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stranger to danger, he was also no stranger to fear and there was something about Black Orchid that made him deeply afraid. When he addressed his men before battle he could hide his fear, but he was not sure that he could have hidden the terror he felt when Black Orchid was addressing them.
    “How goes the search?” asked Black Orchid.
    This was the first question Black Orchid always asked and the Count dreaded it. They had been meeting for years, every six months regular as clockwork, and each time after that first meeting, when Black Orchid had given them the Prophecy and they had gone out to search for the Hero, they had returned with no news.
    The world was a big place. Finding one particular child in all the villages, towns and cities across a dozen lands was no mean feat. True, there had been candidates, but none had turned out to be the Hero that Black Orchid had revealed to them; the Hero that would throw off the yoke of the merchant classes and return the aristocracy to its rightful position. Too long had they lived under the burden of loans and interest rates. Darkness was coming and the Hero would lead them in the final battle against the Dark Lord. The people would hail them as saviours and they would take back everything they had lost in promissory notes. The only problem was that it had been a long wait so far and none of them was getting any younger.
    From the Count’s left, Hogweed coughed.
    “Yes?”
    “I…I think I found him,” said Hogweed. In the Count’s experience Hogweed, the Prince of Greater Wallencia, was not a timid man but even he seemed to show nerves.
    “Oh, really? Pray tell us more.”
    “I found a monk.”
    “And?”
    “He spoke of a virgin birth.”
    Black Orchid sighed and fear rippled around the group. This was hardly news. Stories of virgin births were the staple of a good night’s story telling in many an inn across the Western Reaches.
    “I brought him here with me,” said Hogweed.
    The Count’s fear turned to terror and he took a step to his right. He could see that Foxglove on Hogweed’s left had likewise distanced himself from the visibly trembling Hogweed. He was either brave, tired of living or certain he had found the child , thought the Count.
    Though it was hard to tell under a black cowl, Black Orchid seemed to be considering Hogweed with some interest. It was a terrible breach of protocol to bring anyone to their meetings.
    “I do hope you’re right,” said Black Orchid at last. “Bring him in.”
    Hogweed bolted to the stairwell and returned moments later. When he led the monk into the centre of the gathering, the Count understood why Hogweed’s gamble was perhaps a safe one. The monk was blind, a terrible scar running across the man’s face from ear to ear. He looked frail and was mumbling to himself continually. The man was dressed in a torn brown robe and his grey hair and beard were unkempt. He looked more a hermit than a monk.
    “A blind man will lead and the Hero will be found,” gasped Lilly, quoting the Prophecy.
    Black Orchid raised a hand to silence the excitable Lilly and addressed the monk:
    “Tell us your name and your story, old man.”
    The monk stiffened and turned his blind stare toward Black Orchid. “I am Brother Francis of the Seekers,” said the monk, his voice as frail as his body. “And I am the last of my Order.”
    The monk coughed and brought his hand to his mouth. The Count could see flecks of blood in the man’s spittle. If he had a story to tell, he had better be both quick and brief as he did not look like he would make sundown.
    “You must excuse me, I am old and not long for this world,” said the monk.
    Perhaps he’s a prophet as well as a storyteller , mused the Count.
    “I was there when He was born, more than ten years past,” continued Brother Francis. The monk paused and scratched at his beard. “Perhaps nearer twenty years. Maybe more. Maybe less. It was such a long time ago.”
    The monk stopped and