My life changed drastically after the Battle of the Bandits. The foremost change was that overnight, the village accepted me as one of its own. I became sort of a guardian cum mascot. I was better-fed, better-clothed than I had ever been since my 'birth'. It was a good thing too; ever since the battle, I had been too scared to venture out of the village by myself. This would have been a serious problem because I was used to washing myself in the river which was a few miles away from the village and closer to forest line.

The thought of unknown, hidden enemies amongst the trees, with bows drawn and wicked arrows notched was enough for me to break out in a sweat. I didn't want to be half-submerged in water only to hear that dreadful whistling sound followed by that desper­ate struggle for breath.

Luckily, I now had access to all parts of the village including the central pond or 'tank' as it was euphemistically called by the villagers. The tank was basically an enlarged well, approximately a hundred feet by a hundred feet. It was used for all sorts of purposes – for ablutions, for washing clothes, as a sw­imming pool and of course as a central gathering place. I thought using the pond for so many different activities was unhygienic but beggars can't be choosers. At least the livestock was not allowed anywhere near the pond. I took my baths in the dead of night. I may have been accepted by the villagers but I didn't think they were above gawping at a giant's body.

The Battle of the Bandits had been as bad for Dhanjay as it had been good for me. The rational advice he had doled out during the village meeting before the Battle had been completely forgotten. His voice was not reme­mbered as the voice of reason but rather that of a coward. The village men who had earlier been cowed by his wealth now lorded over him gleefully. The Elders sens­ed the mood and began disinviting him to sit with them or at least that's what it seemed like to me.

Dhanjay was bound to be resentful to me, and I expected it, but I was surprised when one day he turned up and told me in a dead voice that he would no longer be employing me and that I had a day to move my hovel from his property. I was shocked, hurt and then angry. For him to think that he had 'employed' me was astounding. I had been paid in scraps. But the more I thought about it, the more I felt grudging respect for the man. There was some hidden strength in this pudgy man to ask a giant who had literally scared away an entire gang of bandits to leave his property. Moreover, despite his pettiness, Dhanjay had been the only villager who had not viewed me with fear in the beginning. I decided I wouldn't make his life difficult and had my meagre belongings piled up in a stack the next morning.

Kishni, the old woman who had tended to me after the battle had become my confidante in the village. She spoke less and hummed more, but she never pushed me away. so when I rebuilt my hovel near her house, she just 'hmm-ed' once but didn't say much else. She spoiled Lolo rotten though. The dog became fatter and fatter and I suspected she ate better than I did.

I didn't suffer for work either. The unofficial monopoly that Dhanjay had had over me was broken and I received offers of work from almost every adult of the village. Because of the plethora of jobs on tap, I got paid much more luxuriously as well.

The best part was that the other labourers were finally able to talk to me freely. This meant that within a few weeks my erstwhile hovel had been upgr­aded into something actually resembling a home. The rickety bundles of twigs that I had roughly tied together to make walls had been replaced by evenly cut and sturdy logs that kept the blinding humidity and insects out almost completely. They had even laid out a proper floor made of baked and flattened mud tiles that was surprisingly cool to the touch even when the day was boiling hot outside. My furniture and accoutrements were all enhanced and I lived a comfortable if not luxurious life.

As the temperature in the region continued to rise with each passing day, I spent as much time indoors as I could. The memories of the Battle began to recede in my mind although I was still sometimes triggered by certain sights and sounds.

One morning I woke to a hustle and bustle in the village. The dusty streets were being swept ineffectually by the village women while the men rushed about penning the livestock in their enclosures, repairing broken roofs and windows.

I managed to catch a hold of one of the passing labourers who stopped long enough to tell me that the Magistrate was coming and that the village needed to be prepared for his visit. Nobody really had time to answer my questions about the Magistrate so I eventually returned to my fount of knowledge, Kishni.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

The old woman was seated cross-­legged on a cot outside her house, smoking a pipe. I was certain that the pipe could not possibly be a wise choice for an elderly woman with one foot in the grave, but I wasn't about to have that argument with her.

"Who's the Magistrate?" I asked her without preamble, as I sat down in front of her. She ‘chuff chuff-ed' at her pipe for a few seconds before waving at me.

"Move out of the way you oaf, you've blocked my view entirely."

I scooted over and her agitation ceased. I waited patiently for her to answer my question. Over the past few weeks I had come to realise that she loved doling out information but also liked to make a big show of it.

"Hmmm..." she said finally. "The Ma­gistrate is the Magistrate. He governs this village and many other villages."

I was a bit shocked to hear about a 'governor' and other villages. In hinds­ight I realised I had given little tho­ught to the political structures of the world. Physical labour and survival had been a massive distraction.

"Okay," I continued after pondering things for a bit. "Okay so he's the governor. Why all the fuss?"

"Hmmm... chuff…chuff," came the reply.

I sighed inside.

"You wouldn't know what this means boy but he's the Pridish governor. We've been lucky that we've had a governor who's tough but not overly greedy. But we've heard stories over the years about far-off villages about the most rapacious Pridisher governors who take everything from the villagers and then leave them to die of famine."

I was utterly confused," Wait... wait, slowly please. What is a Pridish?"

it was Kishni's turn to sigh. She closed her eyes as if gathering herself for a long explanation.

"I’m no scholar but I'll try and explain boy."

I nodded.

"We," she said placing her hand on her chest," are the Kesi."

"This," she said sweeping her hand across in a wide arc. "Is our homeland.”

She continued, "This village is just one corner of a vast land. A vast fertile and rich land. The Pridish don't belong to this land."

She paused and dragged on her pipe.

"I don't know where they come from but they're hard, greedy people. They killed at all our old kings. Our kings that had lineages that could be traced back to the gods...and yet the Pridish were able to sweep them aside like they were peasants."

When she paused, I spoke, "How did they sweep aside your kings? Do these Prudish outnumber you?"

She chuckled at that, "No boy, very few nations could outnumber the Kesi. The hot sun makes our blood hotter so we have more children.''

She laughed at her off-colour joke and I groaned noiselessly.

"They don't outnumber us but they out-think us," she said after her laughter ended in hacking coughs.

"How do you mean?" I asked, fully absorbed in the history lesson.

She clicked her tongue.

"They have machines and weapons and armour that we don't even under­stand. But it's not even that boy. You'll hear the Magistrate speak and you'll see…I think even their minds are machines, always calculating."

I waited for her to continue. I was thoroughly mystified and more than a little doubtful about this explanation. Kishni was making these Pridish sound like some mystical monsters.

Kishni looked sad now. She puffed on her pipe a little more gently.

"Yes, they're calculating," she said softly. “And they know how men's hearts work."

She looked up at me, "The truth is boy. They didn't beat us. They just let us beat ourselves.''