Linden was a tiny, insignificant place which was why Thorn’s father Lord Jasper Linden was its ruler. It was comprised of fifteen wooden huts for the peasants, a blacksmith and a tavern that did some decent business serving the weary pilgrims making their way to the shrine of Aniron some ten miles away on the bank of the Rewbeck River. In fact, Linden was so tiny that it didn’t even appear on maps. The only way you could tell it existed was because of the wooden signposts hammered into the road by the soldiers from the nearby fort.

Thorn trudged his way down the dirt road running through the settlement, his thoughts lost in the day's events. As usual, he came up with plenty of smart-ass retorts that he should have used against Ernit and his goons but never had the courage to.

From the surrounding woods came the sound of axes biting into tree trunks and the trickle of the stream that flowed through the centre of the village. A few of the peasants nodded to him as he walked past. His brow furrowed. The people of Linden respected his father even if Ernit and everyone else mocked him. It was true that Lord Jasper liked to drink but – he shook his head. No. He couldn’t deny it. His father had a serious ale problem and it was one that was leading his family to total ruin. What meagre fortune they once possessed was gone, spent on booze and expensive trinkets for his father’s bitch of a new wife. Thorn knew that the common folk gossiped about him, he’d heard the rumours that the reason his father had turned to drink was because of the death of his wife and Thorn’s mother. Thorn found that deeply unfair as he had never met the woman.

She’d died bringing him into the world and, so he’d been raised by a father that not so secretly despised him. Unlike the other minor Lords, Thorn hadn’t been properly schooled in the ways of the martial arts, nor had he been sent away to the capital for his education. Instead, at a young age, he’d taken matters into his own hands by sneaking off to the monks who manned the shrine of Niveren. The kindly monks had taught him to read and write as well as regale him with stories of the wider world.

Every night he would lay awake dreaming of adventure and of making his fortune. His mind wandered again causing him to walk straight into a peasant who was carrying a rather precarious looking pile of firewood.

“Aniron’s tits! Watch it,” the peasant shouted. A young man with a shaved head and wispy brown beard staggered under the impact, sending him hopping backwards. Thorn watched open mouthed as by some miracle the rather pissed off peasant managed to avoid dropping his cargo.

“Sorry, here let me help,” Thorn offered but the peasant swatted his hands away.

“No thank you, I’ve got this,” the peasant said haughtily before storming off to his destination. Thorn watched him go in confusion. His brain couldn’t comprehend how the man had been able to not drop a single stick. He knew that if he’d been walked into whilst carrying such a cargo it would have ended up all over the shit covered street.

Thorn shrugged his shoulders and carried on his way. He walked past the blacksmith and as usual, stopped to admire the weapons on display outside. He licked his lips as he noticed that the longsword with a sapphire inlaid into the hilt was still for sale. As he often did, he reached into the hidden pocket inside his tunic and fingered the pouch inside. He’d learned to secure his valuables after the umpteenth time Ernit and his thugs had robbed him. He prided himself on his ingenuity at creating the hidden pocket. If he hadn’t then he would have gone skint a long time ago.

“Ah, Master Thorn I see you’ve been hunting in the woods again,” greeted Anor the Blacksmith with a knowing smile.

Thorn flushed red and nodded.

“I heard tale that a bear was spotted not two days ago close to the Withering Tree. You’d best be careful out there. We wouldn’t want our Lordling turned into a meal for carrion birds, now would we?”

“Err, how much did you say the sword was again?” Thorn stammered, quickly changing the subject.

Anor chuckled and crossed his tree trunk like arms across his barrel like chest.

“Prick is not for sale,” the blacksmith said haughtily.

“What?” Thorn sputtered at the name. “You named that beautiful sword; Prick?”

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Anor picked up the sword and held it up, admiring his own craftsmanship. The sun’s light caught the blue sapphire causing it to shine brightly. To Thorn, it looked magical.

“Prick is an excellent name for a sword,” Anor grumbled as he placed the sword back on the rack. He gestured to some of the other weapons on the table. “I’ve named this Warhammer, Splatter and this axe here is called Head Taker.”

Thorn shook his head. The Blacksmith certainly had a way with names.

“Er, why is the sword, I mean Prick, not for sale?” he asked.

“Well, young master it’s already been bought you see by Lord Yimir for his son’s birthday party, which I’m sure you know is next week.”

Thorn hadn’t known that. He’d not received an invitation. His hands knotted into fists. ‘That bastard Erint is going to receive the greatest sword in the county’ he thought. A sympathetic look crossed Anor’s face at the lad’s crestfallen expression.

“Perhaps one day you’ll have enough coin to pay me to forge you your own blade or perhaps fix up that one your father still possesses. I swear on the Light Lords golden lance that it will be the greatest one I will ever make. How about it?” the blacksmith said, offering his hand to Thorn. With a reluctant nod of his head, Thorn took the hand and shook it.

“You have a deal. Although it’s one I fear you’ll never have to keep to.”

With that, he turned and continued down the street.

On the small hill at the far side of the village was the main hall where the village chief lived. Around it were three small huts laid out in a circular pattern. Each belonged to one of the chief’s family members. Outside one of the huts was the chief’s eldest son Beric. The man was built like an ox, in his hands was an axe that he swung with seemingly limitless strength. He grunted as he reduced yet another log into pieces of firewood. Judging from the huge pile beside him, Thorn surmised that he’d chopping for most of the day.

“Greetings Beric,” said Thorn as he crested the small hill. “Is the chief in?”

Beric continued chopping, his attention fully fixed on the task at hand.

“Nope,” he replied.

“Er; do you know where he is? My father sent me to find him.”

“Nope.”

Thorn rubbed his chin. Beric was never the most talkative of people at the best of times, but judging from the frustration evident in his voice it was obvious that he’d had yet another argument with his father. Thorn had grown up with Beric and on more than a few occasions the two had gotten into scrapes together. Playing pranks on Ernit and his cronies was a favourite pastime of theirs, well, when they actually managed to pull them off. More often than not their ingenious plans would often backfire spectacularly.

“Why won’t he let me go?” Beric said suddenly to no one in particular.

“Sorry?” Thorn said impatiently. He wanted to get back to the practice field and learn to actually hit that bloody dummy. The errand his father had sent him on was hardly important. All he wanted to know from the chief was whether the latest ale shipment had arrived yet.

“I want to join the army, but Pa won’t let me. He says I’m too dumb to be a warrior. I’m not dumb. I’m just a little slow with my words is all. No one in this village can wield an axe like me.”

“Why would you want to join the army?” Thorn said dumbly.

As a lesser Lordling his father was under no obligation to fight in the King’s Army, no that prestigious role was reserved for the Bannerlords, Lords of higher rank and who actually possessed the coin and resources to properly outfit a group of fighting men.

Back in the day, no such rules had existed, and every Lord and Lady had to provide men. Naturally, this had resulted in the King having to field poorly equipped peasants that often only carried pitchforks or ran away at the first sign of battle. In short, it had proven more trouble than it was worth. Nowadays the men sent to fight were all professionals and all equipped with decent weapons and armour. As a result, the Kingdom of Kastador hadn’t lost a battle against its neighbours in over ten years and there were a lot of those.

Beric looked at him as though he were the mad one.

“Look about Thorn. This place is the arse end of the world. I want some adventure, I don’t want to chop wood for my entire life. The army is the only way someone like me will see the world, but I need the permission of my father to do so,” the big lad sighed.

“But you’re over eighteen, you’re an adult,” Thorn stated.

Beric snorted and swung his axe once again. He demolished the piece of wood before him as though it were nothing.

“I’m a peasant, which means I have to have my father’s permission and then I also need the permission of my local Lord. Seeing as how I have to do all the work whilst my pa lies around drunk all day he’ll never let me go,” he moaned.

Thorn nodded. That was another thing they shared. Useless fathers.

“Well I wish you luck,” Thorn said, not sure what to say. He often forgot that he was of a different social rank to his friends, it was just another thing Ernit mocked him for. He said goodbye to Beric and set off towards his father’s keep, located outside the village.