen. She found most of the maids and kitchen staff huddled behind the massive wooden dinning table One woman clutched an arm gingerly to her chest and one of the kitchen boys looked to have scraped his head against something, though by the looks of the cut it seemed more likely he got it fleeing too clumsily than from any act of violence. She looked desperately around the group.

“Has anyone sent for the guard?” She asked

“The city guard?” One of the maids stuttered nervously.

“Yes, someone get them up here, quickly now,” Ahma instructed firmly.

The fever of her words caused Cook to gather her wits at last and send one of the kitchen lads running out the back kitchen door. Ahma looked at two girls, both maids responsible for the upkeep of the dining hall and the corridors closest to it. “Get the men in the fields, have them bring their hoes and forks. Hurry!”

The human girls scattered frantically at her words. As the room fell silent, the clashing of steel echoed down the halls. Cook asked, “What else should we do?”

“Take the children,” Ahma answered, pointing to a handful of wide eyed young in training for eventual duties, “Into the wine cellar. Hannah, prepare bandages. I think we may have some wounded before this is through”

Hannah nodded quickly, not entirely certain what was going on but trusting in Ahma’s judgement. “I’ll take care of it, dear.”

As Hannah started to move, several women followed her and the small group rushed to do what they could. No one questioned Ahma’s taking charge of the situation; all were used to doing as someone told them, and it mattered little who issued commands as long as they were issued. Of the Steward, there was no sign.

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