Clark stomped away from the pasture towards the small house. The count was the same as the one two hours ago, all accounted for except a lamb. And a boy. He stopped and looked towards the hills Jamison had taken the sheep over earlier that day. He could barely distinguish them from the night sky, only being able to do so thanks to the thin sliver of moon peeking over the far mountains. Tension grew in his stomach as he stared over the landscape, growing stronger the longer he stood there. Clark clenched his fists and jaw and turned back towards his original destination. He grabbed the handle, barely managing to not slam it open, and stomped inside.

The single room that made up the dwelling was warm and dry, thanks to a small fire in the hearth. A woman sat on a short stool by it, stirring a pot, while two children sat on the ground close by, playing a game of five stone.

“Jamison still not returned?” Clark asked.

“I would have sent him out to you if he had,” the women said.

“God damn the fool.”

“Clark!”

Clark took a deep breath and unclenched his hands

“The flock returned on it’s own around early afternoon, Sara. Jamison should have returned hours ago. It doesn’t take this long to find a single lamb. Not with his skills.”

“It’s not the first time he’s been late,” Sara said, “nor is it the longest he’s been out.”

“I know that.”

“Then have some faith in him.”

Clark let out a low growl and turned back towards the door.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

“Something off, Sara.” Clark said, pushing open the door.

“You better not be thinking about marching into those hills tonight, Clark.” Sara said, standing up and brandishing the ladle. “By the gods, I will drag you back myself if I have to. You know I can.”

Clark paused a moment in the doorway.

“I’m getting a drink,” he said and left the house.

Clark marched down the muddy road towards the village. It was quiet tonight, like every night. That was part of the reason they all decided to live here. It was also supposed to be safe, as safe as a frontier village could be. Clark stopped and clenched his fists again as his stomach twisted. He took a deep breath and kept walking.

Most of the buildings he passed were dark, though light leaked out from a few of them. Clark’s destination was one of them, a lantern hanging above the door. It was one of the larger building in the village, belonging to the blacksmith Henry. Clark opened the door and was a greeted by the low murmur of conversation from the near dozen people inside and the smell of ale.

Clark knocked the mud from his boots, hung his coat from a hook, and grabbed a mug from atop the barrel by the door, filling it with warm ale from the small keg placed on a nearby stool before taking a seat at the long table placed in the middle of the small hall.

“Your boy back yet, Clark?” The large man opposite him asked.

“Not yet.”

“He’ll be fine. He’s a smart lad.”

“I’m not so sure,” Clark said.

The large man paused his drinking and put down his mug.

“What do you mean? I thought you had more faith in him than that! You were just talking him up the other day.”

Clark shook his head.

“It ain’t him that’s the problem.” Clark took a swig from his mug. “Something ain’t right, Henry. There’s something in those hills. I can feel it in my gut.”

“Those your famous ‘adventure instincts’ Clark?” a voice called from down the table.

“And what would you know about it Jackson?” Clark called to man, “The only instincts you have are to see how far down a bottle you can get, or how far up a whore’s skirt.”

Jackson slammed down his mug and made to stand, but the villager next to him pushed him back into his seat.

“That’s enough. From both of you,” Henry said, standing up. “Jackson, I’ve seen you have a few mugs. I think about its time you head home. Clark, I understand you're worried about Jamison, but I’d be a poor host if I let that slide under my roof. You can stay but watch that tongue. I don‘t need you starting any fights tonight.”

Henry sat back down. Conversation resumed as Jackson downed the last of his ale and stormed out.

“Sorry Henry.” Clark said after a moment.

Henry waved it off.

“Like I said, I understand. I’d be the same way if one of my boys was missing.” Henry took a sip from his mug. “If you need any help Clark-”

“Henry,” Clark said, cutting him off, “You swore to Abigail you wouldn’t do it again. And I agree with her. I had to drag your sorry ass to healers the last time.”

“She’d understand.”

The pair fell silent for a few minutes before Clark spoke again.

“If you really want to help, can you send Peter by in the morning? Albert will mind the flock tomorrow. He knows what to do. He’s just too young to go by himself.”

“I can do that. He might even enjoy the fresh air.”

The pair fell silent again while Clark finished his ale. Once his mug was empty, Clark stood to leave, and Henry followed him to the door. Henry grabbed Clark by the arm as he shrugged on his coat.

“Be careful Clark. You haven’t held that spear for years.”

Clark finished putting on his coat and turned to Henry.

“I will.” he said.

The men clasped arms and Clark walked back out into the night.

----------------------------------------

The next morning found Clark in the barn shortly before the sun had started its daily journey. He sat alone in front of a long cedar box, dirty from its time in the root cellar. They’d received a matching pair as a wedding gift. Clark closed his eyes as a dull ache spread in a line across his chest. He traced the line with a finger.

“Gid, please guard my son as you used to guard me. Please watch over him until I find him.” He prayed.

Opening his eyes, Clark flipped the latch on the box and opened the lid. Inside lay a spear slightly taller than Clark himself. It was a simple thing, adorned only in the marks of extensive use. The head and shaft gleam slightly from the oil used to preserve it. Clark took the spear out and set it aside. Under the spear was a piece of oiled canvas. Six pieces of metal armor caught the gleam of the lantern light when the canvas was pulled back. A skullcap, a pair of bracers, a pair of shin guards, and a small piece of chest armor. The metal armor joined the spear on the ground. A small leather pouch was the last item Clark extracted from the box. Clark held it in his hands for a long moment before moving to open it.

“You’re not taking that.” A voice called from behind him.

Clark glanced to the side to find Sara in the doorway in a cloak and nightgown, lantern held high. Clark glanced at her, then the pouch, before returning it to the box and closing it. Sara walked up next to him and, in silence, helped him don his armor. The fit was tighter than Clark remembered in some places, but it would work. He shouldered the pack he’d prepared the night before. The supplies were enough for a few days. He turned to grab his spear, only to find Sara holding it.

“If you’re bringing all this, you better bring him back.” She said.

“I will.” Clark said and embraced her.

They stood there for several long moments before separating. Sara handed him the spear and Clark walked out into the pre-dawn light.