The elder folk of Bree-land, if their memory still serves them, would know the grim name Blackthorne. In old days the cracks of their whips, the braying of their beaten horses, and the thunderous rampage of their carriages charging down from Trestlebridge never brought good news. They were brutes and carousers, drunkards and cutthroats. Their visits left the taverns of Bree-land leaking blood and the streets scattered with glass. 

Houndsmen, they were—breeders of dogs to rival the noble kennels of distant Stoningland, or so it was said. Trestlebridge, when it was hale, was filled day and night with their braying. The fine families of Bree, it was rumored, tolerated the family for the sake of their craft. Blackthorne hounds were stronger, speedier, and the best scenthounds around. A rich man would lose fewer in the hunt and bring back bigger game with a Blackthorne hound by his side.

There are none left, now. Bree-landers knew the tribe had their own troubles, both within and imposed on enemies they’d made of their neighbors further north. No one was surprised, then when the smoke that billowed into Bree-land on a strong northern wind was connected back to fires that raged across the family’s sprawling estate. Some,though, have suggested the Blackthornes met their end when Bree-folk had had enough and took matters into their own hands. 

Sabela had been the lucky one. Long before, her mother had earned excommunication when she’d fallen for a travelling wine merchant. They eloped into the east, and Sabela was born. Now, years later, she’s returned to Trestlebridge to gather what’s left of her family’s charred legacy. She’s rebuilt the kennels, and again the howls of mighty hounds echo across the Trestlespan.

❖

Tell the woods and tell the fae,
tell every rough beast out today,
tell all things soft to fear dark,
to hide all good children
from the beckoning sparks.
Tell the wind and tell the trees
dangerous secrets are concealed
inside their leaves,
tell the witches to leave offerings
in the shape of prayer and bloodstones
but warn my enemies to hide their bones.
Tell them all what they tried to kill came back.
Tell them all that I have come home.

"Vengeance Born" by Nikita Gill