Chapter 1
Stalking in the Oaks
> When the Chorus advanced, we were silenced—one hundred thousand common voices, united in a keening dirge that split the air. It was then I first saw him, an avatar of war, gliding over our ranks like water over a drowning stone. When the Bladesong cried for the Sentinel's head, the very heavens trembled.
>
> — Reflections of a Paladin
Godfrey crouched on the high oak branch, humming quietly to himself as he scanned the clearing below. Dappled light filtered in from the canopy above, disguising him from his unsuspecting enemy. His quarry rested in the soft grass, unaware of its imminent doom. The creature had been terrorizing the village for some time now, and today Godfrey, Knight of the Hand, would slay it!
He had tracked the creature to this area. Normally, for such a foul and fearsome beast, the Magistrate would ask one of his uncles to intervene. But, Uncle Hawker had been arguing with the Magistrate, and now Godfrey thought they didn’t like each other, and Uncle John and Uncle Tarlow were on a hunting trip and wouldn’t be back for a few days. Thus, the only other able-bodied military man in the village needed to step up and save the day—it had to be Godfrey.
There. The beast was stirring. Good. He preferred an honorable fight, and if the beast was sleeping, where was the sport?
For a moment, Godfrey considered climbing down from his perch some ten feet off the forest floor. No, why give up the high ground? There was honor, and there was stupidity. Well, at least that's what Uncle Hawker always said.
Godfrey smiled as he slipped a stone into the leather thong of his slingshot. The stone was absolutely perfect; he had found it by the river when he was collecting water for Aunt Katherine. His small fingers tightened around the wooden slingshot, the familiar weight of the stone resting comfortably in his hand.
The forest around him was a living entity, whispering secrets to him in the rustle of leaves and the creak of ancient trees. The chill morning air hung heavy with what felt like anticipation of the coming action. Godfrey's breath came in quick, visible puffs as he drew back the slingshot with deliberate precision, all the while humming a tune that slowly was reaching a crescendo–
Just as he prepared to release, a sharp rustling behind him sent a jolt of alarm through his body. He spun around, eyes wide with panic, only to be met with the stern gaze of Uncle Hawker standing behind him on the forest floor. For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze, the impending shot forgotten as the weight of his mentor’s disapproval pressed down on him. Now behind him, the white rabbit which he believed had been stealing Aunt Alice’s vegetables bounded into the underbrush, startled, unaware of the mortal danger it had been in moments ago.
“Godfrey,” Hawker’s voice broke the silence, carrying an edge of both amusement and reproach. “What are you doing out here, and with that contraption again?”
Godfrey’s heart sank, but he managed a sheepish grin. “Just practicing, Uncle Hawker. I swear, I wasn’t aiming to hurt anything.”
"Really?" asked Hawker, incredulous, "And you're sure that Uncle John didn’t whittle that thing so you could keep critters out of Alice’s garden?"
Godfrey’s cheeks flushed as he looked down at the slingshot in his hand. “Well, maybe a little,” he admitted, glancing up at Uncle Hawker. “But only the ones nibbling on her cabbages!”
Hawker chuckled, the sound low and warm, then looked at the young boy and stated firmly, “Come down from there and walk with me, boy. I have something to show you. We’re going to be stealthy. Do you remember your lessons?”
“Yes, Uncle Hawker,” Godfrey intoned. Godfrey clambered down from the tree with all the grace an eleven-year-old boy could muster.
The two set off into the woods, Hawker moving with a quiet grace that belied his age, while Godfrey did his best to mimic the older man’s steps. They walked in silence, the only sound the intermittent crunch of dry leaves and twigs under Godfrey’s untrained moccasins, until they reached a small clearing. Hawker knelt down at the edge of the trees, motioning for Godfrey to do the same. He pointed to the ground, where a set of tracks set into a patch of mud led deeper into the clearing.
“What do you see, Godfrey?” Hawker whispered, a challenge in his voice. “Take me along its trail.”
Godfrey peered down at the tracks, and swallowed. Hawker was testing him again. He moved carefully, looking for signs of the rabbit’s path. Broken twigs, disturbed leaves, a faint trail in the dirt—he noted each clue, leading them deeper into the woods. Soon Godfrey led the pair to a dark burrow nestled in the roots of an old, gnarled oak tree. The entrance to the burrow was pitch black, but he could hear movement within.
“Tell me what you hear.”
He tried to focus on the sounds emanating from the burrow, but they blended together into one semi-cohesive whole that he could not parse. “I hear…a rabbit!” Exclaimed Godfrey in a whisper, laughing.
“Oh really? Just one? Look inside, and tell me what you see,” Hawker asked, voice low and tinged in amusement.
Godfrey frowned and stared back at the burrow. Try as he might, the burrow was the deepest black. “I can’t see anything, Uncle Hawker,” Godfrey said, expecting reprisal.
“You know what to do, boy,” Hawker said. “Use what I’ve taught you.” There was steel in his voice, as always, but edged with a mix of encouragement and challenge.
Godfrey nodded, taking a deep breath. He focused on his eyes, willing them to see more clearly in the shadows. As he focused, his brow furrowed in concentration, his tongue sticking obliquely out of his mouth, and he began to hum again. He visualized pushing…something to his eyes, from somewhere in his body. The process that Uncle Hawker had described to him was very difficult, but it came almost instinctively to Godfrey.
Hawker glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that song you’re humming?”
Godfrey looked up at his uncle, confused, concentration broken. “Song? I’m just... listening.”
“Listening?” Hawker asked, puzzled.
Godfrey nodded earnestly. “Can’t you hear it? The forest... hums. I just hum back.”
Hawker stared at Godfrey for a moment, a frown of concern flickering across his features. Then, he shook his head and said, “Eyes on the task, boy. Don’t let me distract you.”
It took Godfrey a moment, but slowly, the dark interior of the burrow became clearer. He could make out the tiny shapes of the adult white rabbit and four baby bunnies, huddled together, their soft fur barely visible in the dim light. Godfrey nodded.
“Good,” Hawker said, his voice low, “but it took you too long. In a real situation, you wouldn’t have the luxury of time. Keep practicing. You’ll get faster.”
Godfrey bit his lip, nodding again. He knew Uncle Hawker was right, but the praise still warmed him. He was learning, bit by bit.
“Now,” Hawker continued, “tell me how you know this rabbit is responsible for the crime in Aunt Alice’s garden.”
Godfrey stared at the baby rabbits, their small, soft bodies trembling slightly in the chill. He felt a pang of guilt as he realized what he had almost done. “I... I don’t know for sure,” he admitted. “I just saw it near the garden and thought it might be the one.”
Hawker nodded, his expression unreadable. “Remember, Godfrey, just because something seems like the enemy doesn’t mean it is. Always be sure before you take action. There’s more to being a Knight than swinging a sword or aiming a slingshot. You need to think, to understand the world around you, and most importantly, to protect the innocent at all costs. Do you understand, boy?”
Godfrey frowned. “I think so, Uncle Hawker. But what if this is the rabb–I mean, culprit?
Hawker shook his head down at the boy. “It probably is, Godfrey. We are not more than fifty yards from John and Alice’s house, and if this rabbit is not eating Alice’s vegetables, one of its babies surely soon will. That is not the point. You were ready to be the judge, jury, and executioner of this poor creature, based on incomplete evidence. If you had been incorrect, you would have needlessly ended five lives.”
Hawker was staring at Godfrey now. Godfrey wanted to look away, but there was something…insistent in Hawker’s gaze that froze him. Something almost pleading.
“However small, however wooden, that slingshot is a weapon with the power to take a life. Sometimes, taking a life is necessary. When you need to defend your life, or the lives of the innocent. Sometimes, killing is the right thing to do,” Hawker continued, his voice growing softer. “But a Hand’s duties extend far beyond the field of battle. A Hand must be ready to mete out justice, in cold, dispassionate blood. You chose to take on this responsibility from Alice, however small a quest it might be. But you must always be sure, Godfrey. You must be certain, even in circumstances which are not convenient, or easy, when you choose to follow the path of justice. Do you understand, boy?”
Godfrey looked down at the baby bunnies, their tiny bodies huddled together in the safety of their burrow. He felt a pang of guilt for almost taking away their chance at life. “I don’t think I do, Uncle Hawker.”
Hawker’s gaze softened as he placed a hand on Godfrey’s shoulder. “That’s okay, boy. One day you will. One day, you must. A good man…” he murmured, a distant sadness in his eyes. Godfrey looked up at his uncle, seeing the weariness in his eyes, the weight of years gone by.
Hawker’s eyes cleared, as if he was escaping from a distant dream. He shook his head and smiled down at the young Godfrey. “Well, enough of all that. You’ll understand when you’re older. Why don’t we go see what Aunt Katherine is making for breakfast today? I bet you’re starving, hm?”
As if on cue, Godfrey’s stomach growled loud enough to silence the birds in the trees nearby. Hawker and the boy looked at each other, laughed, and began the short trek through the slowly awakening forest home.
XXX
After breakfast, Godfrey was sprinting along the edge of the main southern road, which abutted the river Frosmuth as it tumbled downhill towards the Capital, thousands of miles away. At least, that’s what Uncle John said.
Godfrey was racing with Jeromie and Liam. He always liked to race the other village kids, because while he was smaller than most boys his age, he was fast. And quickness makes a strong Knight more often than strength itself. At least, that's what Uncle Tarlow always says.
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As the boys rounded the bend that ended almost abruptly at a rapidly cobbled path leading to the village proper, and eventually the market square, they all stopped, gasping. Godfrey was the first to stand upright, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.
“I win!” he declared, his voice breathless but jubilant.
Jeromie, still hunched over and panting, shot Godfrey a playful glare. “You only won because you took that shortcut by the mill! That’s cheating!”
Godfrey was about to retort, a witty comeback on the tip of his tongue, when the ground beneath their feet began to tremble. The boys’ banter died on their lips as they each exchanged puzzled looks, the rumble growing louder, more insistent.
“What’s that noise?” Jeromie asked, the teasing tone gone from his voice, replaced with a hint of concern.
Liam frowned, turning his head to listen, his expression growing serious. “It’s not a cart... too loud for that.”
Godfrey’s grin faded, replaced by a creeping sense of unease. The rumble became a roar, drowning out the quiet sounds of the countryside, and the boys instinctively took a step back. Suddenly, around the bend in the road came the thunderous sight of a troop of heavily armed and armored men and women, their war horses galloping with a force that made the earth quake beneath their feet.
The boys stared in wide-eyed wonder as the riders thundered past. The dust kicked up in their wake, swirling around them like a storm. Godfrey’s heart pounded as he watched, the excitement of the race forgotten, replaced by a mix of awe and fear at the sheer power and presence of the troop.
The boys stared at each other, wide-eyed and breathless, their earlier fear swiftly morphing into pure, unbridled excitement. Jeromie’s mouth hung open for a moment before breaking into a grin that stretched from ear to ear.
“Did you see that?” he exclaimed, his voice cracking with excitement. “Real soldiers! Here! In Oakvale!”
Liam was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, his previous exhaustion forgotten. “They must be here for something big! Maybe there’s a battle coming, or—or they’re hunting down some bandits!”
Godfrey, who had been frozen in place as the troop thundered past, suddenly found his voice. “Or maybe they’re here to recruit new Hand! Uncle Tarlow said there’s always a need for more Soldiers in the Empire.”
Liam spat and looked at Godfrey with a smirk. “Only nobles can be Hand, idiot. And the only noble here is the Magistrate, and he’s like a hundred! No, I bet they’re here to kill monsters in the woods!”
Now it was Jeromie’s turn to spit, although he handled it with far less grace than Liam, and ended up with spittle on his chin. “There are no monsters in Southern Brella, idiot. I bet they’re on their way to Northern Brella to kill beasts!”
“We have to follow them!” Jeromie urged, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
“Yeah! Let’s go!” Liam agreed, already turning back toward the path that led to the village.
Godfrey didn’t need any further convincing. With a quick nod, he took off running after his friends, the three of them racing down the cobbled path toward the village square. Their hearts pounded not just with the effort of running, but with the exhilarating thought that something extraordinary was about to happen in Oakvale.
XXX
As the boys raced down the cobbled lane which led to the village proper, they almost fell on top of the troop of military personnel. Godfrey had assumed they would be heading to the market square, but instead were stopping at the Windermere's large house on a bend in the lane which led along the southwest edge of the village along the forest. The house stood somewhat isolated, its position providing both a measure of privacy and a clear view of the surrounding woods.
As the boys skidded to a halt, they watched in awe as a troop of heavily armed soldiers dismounted and began commandeering the property. One of the troops, clearly in command, spoke with Alric Windermere, the owner of the house and the village’s apothecary. His family stood behind him in a line, their faces etched with both fear and bewilderment.
Godfrey spied Elara Windermere standing with her brothers, and for a moment he could swear that she was looking right at him.
“I think Elara is looking at me!” exclaimed Liam, nudging Godfrey with his elbow.
“Quiet, let’s find out what’s going on,” said Godfrey, suppressing his feelings about that particular comment.
Nearby, a few Squires were gathering the horses, their movements efficient and practiced. The boys edged closer, trying to hear what was being discussed. One of the Squires, his voice gruff, muttered to another, “They’re just stabling the horses and resting before moving north. Shouldn’t be more than a day.”
Godfrey, Jeromie, and Liam exchanged excited glances. It wasn’t every day that a troop of Imperial soldiers came through their village—or any day—and the thrill of the unexpected had Godfrey’s young heart racing. Not only were these Imperial soldiers, they were the Emperor’s Chosen, members of the Hand and Tongue of the Empire!
“We should figure out why they’re here,” Godfrey whispered, his voice tinged with excitement and curiosity. The boys nodded in agreement, slipping off the gravel lane and into the cover of the nearby forest. They crept through the underbrush, using the trees and thick bushes as cover, staying low and hidden as they shadowed a small group of Squires leading their horses toward the stables. The forest provided perfect concealment, allowing the boys to move closer without being detected.
As they drew nearer, the boys could hear snippets of conversation.
Elara Windermere wandered over from her house, her curiosity piqued by the soldiers’ presence. She moved with caution, keeping a safe distance from the soldiers while trying to observe what was happening. One of the Squires, a rough-looking man with a lecherous grin, caught sight of her and smirked. “Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing,” he drawled, his eyes raking over her. “Why don’t you come help me clean my sword?”
Godfrey felt a surge of anger, his fists clenching at his sides. He exchanged a glance with Liam, who looked equally disgusted. They both took a step forward, nearly convincing each other to confront the Squire, their youthful bravado pushing them to act.
Before they could make a move, Jeromie, oblivious to the tension, stepped forward and broke the moment with innocent excitement. “Can I hold your sword?” he asked, his eyes wide with admiration.
The Squire, barely glancing at the boy, shoved him hard, a reflexive gesture meant to swat away a nuisance. But Jeromie was just a child, and the force behind the shove was far greater than the Squire realized.
Jeromie landed awkwardly, his head snapping back with a sickening crack as he hit the ground. And in a fraction of a moment, before Godfrey could even recognize what had happened, Jeromie was dead.
At that moment, the Magistrate arrived, Uncle Hawker in tow. The men had clearly been arguing again, thought Godfrey. The two men were interrupted by the sight of the soldiers, and their attention was quickly drawn to the scene unfolding before them.
For a moment, there was only stunned silence. The Squire, his eyes wide with shock, stared down at the boy's still form. Godfrey and Liam were frozen in horror, their young minds struggling to process what had just happened. They saw Hawker and the Magistrate rushing toward them; too late.
Shouts erupted as the other Squires and Listeners rushed to the scene, their voices carrying the weight of panic and disbelief. Hawker and the Magistrate, hearing the commotion, came running, their expressions darkening as they took in the sight of Jeromie’s lifeless body.
The leader of the troop, a figure of imposing authority, approached with a calm that seemed unnatural given the situation. His presence commanded immediate attention, and the surrounding chaos quieted as he surveyed the scene with cold detachment.
He looked first at Jeromie’s small, broken form, then at the Squire responsible. “Why,” the leader asked, his voice low and controlled, “were you unable to gauge the correct proportionate force to use on the peasantry?”
The Squire stammered, his words incoherent as fear overtook him. The leader’s expression darkened, and with a speed that defied comprehension, he drew his broadsword and struck. The Squire’s head left his body before anyone could blink, the blade shearing through bone and flesh as if it were paper. The leader re-sheathed his sword with a fluid motion, his demeanor once again calm, as if nothing had happened.
The crowd was hushed, the brutal efficiency of the execution leaving them in stunned silence. The leader turned his gaze back to Jeromie’s body, his expression unreadable as he looked at the Magistrate.
“How old was the boy?” the leader asked, his tone casual, almost conversational.
The Magistrate gulped, his voice trembling as he replied, “Ten... he was ten years old.”
The leader nodded, fishing a thick silver coin out of his pocket. He tossed it to the Magistrate, the metal glinting in the morning light. “I can’t quite remember the exchange rate right now, but this should cover up to a 12-year-old male.” His tone was indifferent, as if the life he had just taken, and the one that had been lost, were mere transactions to be balanced on any typical expedition.
The Magistrate caught the coin, his hands trembling as he nodded in silent agreement, too terrified to argue. The leader of the troop, his expression as indifferent as it had been moments before, gave one final glance at Jeromie’s lifeless body before turning to his soldiers. With a barked order, they resumed their tasks as if nothing had happened, their disciplined movements undisturbed by the brutal display of power.
Godfrey and Liam stood rooted to the spot, their young minds reeling from the horror they had just witnessed. Time seemed to stretch as they watched in silence. They saw Hawker and the Magistrate cover Jeromie’s small, broken body with a blanket, their actions slow and heavy with grief. The weight of the moment was unbearable as Jeromie’s parents were informed, their cries of anguish cutting through the still air. The boys watched as Jeromie’s family carried the small, covered bundle down the southern road, the road he had raced along so many times before. It would be his last trip down that road.
Time passed, though Godfrey could not say how much. The world around them seemed to move in slow motion, the colors dull and muted as if the life had been drained from the day. The weight of what they had seen pressed down on them, a heavy, suffocating silence that neither knew how to break.
Hawker eventually appeared, his face drawn and serious. He placed a hand on each boy’s shoulder, his grip firm yet gentle, and led them away from the scene. The boys followed in numb silence. The image of Jeromie’s lifeless body seared into their minds.
“You both are much too young to have witnessed that,” Hawker began, his voice low and rough. “But witness it you did. I wish I had the right words to say, and I wish I could have spoken them to you when you were old and gray. This is a hard world, boys. Every man must learn that, and how to carve out some peace. Every woman, too.”
He paused, glancing back at the village as if seeing it anew. “This is a quiet place, and a safe place. Oakvale, and many villages and towns like it in territories long since conquered and settled by the Empire, are safe. But safety from without is not safety from within. There will be things in life that you rail against in fury. The nobility plays by different rules. This was not how I would have wished for you to learn that.”
Hawker’s voice softened, though the weight of his words pressed heavily on Godfrey. “You’ll find there are three ways to avoid the ire of the nobility: be ignorable, be useful, or be too strong to deny. Jeromie’s mistake,” his voice faltered, catching on the name as if it physically pained him to speak it, “was being noticed. He wasn’t useful yet, and he certainly wasn’t strong. So he is worth a heavy silver coin, perhaps less.”
The bitterness and impotent rage in his voice gave way to weariness. “Whichever path you choose, you’ll have to live with the consequences. Both intended, and unintended.”
Hawker looked at the boys, his expression softening just a fraction as he took in their shell-shocked faces. He sighed, the weight of the day pressing down on him. “Enough of this,” he said quietly. “Liam, run along home. I’m sure your father is worried sick.”
Liam hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. He simply nodded, his eyes downcast, and took off down the path, his footsteps echoing in the silence that followed.
Hawker watched him go, then let out a quiet, hollow chuckle. “Now I’m giving lectures,” he murmured to himself, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “I must be getting old.”
He turned to Godfrey, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, lad,” he said gently. “Let’s get you home.”
Godfrey nodded, and the two of them walked away from the clearing, the weight of the day hanging heavily in the air. Hawker’s grip on Godfrey’s shoulder was firm but reassuring, guiding him away from the dark memories that had taken root in the quiet village.
As they walked back to Hawker’s cabin through the woods replete with the sounds of life, Hawker heard Godfrey’s voice break the silence, a whisper so soft that it was almost lost in the rustling of the leaves. Hawker, lost in his own thoughts, didn’t catch it. “What was that, lad?” he asked, glancing down at Godfrey.
Godfrey hesitated, then spoke a little louder, his voice tinged with confusion and fear. “Why did the man kill that Squire if the nobles are so different?”
Hawker’s hand tightened slightly on Godfrey’s shoulder, and for a moment, his gaze hardened, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes. He took a deep breath, and his voice was tense, guarded. “Some of the Paladins, and most of the Sentinels, they’re... old, lad. Very old. They... think differently. Their ways are not always easy to understand.”
He paused, as if weighing whether to say more, then shook his head slightly. “But don’t worry about that now,” he added, his tone softer, though the tension hadn’t fully left his voice.
Godfrey glanced at his uncle, then back to the path ahead, but Hawker had caught the boy’s expression. The early-afternoon sun glinted through his young eyes like fire as they pointed down his path, but were blind to it; Godfrey saw only his future.