The rhythmic clicking of metal on metal woke Alden from his slumber.

Hazy darkness greeted his bleary eyes. The scent of freshly cut straw filled the air. An unfamiliar pine ceiling stared down at him from only eight feet away, and he immediately felt claustrophobic. Alarmed, the black-haired young man rolled out of his sleeping furs and put his feet down to stand.

Too late, Alden discovered that his sleeping furs were two feet off the floor. He missed his step and crashed to the floor, which hurt more than he expected because it was made of wood instead of dirt.

The metallic rattling continued in the background as Alden lay still for a moment, struggling to puzzle out the inconsistencies.

The truth finally struck him through his groggy haze: I’m not in my family’s hut.

Alden pushed himself up onto his elbows and surveyed the pinewood box of a room. The door was barred from the inside with a stout wooden latch. A small, crudely carved pine table and chair stood in the corner. Alden’s armor, clothes, and traveling bag hung over the back of the chair. A clay chamber pot sat in another corner.

Shaggy sleeping furs rested atop a thick pile of fresh straw which took up the room’s third corner. Alden had never slept in something so soft. The innkeeper had called it a “bed”. It was nice, but Alden decided the invention occasioned a dangerous habit of oversleeping.

As the young hunter turned to the final corner of the room, the rattling sound abruptly ceased. With a puzzled look, Alden pushed himself to his feet and went to inspect his weapons. The carved bone greatsword had no parts to rattle, and it wasn’t made of metal.

Alden reached out and caressed the lustrous greatsword’s red suede hilt. The supple leather dimpled under his fingertips.

The hunter grasped the sheath, lifted the enormous sword up, and held it horizontally as he inspected the weapon. Scant light peeked through the beige hide tacked over the small window and sparkled in the purple gem pommel. The blade hissed as Alden drew the weapon halfway from its sheath. Glowing arcane runes threw aquamarine light across the shadowy inn room.

“Are you eager?” Alden whispered to the sword. “Are you rattling because you’re as eager as I am?”

The blade didn’t answer him.

“We’re going to do great things, you and I,” the young hunter whispered. His calloused fingers slid reverently over the flat of the blade as he spoke. “My people were nearly drowned in darkness. For sixty winters we’ve clung to life and waited for heroes to be born again into our tribe. I’m going to give Sacram a hero to look up to. I’m going to lead them to safety and prosperity. I believe you’re a gift from the Swollen Mother, here to help me do that. We’re going to change the world—” He cut off with a sharp intake of breath as a brutal chill burned his fingertips.

The blade. It’s gone ice cold!

Insistent pounding drew Alden’s attention to the door.

“Alden!” Braden called through the door. “Breakfast time. Wait until you see what it is!”

Alden’s eyes lingered on the door as his friend’s footsteps retreated down the hall, but his thoughts were not on his breakfast. The Shaman looked down at the sword in wonder, and for the first time with a touch of hesitation. He slid the blade back into the red sheath, set the weapon delicately in the corner, and backed away. Without taking his eyes from the blade, he dressed quickly and slipped from the room, closing the door softly behind him.

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Cooking meat and enthusiastic conversations guided Alden’s steps down the hall. The rough pine steps leading down from the second floor creaked under his boots as he descended to the inn’s common room.

The entire building and everything in it seemed to be made of carved pine. In some places the pinewood was rough where pieces had been replaced, but in others the wood was worn smooth from constant use.

The common room’s grimy floor had been worn smooth from boots and grinding dirt. Two dozen rectangular tables and matching benches were spaced evenly throughout. A carved oak bar took up one corner of the room, and a portly old man stood behind it filling clay mugs with mead. Serving girls in dresses and aprons circulated through the room with steaming platters of food.

Alden spotted Jincra waving at him from a table with the rest of their hunting band. The Shaman wove through the bustling room and flopped down on the bench at Jincra’s left.

The smell of grilled meat made Alden’s mouth water, and he saw why Braden had been so excited about breakfast. A huge clay platter piled high with chunks of meat took up the center of the table. The heap featured several types of mammal and fowl. Steam rose from the meat in the cool morning air, and juices ran down the stack.

Beside the meat platter sat a basket of fresh rolls, a bowl of fruit, and a pitcher of cool water. Each of the five hunters had a clay plate and mug. Alden ate heartily of the savory meat, sweet bread, and crisp fruit. Juice spilled from the tender meat with every bite. He washed his meal down with cold water.

Jincra held a piece of roasted puklo in one hand and a torn piece of fluffy bread in the other. He was nibbling from each and sighing contentedly with each bite.

Lalaine sat on Jincra’s right. She picked delicately at a piece of fowl and a pile of fruit. In between bites, she wiped the juices from her fingers on a small cloth she held in her left hand.

Braden and Grath sat across from Jincra, Lalaine, and Alden, and were attacking the meat like animals. Alden grimaced as the blond youth bit into a large slab of roasted puklo. The Trickster’s teeth couldn’t get through the thick chunk of meat, so Braden whipped his head back and forth like an animal to tear off a piece. Meat juice splattered on his shaggy blond curls.

Meanwhile, Grath was ripping apart hunks of meat with both hands, leaning his head back, and stuffing the meat into his mouth. His razor-sharp Aibeck teeth quickly shredded the meat, so he was engaged in a steady stream of shoveling.

Braden made eye contact with Lalaine and grinned through a mouthful of meat.

The well-mannered huntress turned up her nose at her twin brother and shifted in her seat to face Jincra.

Jincra’s hazel eyes sparkled as he smiled at the beautiful young huntress and listed the ways he had ascertained the clay pottery on the table came from a certain tribe far to the southwest.

Lalaine nodded in wide-eyed fascination as the rest of the band rolled their eyes and kept eating.

After the five hunters had eaten their fill, they sat back and rested in contentment.

Grath finished cleaning his sharp teeth with a wooden pick and said, “I’ve spoken to the hunters from the local Aibeck tribe. They’re not willing to help Sacram. First they claimed Sacram was lying about the Scourge returning. When I told them I’d seen it with my own eyes, they said Sacram must have brought the evil on themselves with some accursed ritual, and the Scourge will probably go away once it punishes the village.”

“I had hoped for more support,” Jincra said. “I know you said the Aibeck still distrust us humans, but I did not think they would outright refuse to help.”

Grath nodded solemnly. “The anger runs that deep.”

Lalaine folded her hands on the table and sighed.

Braden belched.

Crockery clinked as Alden set down his water cup. “We’re on our own for now, but we’ll continue to try.”

Grath pursed his lips. “Perhaps those of your own race will prove more helpful.”

Alden scratched his cheek thoughtfully. “I hope so, Grath. I’m starting to realize just how small Sacram Village is compared to the whole nation. Every tribe has their own troubles. Imploring strangers to march across the countryside to defend our gates from tall tales is asking a lot. But if we can win this tournament Sacram will become the ruling tribe, and the other tribes will have to help us.”

The purple Aibeck rumbled deep in his chest. “We’re going to try, Alden. But let’s not get reckless in pushing for a win. Remember that people do die in this tournament.”

“I’m not going to get my friends killed, Grath,” Alden returned. “But if we don’t push ourselves, darkness could swallow our whole tribe.”

Alden and Grath locked eyes across the table. The other hunters exchanged nervous looks.

At last, the Aibeck rumbled, “Where you lead, we follow. Tomorrow Sacram joins the tournament. Then, whelp, we’ll see what kind of leader you are.”