The echo of nature seems to avoid me as I crouch, shivering in the warm breeze. In my callused hands rests the lumber axe my Ma bought for me at the dawn of my fourteenth year. It’s crude wooden handle, worn smooth by my own hands over many hewing seasons, harbors the comfort of familiarity. It means warm summer afternoons listening to older men talk. It means a stomach full of post-harvest fruits and vegetables. It means evenings spent building fires with Don Milton and watching spritely country children dance about, chasing bioluminescent whisperworms through clean, crisp air.

I have never swung an axe at a man before. Not even in play as a child. Even after what the raiders did to peaceful, innocent Kitford, I still lack the hatred required to justify the kind of violence our small troupe is about to instigate. For some reason, the grumbling, praying, shuffling, and chattering men all about fail to recognize the brutal humanity of the calamity that has befallen them. They see murderers and thieves, mortal enemies to be hated and killed. They speak of justice and virtue even as they are about to become murderers and thieves themselves. And I am one of them. Why am I here? They have never loved me. Never treated me with basic human decency. What good does it do to be the better man when we are about to be slaughtered? If not for the purpose I thought I glimpsed when singled out in the assembly, I would leave right now. Walk east, away from the acrid world of revenge, justice, and kidnappings to where my Ma awaits.

Ma. If I follow steadfast Brandon or radiant Aduren into the raider’s lair, I may never see her again. She would never move on, never be happy again knowing that her son was slaughtered in a township feud. Even heavier would fall the knowledge that her son had picked up the sword and succumbed to the bloodlust the world had ordained for him at birth. Most children did not have to behold the hideous face of rejection, disdain, and fear in their peers at six years old. Most would scream and tantrum when they were told they could never raise a sword or wrestle with another boy, for if they did they would become the monster already illustrated by their shadow. Ma’s little man never broke his smile, though, proclaiming that books were more fun than swords anyhow. He was so determined to forge a better life for himself and his dear old Ma in the right way. No. Ma could never learn of this. She will never learn of my brief liaison with The Dark, or how I sought it out even when I could have run the other way. She will never know how hard I fought when I could have stayed behind, and that I fought with her face in the forefront of my mind. I rise to my full height, over a foot taller than every other man in the party, still unsure of what keeps me from following the western breeze. None of these men, armored or otherwise, could catch me. I would never see them again. Inexplicably, I do not feel the urge to flee. Only the necessary inclination to be as ready as I can be for the coming skirmish.

I stride out of the loose assembly of horses and men into the gradually darkening woods. Past the fallen bough on which Gillan perches, fastening a tapered arrowhead of azure crystal onto a lithe wooden shaft. Past the tree against which the hero Aduren and the boy Malthen both lean, bound in rapt discussion of the Volcaryn pantheon. Past the Heedy brothers who spar with crooked sticks, circling each other upon a fallen boulder and hissing playful insults to dispel their fear. Past the bard, Hex, who crouches on a low branch, his form hidden from view but not so his shadow. I do not blame him for seeking distance from the motley war band. I am surprised that he chose to follow. He had no family amongst the dead. No stock in the town of Kitford. Perhaps he could not help but follow the social tide, no matter how brash. Perhaps his slight, impish form disguises yet another bloodthirsty maniac in search of heroism. Perhaps he plans simply to observe and glorify the Battle of Kitford in some ballad he will spread to the wind for his own benefit.

I find a suitable target one hundred meters from the camp’s epicenter in the form of a fresh stump. Jagged splinters rise from its mottled base, describing the brutal wind or impact that ripped trunk from roots and left stripped branches up to fifty meters away. I bend my knees, gripping my wood axe at the hilt. I send dead bark spinning through the air with my first tentative swing. I shift to the left as though evading a retaliatory blade and swing again, barely keeping my balance as my weapon ricochets off the tough bark. I steady myself and prepare to try again when a familiar voice pierces the placid drone of forest life.

“Whoa there, big guy.” Brandon teases good-naturedly from where he leans, perfectly still against a nearby bough. He sets his own axe down, its heavy double sided head digging into the soft dirt. I watch expectantly, too nervous to be ashamed, unsure how to react. As he approaches, I notice the disconnect in the tone of Brandon’s arms and legs and the grey that flecks his scalp. He looks forty, but could be more than ten years younger. Unlike the other Kitford men, he is uncowed by my size. He has never made jokes of my unnatural form, and has never joined the other men in ridiculing my mild, scholarly attitude. Had I possessed the confidence I am beginning to feel now, I would have sought him out as a friend or mentor long ago.

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“Lemme help ya.” The stocky man gestures to my clenched hands, trembling fingers, and white knuckles. I try to relax, but he is not pointing out my fear. “That there’s how ya hold an axe if ya plan ‘a swing at a tree...but trees don’t move. Scared men do. Nine o’ ten soldiers step back when ya swing at ‘em. If yer gonna adjust to that movement, ya gotta grip higher….” Brandon aligns his body with mine, assuming a more comfortable version of my own posture. He holds his arms in front of him as though supporting an axe, slowly spreading his hands into a wide grip to illustrate his point. I mimic the motion, positioning my grip farther up the weathered handle, hands nearly two feet apart. Brandon backs slowly away, nodding his encouragement and shifting his gaze over the stump.

I sink back into a ready position, doing my best to mimic the form Brandon just displayed. Left foot forwards. Weight shifting slowly and easily from front foot to back. I take another swing at the wood - faster but weaker than before. Even so, the blade sinks in, expelling a thin spray of moss and bark. This success, no matter how morbid, sends an exhilarating chill through my arms and spine. I swing again, and the axehead bites even deeper. Content with the result of his work, Brandon lifts his own axe and begins to plod towards the rest of the group. How does he remain so calm in the face of such excruciating fear? Does he not feel it? I wonder if this is what true bravery looks like. I wish I could simply ask.

I can. I am about to charge into combat beside this man, so why not ask? I have never felt worthy of heroic company before, but why be afraid now? Because I am an outsider. I am an unnatural parasite on human culture, leeching food and property from Kitford’s peaceful community. Unworthy of their respect….

“Brandon!” I call, surprising myself as well as the other men nearby. The stocky man plants his axe and turns, presenting a quizzical expression, face upturned. “How do you...stay calm when you are about to...” I pause, uncomfortably noting the attention drawn by the unintentional volume of my exclamation. The Heedy brothers watch me over their shoulders. Even Malthen and Aduren have paused their conversation to observe Brandon and myself. I fumble for a word that justly describes the way I feel about murder. Brandon says it for me.

“Murder?” He is cheerlessly amused. “I am not calm. Only fools and madmen are calm before a fight.” He approaches me again, care and sincerity evident in his face and posture. “I wish I never killed my first man, but it does get easier.” He can’t reach my shoulder, so he rests his hand on my axe instead. “When we’re in ‘at cave, just remember it's not the man ahead o’ya yer fightin’.” He leans in. “It’s the greed they stand for. No one is evil, really. Only the deeds they commit.” His words are languid and articulate, face stretched in an expression of deep concern. Words likely flowing from an old wound reopened by my naivete. I realize now why he was so keen to help me both here and in the Magma. He sees himself in me. It is a younger, less intelligent version of himself, but I still feel honored to be compared to such a fortuitous, caring man.

A scalding laugh bubbles up from outside our sphere of connection, rending sincerity from the moment and making me feel small. Foolish.

“You are a fool to believe in men! Evil men are evil!” Aduren addresses me now, eyes burning with zeal and chaos, harboring none of the candid honesty I still see in Brandon’s. “Killing scum is not murder and should bring you no sadness. You will see!” The hero jostles young Malthen’s shoulder with a playful punch and approaches Brandon and I at a brisk walk. I am not sure how to feel about his presence. We are about to fight together as comrades, but his energy is violent and volatile. It frightens me. Brandon shifts as well, almost as though to shield me from Aduren’s deafening presence. The holy warrior’s necklace pendant flares with reflected sunlight as he halts his approach only five meters away. The small, silver, crescent moon seems only to brighten as he delivers his righteous message.

“The only thing you should feel when killing those cowards,” he gestures towards the distant cave with his glinting mace, “is pride!” He is so excited now that I think he might scream. Or charge ahead into the cave by himself. Or attack Brandon. The uncertainty of the situation torments me. After four tense seconds, Aduren throws a jesting jab at Brandon’s shoulder. The strike is not permitted to land. Aduren’s mirth wears even thinner. He turns back to Malthen and nods back to his party’s main encampment. The boy follows him as he stalks nobly away. He thinks me cowardly and dumb, but I will never take my eyes off of him. I think I may even trust him less than I do the raiders camped above us.