Ganthe yawned.

Reaching camp was a welcome relief. They stopped just before dusk, Ifonsa leading them to a small glade beside a narrow stream.

Once the horses were settled, they split up their tasks. While the others were busy assembling the site, Ganthe and Orwic set off in search for firewood,

However their quest began as an exercise in futility. Despite the rain finally stopping, most of the nearby deadwood was still green from winter, rotting, or thoroughly soaked. The area was filled with pines, with a sprinkling of spruces and a solitary juniper. None of which were especially good for firewood.

“Let’s try this way,” Ganthe said. “I believe I can see some oak down there,” pointing into the shallow valley. He set off towards it.

“You know your way around,” Orwic said, following behind.

“Not really.”

“But you can certainly look after yourself. Ganthe-“ he began, pronouncing the ‘e’ at the end.

“Just Ganthe,” Ganthe interrupted, correcting him.

“It’s an Eastern name.”

“We’re not in the East,” Ganthe insisted.

Orwic nodded, then said, “I was going to say that Rido could use someone like you-“

“You said that before.”

“I mean after this...mission. What are we even doing? Do you know?”

Ganthe laughed, “Of course.”

“You don’t honestly believe you’re the Chosen Ones, do you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

Ganthe stopped, and asked Orwic. “Have you ever heard The songs of Jira?”

“No.”

“My mother’s sister used to sing them to me. Jira sung about a group of heroes from a time long before En.”

“I don’t even believe the myths about En,” Orwic said. “Fighting demons, come on! They’re children’s stories.”

Ganthe continued, ignoring the interruption, “During the Wars with the Giants, before they unleashed the demons, seven of them rode out alone to confront the Giants. A leader, a wizard, a scout, a priestess, and three men-at-arms.”

Orwic snorted. He pushed past Ganthe, to continue down the incline.

Ganthe hurried to catch up, “At the end, after they had defeated Odabahi, and they were about to leave, the people of Akkash-“

“Akkash?”

“Yes, why?”

“Akkash is a ruin.”

“This happened long before the Breaking of the World,” Ganthe explained.

Orwic snorted again.

“The people of Akkash cried out,” Ganthe continued. “They wanted to know who would protect them once the heroes left.” He reached out to stop Orwic. “ Do you know what they said?”

“What?”

Ganthe began to sing, in a confident and able tenor:

How will they know?

How will they know, who they are?

The One,

The Ten,

And the Fifteen.

Ganthe fell silent, giving Orwic a look as if his song explained everything.

“That’s it?” Orwic asked.

“There’s more. Lots more, but that’s all I remember. My aunt used to sing it really loudly, just to annoy my father. He hated it.”

“I wonder why,” Orwic said, continuing toward the oak trees. “But that’s why you believe you’re the Chosen Ones?”

Ganthe followed as he explained.“There are six of us. We just need to find another four.”

“Why not go for the full fifteen?”

“Because it has to happen in order. En was The One, so we have to be The Ten.”

“Equalling a number from a stupid song doesn’t make us divine emissaries.”

“It’s not just the number. Lera said it. She’s probably getting personal instructions from The Gods all the time.” Ganthe grinned broadly. “She fixed my ribs. Completely. I’ve never had that happen before. There’s always an ache that remains afterwards, but not with her. I don’t tell her, of course. I like it when she touches me. Her hands are always warm.”

Orwic rolled his eyes at the confession, then said, “If this holy hero thing doesn’t work out, I’m certain Rido can find a use for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll consider it.” Ganthe said. “But I already have my own plans. I was going to go kill some highborns, but I think I’d like to try farming. It looks like fun.”

They didn’t find much in the way of good firewood, but they found some. It was dark by the time they returned, guided by the light of a roaring fire.

“We found a use for Lera’s axe,” Ifonsa said as soon as she saw them.

They had cut branches off the pines and spruces to make shelters for themselves and the horses. They wouldn’t keep them dry if it rained again, but it would prevent them from becoming soaked.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“Gánkpost is that way, in case you’re wondering.” Ifonsa said, pointing down stream.

Ganthe grinned. His companions had been very busy. It was just like being in the militia again.

They dined well in comparison to the meagre meals they had eaten over the previous few days. They had even managed to collect some mushrooms, which Ifonsa fastidiously examined before agreeing they weren’t poisonous. They cooked them up and ate them with some of the cold-cut meats and other goodies they had scored from Lord Alcaf’s larder.

Falduin and Lera sipped at the jug of wine. Ganthe considered having some too. It had been a very long time since he had anything but rotgut. He decided that he would sleep well enough tonight without wine.

In comparison to the camps he’d stayed in during the war, the fire was tiny, but it served its purpose. Ganthe enjoyed being able to warm himself by it, as he listened to the others chatting.

Once they finished their meal, they prepared for sleep, ready for an early start in the morning.

It was agreed that Ifonsa and Orwic would take the first watch. Of them all, Orwic was the freshest. He had offered to watch alone, but Heric shook his head.

“We watch in pairs,” Heric said. "It’s safer.”

“Then I’ll need a weapon,” Orwic said.

“No you won’t.”

“What if something attacks?”

“Wake us up. We’ll deal with it.”

Ganthe could see Orwic wasn’t happy about the idea. In the militia, sentries were always armed. Even Lera’s axe would be better than nothing. Ganthe wondered why Heric was so reluctant to give Orwic a weapon.

Later he heard Lera talking with Ifonsa.

“Allow me to take your watch,” Lera said. “I did so little last night.”

“You did enough, keeping our camp safe,” Ifonsa said. “I’d still like to know how they found us.”

“Maybe they have a way of tracking us.”

“Using magic?”

“I don’t know. I’ll discuss it with Falduin.”

As if in answer to his name being mentioned, his cry rang out from downstream. They all bolted toward the gánk. As they neared they heard a flurry of expletives. They found him, peering into the shallow pit, a log across it to act as a brace.

“I dropped my sword in,” he told them.

Everyone else laughed, but Ganthe immediately raced away. He had just remembered something he had forgotten until now.

When Falduin returned, Ganthe was waiting for him.

“I forgot. I’m sorry.” Ganthe said holding out his gift.

Falduin lifted the scabbard and belt in his hands, holding it reverently. He examined the details in the firelight, noting the fine pattern and embossed stars down the middle .

“Thank you,” Falduin said.

Ganthe thought he could see tears in Falduin’s eyes, but it might have been caused by the smoke from the fire.

“I’m sorry it’s not better. It was the best one I could find.”

“It’s beautiful.” Falduin said. “How do I wear it?”

“I’ll show you,” Ganthe said, and proceeded to demonstrate. “And you can place your hand here, and that will keep your sword from tangling up.”

Falduin tried shifting the belt around in various positions until he found one that was comfortable.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Now you look like a proper wizard.”

“Proper wizards have staffs and wands.”

“Not En. People forget he was a wizard. He had a blade.”

Falduin nodded, although Ganthe suspected he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Once again,” he said. “Thanks.”

It remained dry throughout the night, although it was cold. The wind gusted from the south. His watch with Lera wasn’t interrupted, with the exception of a fox that watched them from just outside the light of the fire.

Ganthe tossed it a piece of cooked chicken that he pried off with his fingers, but the fox ran away leaving the chicken untouched. Lera looked on with disgust as Ganthe retrieved it and began brushing away the dirt.

“It’s perfectly good,” he told her, before taking a bite.

“How are your ribs?”

“Still a little sore, but much better.”

“Let me have a look at them in the morning.”

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You’re not.” Lera insisted. “You’re under my care.”

“Very well,” Ganthe agreed. He wondered how long before Lera realised he was just pretending to still be hurt.

The next morning dawned overcast, with the smell of rain in the air. They broke their fast, as they packed up.

Falduin’s new scabbard and belt drew their attention. Ganthe was pleased to see that the Apprentice wore it correctly. Lera cooed and reached out to touch the stars, Heric nodded his approval. Ifonsa just smiled, as though amused at a private joke. Orwic seemed nonplussed.

They left before the sun had fully risen, travelling rapidly. Once again they pushed the horses hard, taking their midday meal as they rode, and with minimal rests.

Despite the drizzle they reached the Tæsca soon after midday. Once again they found themselves amongst pines, but these were massive trees reaching up more than fifty paces with wide trunks. The air beneath them was cool and the overcast light was reduced to greys and shadows. Very little of the rain reached them, caught by the dense foliage.

Thick brush and shrubs grew beneath the trees, and yet somehow, Ifonsa always managed to find a way through. To Ganthe’s eye it was like magic. He mentioned it to Falduin during their rest stop.

“What I would like to know,” Falduin said,”Is who, or what, makes the paths.”

“Giants,” Ganthe answered.

Falduin gave him a sceptical look.

“There are giants in the Tæsca.”

“That’s just a rumour,” Ifonsa said. “Even the elfs haven’t found their home.”

“Our captain warned us about it before Attenbach,” Ganthe said, “’If you see a giant, run,’ he said. ‘They’re smarter than you will ever be, and they can use more powerful magics than those in the High Towers.’”

Falduin scoffed, but Ifonsa turned to Heric.

Heric shook his head. “We received no such warning.”

“Thonri was from Hauenefels. He knew all about giants.”

Heric nodded sagely.

“Regardless,” Ifonsa said, “ these paths are not made giants. Let’s keep moving.”

It was getting late, the rain had stopped, and they were seeking for a place to camp. They were in a narrow valley, following a trail that ran beside a narrow stream.

Suddenly the trees ended and they found themselves at the edge of a settlement, clustered against the side of the valley. There was only about eight houses, plus a covered bakery and small mill, its waterwheel powered by the stream. The buildings were mostly made from trees that had been cleared to make way for the thorp, although round stones made up the baker’s oven and chimney. These had mostly likely been collected from the stream.

Further up, plots had been carved out of the woods, each fenced and gated. Rows of vegetables grew in some. The green tops of wheat, still months from harvest, waved in the breeze from others. A few of the fields were a vivid blue, flowering flax.

“This wasn’t here last time,” Ifonsa commented as she stopped.

“How long?” Heric asked, pulling in beside. The others gathered around.

“During the war.”

“Where is everyone?” Lera asked.

There was no sign of life. Nobody in the fields. No smoke from the bakery’s chimney. All the doors in the houses they could see were closed, and the windows shuttered.

“What’s that on the door?” Orwic asked.

“The red star,” Lera said. “Plague marking.”