The Warlock's Chair.
A place of magic and adventure.
Long ago when the world was young the Faerie races ruled far and wide across the lands of the Earth.
Then with the coming of Man, they disappeared into myth and legend. But they had survived. Hidd...
THE RANGE OF HILLS KNOWN AS THE WARLOCK'S CHAIR straddled the English-Welsh border. It was so-called, because — when viewed from certain angles — the undulating landscape looked like a large comfortable worn armchair. That and the fact, legend told of a powerful Warlock who supposedly once ruled the lands that surrounded the hills.
On the English side of the Warlock's Chair; nestled at the head of the picturesque valley formed by its three peaks, stood the manor house.
Throughout history, a building of some kind had stood on the site. Castles, keeps, houses both large and small had graced the land, keeping watch over the valley, and any travellers who passed that way.
But all had been destroyed, succumbing to the ravages of both fire and war. Each time a new structure had sprung up. Built by the various landowners to replace the fallen edifices.
At present, an eighteenth-century Georgian-style house stood on the land. Its elegant three-story limestone façade offering unrestricted views out over the valley.
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It was an early morning in late spring. The days were getting longer and milder. The first rays of the sun rose over the rim of the Warlock's Chair and consigned the last dregs of the night to the far-off horizon. With the rain from the previous evening, cleared away the day promised to be hot and sunny.
On the valley floor, a low-lying mist hung over the fields on either side of the ribbon of water called the Coblyn. But even now it was beginning to clear, driven away by the hot sun that had begun to climb above the surrounding hills.
High above, dark against the blue sky, a large bird circled. With a flap of its inky wings, it swooped and landed on the parapet of the manor house.
The raven had been coming here to this particular spot, for several weeks now. It was uncertain why. Just that it felt compelled to come every day and watch the house and its surroundings.
It sat patiently, the rising sun glistening iridescently off its jet-black feathers. All around the dawn chorus gradually reached its crescendo.
The raven watched and waited.
As the sun inched its way towards midday, the raven surveyed the lands spread out below its perch. The once well-kept gardens and lawns, after several months of neglect, were now overgrown with weeds. Out past the gardens and high stone walls that surrounded the buildings, meadows spread verdant down through the orchard to the river, which sparkled brightly in the morning sun. Beyond that was the roadway that followed the path of the river as it meandered out across the valley floor.
Watching over the road and river, stood the Wiccanhyll, a mound of hardened rock, topped by a stand of tall pine trees. It had survived the glaciers that had once scoured and shaped the valleys and the hills that surrounded them. Then more fields spread like a giant's crazy chessboard off to the distant horizon.
