#

Steffan sat on the roof of the inn, holding his mother’s sword and putting all his effort toward staying calm. It hadn’t worked for the last few hours, and it wasn’t working now.

He’d been the first of his village to notice the smoke rising from the fort. He and Theodora had been grazing half of the flock on the east side of the grove when he saw the dark gray plume curling into the sky from the west. Steffan’s first instinct was to draw his sword and run over to help, but that would have been asking to have the sheep stolen. Besides, though he’d gotten surprisingly good at fighting with his left arm, Charles said it would likely be another few days before his right shoulder was healed. If the attackers knew what they were doing, Steffan wouldn’t be much help. If they didn’t, the fort’s soldiers would solve the problem without him.

His second instinct was to slip through the trees to peek at what was going on. But he’d have to leave the sheep to do that, which carried the same risks. It would also take a while, even if he ran most of the way there and back.

In the end, Steffan had to admit that no matter what had caused the fire, his village would be safest if they learned of it as early as possible. So, feeling like even more of a coward than usual, he herded the sheep back to the village as quickly as he could and alerted everyone.

Everyone flew into action, boarding up windows and cobbling together what few weapons-–or at least weapon-adjacent tools–-they could find. Ten years ago, the fort had repelled the trolls, though not without difficulty. Now, who knew? This could be a larger force of trolls, or some organized group of bandits, or even a few monsters converging on the fort at once. Regardless, Steffan’s village was one of the closest to the fort, so if whatever was trying to bring down the latter succeeded and then started looking for another target...well, it was important to be prepared. Hence the weapons.

It was also important to have some kind of lookout. Steffan had volunteered, and seeing as the inn was the only two-story building in the village, that was where he kept watch from. The roof, specifically. So far, nothing had changed except the smoke, which had grown thicker and more plentiful. Now, the sun was finally setting, which was both a blessing and a curse. With a dark sky, Steffan might finally be able to see how bad the fire itself was, but that same darkness would make it harder to tell whether enemies were approaching. Unless those enemies carried torches, but that wasn’t smart to do when attacking by night. And if these enemies were smart enough to get past the fort...

In the end, though, it wasn’t sight that alerted Steffan the village was in danger. It was sound. The sun had fully set, so he didn’t see the bandits approach, but he did hear an odd clicking noise coming from the inn’s back door.

Peering over the edge of the roof, Steffan squinted through the darkness to see five people-sized shapes. Two of them held clubs. One was kneeling and fiddling with something--probably trying to pick the lock.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

The next moment, Steffan smelled them: old sweat, new sweat, dirt, and grime, all fighting to be crowned most offensive. What he didn’t smell was ash or smoke. These were clearly bandits, but probably not the fort’s attackers. Opportunists taking advantage of the nearby violence, then.

Steffan got up onto his left hand and knees and crawled to the ladder leaning against the front of the inn. He clambered down it as quickly as he could, using his right hand for balance but putting as little weight on it as possible. Then he knocked on the inn door using the code they’d agreed upon: once, thrice, once, twice.

Steffan heard a lock slide back. Winston, the innkeeper, pulled open the door just enough for Steffan to step inside. The only light was a lantern covered in a thin cloth to dim it. The faint smell of the afternoon’s stew lingered in the air. Once the door was closed and locked again, Steffan whispered what he’d discovered into the old man’s ear.

“Got it,” Winston whispered. He beckoned to his grandson, a lanky thirteen-year-old boy who worked for him most days. “Billy. Go lean a table against the back door. Be as quick and quiet as you can. Steffan, you should tell the rest of the village. These bandits won’t be stopped by one door.”

Steffan nodded. “Of course.” He slipped out the front and into the night air.

Night air that was nowhere near as dark as it should have been.

The village’s small temple was on fire, the orange flames flickering against the sky. Muffled shouts reached Steffan’s ears. Was Brother Ferdinand in danger?

Drawing his sword, Steffan took off running toward the temple. His thoughts raced just as quickly as his feet. Had the bandits set the fire before coming to the inn? Steffan heard more than one voice, so if they had, they’d also left someone behind to loot, which didn’t make any sense. Who looted a burning building?

Then Steffan was there, shoving open the already-broken temple door and launching himself into the chaos. Waves of heat rolled toward him, and the air stank of burning wood. Brother Ferdinand, armed with a fireplace poker, faced off against a short man with a dagger. Between them lay a body with a line of blood running from its head and a line of flames running from the torch it held. Clearly the source of the fire.

The man with the dagger turned as Steffan entered. Ignoring the heat and the stench, Steffan lunged forward and stabbed. The man jumped backward out of range, but he tripped over the body, sprawling onto the temple floor. Brother Ferdinand brought the poker down on his head, and that was that.

Steffan pulled Brother Ferdinand toward the door. “Come on!” The priest took a last, sorrowful look at his burning sanctuary, then let himself be dragged away from the flames.

“Why weren’t you at home?” Steffan asked once they were safe. He considered going for water, but the fire had spread to the books and dry wood so quickly, and there were still the other bandits to deal with.

“The temple is more important,” Brother Ferdinand said. “I’d rather protect that than protect my home. But by preventing the theft, I made the torch catch, and now it’s burned to ruins! The Beohur are sometimes capricious in their whims...”

Steffan bit his tongue. Learning the truth wouldn’t help the old man right now. “Do you know if there are any--” he began to ask.

The bleating of sheep stopped him mid sentence.

The bandits were at his home.

###