Lowen ran. He sprinted through bracken and bush, leaping like a tumbler over fallen logs. For a moment he felt invincible, he felt like he could run and run and never stop. The branches accelerated past him at a blur, his soft-soled boots hardly made a sound as they skipped over the earth.

He could do it, he could get away. Get away from Mother, and Father. He’d never have to see them again! Get away from Tomas, as kind as he was. Get away – no – run away from Caja. He’d never see her again.

He slowed a little as the realisation hit him, and the scabbard of his rapier hooked onto the owl-home of a tree, jerking him back and tearing the stitching of his belt. He fell backwards.

Lowen sat there for a bit, arms wrapped around his rapier, and had a nice, healthy cry.

-

Lowen’s sniffling was disturbed by a groaning in his stomach, he began to look around, half expecting to see a patch of berries or mushrooms that screamed “I’m edible! Eat me!” at him.

He didn’t see a thing, signposted or not. He almost got up to look before remembering that he had no idea how he would tell and would rather not die the shitting death. He slumped against the owl-home tree that had aggrieved him so.

Lowen remembered what his Mother would say, in the lean days before Father’s ember-mines gave him the money to buy a title. “You’re not hungry, Lowen, not really, that’s just your belly wanting water. There’s always water.” Sometimes she would accompany that with “we’re all fucking hungry, Lowen,” but the message was the same. He cupped his hands over his hears and swivelled his head, listening for water. Lowen heard a faint rushing from the east, it probably wasn’t the east, but if facing the tree was north (which it probably wasn’t) then to the right of it was east.

Before Lowen set off, he used a trick from years of playing in the woods of Emberhorn to find his way back. Sure he could see the owl-home from the front, but he walked around to the back and saw ivy crawling its way through a patch of moss, then he took ten steps back and checked how it looked from one side, then the other, then the back, then finally the front again. That’s the first part of the trick, the second part is to name the tree. Creeping-Owl-Home Tree seemed good enough. Lowen used to do this to hide Taran’s coat up a tree, when he didn’t feel cruel enough to actually lose it.

Lowen set off to the ‘east’, rapier held in his left hand, ready to draw with his right. Perhaps it’s exceptionally shiny guard would blind any hunting direwolves, because it certainly wouldn’t get through their hide.

After walking until his feet grew sore and his eyes hurt from flicking at every sound, Lowen reached a small brook. He fell to the ground and began dragging cupped hands of water into his mouth, most of it running down onto his boots. He dunked his head into the river and gulped and gulped, as though he was trying to drink his way out of drowning. His stomach began to cramp, rejecting the freezing water he had filled it with, his head began to spin and he fell headfirst into the river.

Lowen kicked and trashed, trying to get his head above the fierce rapids. His boot connected with something solid and he kicked upwards.

Lowen stood in the gentle brook that came barely up to his waist, thoroughly embarrassed, as the only source of rapids was his own frantic efforts. He stepped out of the riverbed, and took his boots off and poured the mud out of them. He then threw up mostly water over his shirt and had to take another, much more careful, dip to wash it. By the time he was finished, he stood at the side of the river, dark hair slicked down, dripping into his eyes, feet numb and clothes sodden. His trousers, weighed down by the water and without a belt to support them started to inch down his legs and he had to hold one hand to them to avoid losing them, after losing his lunch, his dignity and his family.

Lordling Lowen Roscarrock curled up beside the river, rapier tucked into his chest, and decided to sleep, for that was the last thing that couldn’t be stolen from him.

-

‘If you won’t I will.’

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Lowen awoke to a voice behind him. He screwed his eyes shut again.

‘Hey, kid. If you’re dead, I’m taking your boots. They look my size. If you’re not, scream incoherently.’

Lowen flipped around, raising to his bare feet and, after a few attempts and having to look right down at it; drew his rapier, levelling it at his assailant’s chest. Lowen looked at his face.

He screamed incoherently.

The figure laughed. ‘Well, shit. Mine are practically see-through.’

The man - no, not a man – the Goblin was Lowen’s height, and had the same scrub of dark hair, but that was where the similarities ended. He had wiry arms like coiled springs, slightly pointed ears, red eyes, and most notably, moss-green skin.

The goblin knelt down next to the shaking Lowen, paralysed with fear. He stuck a sharp-nailed hand out.

‘Orark.’

By the Old Hunters! He wasn’t a Goblin, he was an Orc! He must have been a child but even then he’d be twice the strength of a man, utterly without morals and with a taste for human flesh.

‘O-Orc!’ Lowen cried.

The gob– no - orc scowled, ‘Very funny. Or-ark. Two syllables. I’m still a Goblin.’ Lowen relaxed, looking at him it was actually quite obvious. Firstly, orcs never had any hair, and secondly, who just sticks their hand out and yells their race?

Orark unslung his crossbow from his back. It was an ugly thing, spikes this way and that, some ostensibly for bracing it against the ground while loading, some clearly for sticking into people and some that were definitely equally decorative and impractical. The black metal was pitted with rust. Classic goblin engineering.

‘I’m going to put this on the ground. Nice and slow. And you’re going to do the same with your pig-sticker. Right?’ Orark went down to one knee and placed his crossbow reverentially on the grass, never taking his eyes of Lowen.

‘It’s not a pig-sticker. It was a gift from my father.’ Though Lowen was more relaxed by his racial revelation, he was still suspicious of the obvious thief.

‘Who’s your Father to afford that? Is he rich? Fat? Does he leave his windows open at night?’ Orark’s eyes glittered. He grinned, showing a huge number of needle-like teeth.

‘He’s, uh,’ Lowen had a suspicion saying his Father was the lord of the small but affluent mining town Emberhorn and that he was the only heir was not a recipe for a long and fruitful life. By the looks of him, Orark could pick up, load and fire that crossbow before Lowen could piss himself. ‘He’s a blacksmith. He nicked it.’ Lowen placed his prized rapier on the ground.

Orark laughed. ‘Ah, a man after my own heart. The ol’ five finger discount eh? You’re alright kid.’ He sat down on the grass. ‘Come on out. He’s no threat.’ He called to the treeline behind him.

From the trees came three people, all bristling with weapons and marked by scars. None were much older than Lowen, but they clearly didn’t complain about sore arses.

They sat down on the grass next to Orark. In a circle they introduced themselves.

‘Morgan’, waved a russet-haired boy with a spear lain across his lap. ‘Brother of the little one.’

The “little one” went next. ‘Melwyn.’ She smiled, and when she did her whole face shivered and twitched, like she’d been electrocuted. A small axe hung from her waist which teetered and wobbled constantly as she fidgeted. She looked like she’d sat straight on an ants nest. ‘Morgan’s my brother.’

‘I said that,’ said Morgan.

‘I know. I’m just,’ she shivered, ‘I’m just making conversation.’

‘Well it’s not helpful conversation. He knows you’re my sister,’ Morgan turned to Lowen. ‘Touch her and I’ll thread my spear through you like a spit roast.’

Lowen stood quite unsure what to say. Thankful the goblin saved him.

‘Stop being weird,’ he threw a handful of grass at the pair. ‘It’s Osterm next.’

The biggest of the four smiled. He was Lowen’s height again and had more broken teeth than whole ones. His head had been roughly shaved and his face was twisted by scars, a roughly made mace hung from his waist, but he sat kneeling, like a dog waiting for a treat.

‘Hi,’ he said, ‘Osterm, again. Nice to meet you kid.’

Morgan stood up and dusted himself off. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘that was shit wasn’t it. Kid, do you mind if we try again when we can actually string a sentence together?’

Melwyn pointed a finger at him and a small blue spark shot from it, and into Morgan’s thigh. ‘Sit, sit, sit, sit, sit.’ Morgan sat down, scowling and rubbing at his thigh. ‘Good boy.’ She ruffled his hair.

Lowen had seen runes before, they had them all over their manor for cooking and running water, but never someone who could do it like it was nothing! He struggling to keep his mouth closed, it was all a bit much, between the bickering group, the magic, and the fact he was still soaking wet and very cold.

‘Now you say your name, kid,’ said Osterm, smiling kindly.

‘It’s L-’ Now Lowen had never been an unintelligent boy, he felt he knew what was what and how the streets went, even if he wasn’t allowed on the streets alone, so he knew he would need a dastardly fake name. ‘It’s Lauren.’

Melwyn’s face twisted and rippled like a pool. ‘Lauren? That’s a girls name. I used to play with a Lauren.’

‘No, yes, of course Lauren’s a girls name. My name’s not Lauren. It’s Lowen.’ Well, shit.

‘Oh, that makes more sense. Nice to meet you Lowen,’ she said, grinning and bobbing her head to an invisible tune.

‘What are you doing here? Other than trying to steal my boots?’ He shot a glance at Orark, who was picking at his nails and pointedly not looking at Lowen.

‘Isn’t it obvious, Lowen?’ said Morgan, spreading his arms wide. ‘Why, we’re mercenaries.’