When he dreamt, Heror saw the villager woman.

Through the trees. In the bristling dark. With the fires of the raid glowing behind her. He studied the face.

Black hair. Brown eyes. A downturned nose. Young – not much older than him. A linen garb made of flax fibers, carefully crafted and sewn. A necklace with two gems – one larger and one smaller, encased in brass…

And then she was gone, her eyes flashing blue. The horseman swiped her away. She screamed and disappeared in a murk of atlas moths. Heror lurched ahead to follow her, when a chain wrapped around his neck. He was wrenched back. He fell. He woke.

He no longer smelled the smoke, and he no longer heard the cries. But the night sky was no more forgiving where he lay. Here, the darkness only spoke of what lurked beneath.

He did not know what terrible fate befell her. All he knew was: It was his fault. Had she not seen him, had she not been scared by him… she wouldn’t have stopped in her tracks. She might’ve made it to the forest. She might’ve been able to escape.

Instead, she did not.

And Heror saw one more silhouette, among those who walked.

Quietly, Heror sat up, lifting his head off of his leather pack. He’d found the main road again shortly after fleeing the village, and he’d followed it for some time. How much time, he did not know; he’d lost track. He rode until he couldn’t, and then he veered off the road and found a small clearing and copse not far in the forest. There, he’d rested. But it was time to move again.

He was facing north. He glanced to the east. Through the trees, he could see a faint red-orange glow. Whether it was the fires of a village or the fires of the sun, he did not know for certain. He glanced up again. Through the canopy, he could see the sky brightening just a bit.

Shaadur was close by, in a stand-sleep. Heror swayed to his feet, and then he approached the horse. With a quick couple pats, Shaadur blinked awake. Heror stowed the pack behind the saddle again, then mounted and grabbed hold of the reins. And then they made their way back to the main road, as dawn drew near.

As Heror rode west, pine trees – tall, narrow, and dark – lined and constricted the road, thickly packed in the surrounding woods. And above the forest still, he saw the mountains looming. To the north, the great peak climbed the sky, capped by eternal glaciers. And to the west, dozens of jagged summits – fingers of rock and flamed, frozen crags – scaled the horizon, piercing the woodland flat.

The road itself carried up a small-but-steady incline upward as Heror went. As he ventured forth, he could feel the air getting cooler and thinner. Even the clouds – thin cirrus and cumulus – seemed to slow in the icy, airy rivers above. And some time later, beneath a translucent silver-blue sky, Heror caught a glimpse of the next village.

This settlement was larger than the last he’d seen. The main road carried on through the town, but other smaller roads also branched out along perpendicular paths. The paths were lined by the same crude, wood-logged, steep-roofed cottages – designed to slow the accumulation of snow overhead in Wilvalen. Around the outer edges of the village, a chest-high stone wall extended and ran all the way to the main road’s edges.

Near the village entrance, just behind the wall, Heror could see the glint of armor from where he stood. He slipped his hood over his ears and kept riding.

As Heror approached, to the clop of hooves, he saw three guards at the entrance. They didn’t have matching uniforms. Instead, they were dressed in common street garbs, dull linen shirts, and trousers. One – an elder – had a rough iron chestplate and a longsword sheathed in a more ornate scabbard – perhaps a relic of past service. They more closely resembled volunteer militia than soldiers of a King.

The elder guard stepped forward as Heror neared the open gate. Heror pulled lightly on the reins, and Shaadur slowed to a trot – huffing from the steady incline. And then Shaadur came to a halt and kicked his back legs, as the elder guard stepped through the gate – leather boots crackling the dirt and stones. Heror tugged his hood forward a touch more.

“Hold there,” the militia man said gruffly, through thin lips. “Name’nd reason f’passing through.”

“Heror Heran. Traveling… to see family.”

Heror silently hoped the man would notice his surname and find it familiar, but the lack of any recognizing look snuffed that hope. Already, the guard was eyeing Heror’s swords. Heror breathed out his quiet anxiety. Then the guard cleared his throat.

“Pull up y’sleeves. One at a time.”

Heror felt confusion at the request – but at least on his arms, he had nothing to hide. He set down the reins and pulled his cloak sleeves up one by one. Seeing nothing but clear skin, the guard tucked his mouth and gave a nod of acceptance.

“Right then,” the guard blurted. “Th’usual toll for’ye. Twenty Kivs.”

Heror hesitated; his mind went back to the toll roads in Ardys. But looking at the militia man’s drab clothing and shoddy armor, he was more apt to comply and stifle his stubbornness. He reached inside his cloak, sifting through one of his heavy coin purses, until he had ten golden coins stowed in his fist. He held out his hand and released his fingers, and the coins clacked between the guard’s palms. He repeated the process with another ten. The guard nodded again, then turned to the others.

“Let’m through!”

The guards stepped aside, and Heror squeezed his shins, prompting Shaadur to start ahead. Not a second after he passed the stone walls, a young teenage boy with a drab, dirty tunic and a woolen hat scampered toward him with excited eyes.

“Mister!” the boy called, lisping through a lost tooth. “Mister, how long you stayin’ in Bern?”

Heror fumbled his words; he hadn’t given a thought to a schedule of any kind. And before he could form a sentence, the boy was speaking again.

“I can stable yer steed for ya, if ya like!” the boy offered energetically.

“Oh… um… thank you…” Heror debated between ‘sir’ and ‘son’ for titles; neither seemed appropriate.

“Th’names Keth!” the boy chimed, seeing Heror’s hesitance.

“Keth, thank you,” Heror said, granting a grateful smile. “But I’m only passing through… I think…”

The boy ruminated on Heror’s aimlessness only for a second, and then he widened his smile and closed his eyes.

“Well, if ya decide to stay… find me by the stables! I’ll take care of yer friend here.”

Keth held out a hand and pat Shaadur’s mane. Shaadur gave a whinny of acceptance. Heror fastened his hands around the reins and gave the boy a more intentional, appreciative nod.

“Thank you, Keth. I’ll come find you if I stick around.”

With that, the boy scurried off again, and Heror rode into town at a trot. As Shaadur walked, hooves stepping heavily in the soil and stone, they made their way past wooden cottages on either side. Some had flat yards and fronts. Others had porches, balconies, and displays of wares, where townsfolk sat and stood and eyed Heror as he ventured ahead. He paid them little mind.

Heror came to the first intersection in the road, and he stopped. More wooden cottages lined the street to the left and right, but ahead – toward the town’s center – Heror could make out a few larger buildings. One appeared to be a chapel, or a schoolhouse. And the other, across the way, appeared to be a lodging house, with a host of market stalls preceding its entrance, housing visiting merchants.

As Heror neared the town center, he felt the eyes of merchants jumping his way, and he slowed his horse to a stop. He dismounted and let his feet fall to the dirt. Then he took Shaadur’s face in his hands and patted the steed’s side.

“Stay here, Shaadur. I shouldn’t be long.”

He was about to turn and make his way to the lodging house down the road, when a loud chime echoed through the town. Heror’s eyes turned west, toward the shaded panes of the schoolhouse. And as he did so, he saw the front door open, and a throng of young children emerged, as a woman held the door for them.

Laughing and chattering in dull garments, they ran and spread across the road, carrying small booklets, bound with leather and fritted with parchment sheets Some scurried back to their cottage homes down the road – to parents who waited for their return from morning worship – while a few others saw Shaadur on the edge of the road and came to him, distracted. As Heror stood by Shaadur and secured the reins again, the children ran up and crowded in front of the horse. A small girl reached out, and Shaadur nestled her palms with his nose.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“He’s so pretty!”

Shaadur did what Heror assumed was the horse equivalent of blushing, and he then clopped his front hooves with glee. Heror grinned and rolled his eyes, and then he heard voices call out from back down the road, under the bright eastern sun.

“Vaelor, Ytid, Onid!” a parent called. “Let the man make his way through!”

The children reluctantly dispersed, some granting Shaadur parting smiles and waves before skipping and whisking away. With wondering eyes, Heror glanced over his shoulder one last time, and then he led Shaadur a bit farther down the road by the reins. He stopped just before the schoolhouse – with the inn across the street – and then he turned to Shaadur again.

“I shouldn’t be long,” Heror repeated, softer this time.

Now Heror made his way toward the inn. His eyes traced upward to the inn’s sign – a wooden plaque worn and scorched beyond recognition, leaving no name. As Heror walked across the road, the merchants lining the inn’s front wall called out to him – heaving promises of provisions, potions, and accessories. Heror acknowledged them as little as he could, sinking his shoulders as he pushed through the inn’s wooden door. As soon as he entered, the merchants’ calls faded and gave way to new noise.

He heard ceramic clay plates and tankards clanking against polished wood. And as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he stood in the entryway of the inn and glanced around. On the western side of the building – to the right – a long wooden bar sat with stools lining its reach. There was an open area to the left, where a half-dozen circular tables clustered, encircled by chairs.

Most of the noise, in fact, was being made only by one person – a boy who ventured from table to table, stacking plates and mugs in a dish tub. Most of the dishes appeared to be from the previous night, and most of the tables were in fact empty. The only patrons sat at the bar: Four silent men spaced out from end to end – drab, dirty, and disheveled, with drinks adorning their places. Behind the bar, another older man – Heror assumed the owner – stood absently in a hand-loomed cotton tunic, playing a game by his lonesome with thin, rectangular parchment cards.

Heror took a few steps toward the bar. It wasn’t until the young man came to a middle stool that the owner looked up from his game, with only a half-attentive gaze and tired eyes.

“Welc’m, stranger,” the owner grumbled. “What’ya want?”

Anxiety crept up Heror’s throat again as he realized his unfamiliarity. His eyes whisked left, and he saw two patrons looking his way. He cleared his throat and tugged his hood forward a bit, then turned and faced the owner.

“I…”

His first instinct was to waste no time, but as he began to speak, his empty stomach howled. And impulsively, he diverted course.

“I need food for the road.”

“We got bread, cheese, trout, roast meats,” the owner said, scratching the white on his chin. “Y’got to be specific, lad.”

“How much bread and cheese?” Heror asked, wary of carrying open meat for animals to smell.

“What, y’plan on buyin’ me out?” the owner mumbled, already dissatisfied with the interaction.

“What? No… I just…”

“What’ya want, boy? Spit’t out.”

“A loaf of bread and a couple wedges of cheese,” Heror blurted, forcing himself to speak clearly.

“That’ll run y’up thirty Kivs.”

“Of course…”

Heror let out a sigh and settled on a stool. He drew out a heavy coin purse from his cloak and set it down on the bar – perhaps a bit too loudly. Heror glanced to his left only for a second – dodging the eyes of the patrons. Then he pulled the purse closer and carefully removed thirty Kivs, before sliding the coins across the wood. The owner collected them, with as much eagerness as he’d shown yet. Then he passed over a sack of food. Heror took the food and stowed it beneath his cloak.

“If I could get something else from you…” Heror started.

“Mhm,” the owner muttered with disinterest, turning away with the coins.

“… I’m looking for… someone,” Heror continued precariously. “Someone with the surname ‘Heran.’ Do you know anyone with that surname?”

“Mm,” the owner groveled, placing the coins in a collection jar.

“… is that a ‘yes’ or…”

“Can’t say I do,” the owner mumbled half-heartedly, taking an empty tankard to a wash basin.

Now the owner turned away, and Heror let out another sigh, dropping his eyes. He started to bring his coin purse back under his cloak, when he heard a loud whistle from his left – a sharp, shrill tone that cut through the quiet air of the inn. Heror followed the whistle to the far end of the bar, where an old, scraggly man sat, with wool mitts around a full mug.

“Boy, over here,” the patron ushered with a nod, his voice sneering and straight. “I might got what you seek.”

Heror eyed the old man suspiciously. But at the prospect of gaining the knowledge he sought, his feet dropped to the floor, and he stood from his stool. As he stood, another patron rose and shoved past him on the way to the exit. Heror glared, and then he carried on to the man. Swords clacking against his thigh, he sat down beside the man, resting his arm on the wooden counter.

Up close, Heror assumed the man was a regular. His beard was one of spindly silver wires, and his eyebrows had similar whiskers on their ends. His hair was oily and ragged, and his face was powdered with dirt. A once-broken bone in his nose had become a bulge, and his gums grazed together as he spoke.

“You say you lookin’ for someone,” the old man started. “How much’s’it worth to you?”

“How much is it worth?” Heror questioned.

“Yes – how much’s’it worth?” the old man persisted. “Y’see… I don’t offer my serv’ces for free now…”

“Services?”

“Yes, y’see… ours here is a transaction, boy,” the old man went on. “You are a traveler, seeking knowledge… and I, the Oracle of Bern, might got that knowledge you seek.”

Heror could smell the drink on his breath. It was the tamer of the two scents he detected. Grimacing, he leaned away.

“You don’t look like an oracle,” Heror said as politely as he could.

“Now what would you know ‘bout what an ‘oracle’ looks like?” the old man scoffed.

Heror opened his mouth, but said nothing. Though the patron did not know Heror, he’d made a valid and confident point. And now Heror started to wonder if the old man was legitimate. The old man saw Heror’s hesitation, and he continued – pointing a wool-covered finger toward the door.

“All them hagglers out there,” the old man said. “They’re beggin’ for buyers on my doorstep, just so they can ‘fford my serv’ces. I know a great many things, and I offer insight for a price. But judgin’ by that hefty purse you’re carryin’… I’d say yer all set. So I’ll ask once more: How much’s’it worth to you?”

Heror glanced across the bar, looking to investigate the old man’s claims. But the owner was on the opposite end, face slumped in his palm. The other patrons were logged with alcohol, barely awake. Now the young man let out another weighty sigh and turned back to the oracle. He firmed his face.

“I’m not giving you anything until I know you’re honest,” Heror warned.

“Well, if you want to know that, then you got to give me more information!” the old man exclaimed. “‘Heran’ is a clan name, y’see. A family name. But there’s more than one Heran clan that graces the Kingdom. Is yours the Heran of the jagged rocks, or the Heran of the Painted Sea, or the Heran of the wheatgrass plains?”

Heror took a deep breath, and then – against his reluctance – he carefully reached inside his cloak and pulled out the kinship cloth. He checked to make sure the wooden counter was dry, and then he unrolled the cloth and let it lay flat on the bar. The old man studied it, as Heror spoke.

“I don’t have much information. Only this,” Heror explained. “I was left with this cloth at birth. It’s the only thing I have to work from.”

The old man brought his finger to his chin, and his snarling brows sank. And then, after a moment of deep thought, his brows rose, and his gray eyes brightened.

“My… my lucky stars…” he declared. “This is the seal of ol’ Sabretooth Heran.”

“Sabretooth Heran?” Heror echoed, with equal apprehension and curiosity.

“Hold on now,” the old man interjected, with thirsty eyes. “This is the part where you make with the coinage first, boy. I don’t say nothin’ else until I get my due. What’s’it worth to you?”

Heror consternated. The answer was everything. This was all he had. Right now, he was only searching without direction. If this man was telling the truth… he’d have his destination.

Heror’s hand retreated inside his cloak, and his fingers wrapped around one of the coin purses Raldu had given him. For his work retrieving the Sword, Heror had earned four purses, totaling 3,000 Kivs. It was enough; it had to be.

“What’s your rate?” Heror asked, not eager to start the negotiations.

“Whatever it’s worth,” the oracle withheld. “That’s up t’you. I’ll decide whether it’s enough. The ways I see it, I’m savin’ you from wandering hopelessly for weeks, in a foreign and hostile land. If you were to wander into those mountain roads, I shudder to think what’d happen to ya. Yer welcome. But if yer still fixin’ to be all suspicious, I have a proposition: A half-payment now, and a half-payment after you find Sabretooth Heran.”

Heror bit the inside of his cheek, and then his eyes rose to meet the oracle’s.

“750 Kivs,” Heror proposed. “750 now. 750 later.”

The oracle’s smile widened. Heror saw the blot on his gums.

“That’d suffice,” the old man affirmed.

Heror took out a heavy coin purse and dropped it onto the bar. The old man swiped it, and then he wrenched his eyes up. His pupils pulsed with excitement, as a teethy grin etched across his face.

“Aye, boy. ‘Sabretooth’ Berun Heran,” the oracle revealed. “He was one of the Caitan’s men close to fifty years ago. Rumored to be a long-lost descendent of the great Nehlox ‘mself – why he chose the wolf as his symbol. Fought with a sword that had a sabretooth lodged inside its pommel. Fought in Jhor’s rebellion, up in Marbal. Killed scores of those blasted Cyantils. And now he is an old man, watchin’ over the kin of his clan. His sons, Berund and Amrund, and his beloved grandson Jonard. I’d wager he’d be thrilled to have another one a’them come home.”

The man spoke with a confidence and quickness that Heror could not assail, and now he began to feel excitement, too. But Heror shoved this excitement away for a moment longer, and steeled his face again, as he gathered the cloth and rolled it up.

“Where is he now?” Heror asked. “And how do you know of him?”

“He passes through every so often,” the oracle answered. “Ol’ Botic over there knows him pers’nally – though I think he’s a bit too far into his drink to tell y’anything at th’ moment.”

The old man motioned to a patron across the bar, and as Heror looked, he heard the half-asleep patron mutter a quiet ‘mhmm’. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to put Heror somewhat at ease with the stories.

“Where is he now?” Heror repeated to the oracle, a bit lighter.

“He’s out puttering ‘round in Eonos, in a magnif’cent estate at the top of the city’s slope, bestowed t’him by the Caitan Elor,” the oracle replied. “If you’ve never been out this way, Eonos is a city straight along the road to the west. A few days’ ride on a carriage. Maybe only a day if it’s jus’ you and yer horse, and no heavy cargo. Into the base of the mountains, at the hook of the River Rheaum.”

Heror nodded, and then he stood from the stool and prepared to leave. The old man grinned at him with a tilted head.

“I look forward t’yer return.”

Heror offered the old man only one more glance before he turned toward the door. As he went, the old man called after him again.

“Tell ol’ Sabretooth I tell’d him ‘hello’ when you see’im!”