“Breakfast is ready, conejito.”

Una knocked three times, there was no answer. There was a wrench in her chest, a lotteria card fluttered at the back of her mind.

He’s gone.

She banged harder, and a sleepy groan came from the room.

“I’m not hungry,” a small voice protested.

“Get up and get dressed. It’s after eight. I have a surprise for you today.”

She could almost hear his eyes pop open. Una smiled and went back to the unfamiliar meal on the kitchen table. All her life, she’d made variations on one of three breakfasts, enfrijoladas, huevos con chorizo, or sometimes torrijas on easter or a birthday. Robin had no appetite for any of them, and he’d begun to have trouble swallowing.

Earlier that week, Una urged him to eat anyway, telling him he needed his strength. Somehow, Robin choked on his scrambled eggs. She had to rush over and thwack him on the back. Afterward she felt so guilty and miserable that she wept in the bathroom, muffling her sobs with a hand towel. She made a frantic call to Dr. Suarez afterward and scratched down recipe notes on a yellow legal pad. This morning she had a scoop of cottage cheese, oatmeal with finely diced strawberries and a slice of toast soaked in milk with smooth peanut butter.

Robin emerged and looked skeptically at the breakfast. Una had made herself the same thing. She didn’t care for it either, but it didn’t matter. The boy had to eat.

“What’s the surprise?” Robin asked.

“I’ll tell you once you eat breakfast,” Una said. Robin’s mouth made a flat line, but he did not complain. They suffered through breakfast together. Una could remember when the boy first came to live with her. He’d wolfed down everything she put in front of him and always wanted seconds. She’d feared he would eat her out of house and home. Now, he labored to finish a slice of milk toast. They both saved the cottage cheese for last.

“You don’t like it either?” Robin guessed.

“I like it just fine,” Una lied and soldiered through.

Robin laughed at her. The hollows under his eyes were darker, but his spirits were so much brighter since he’d made some friends. He began to clear the table and do the dishes.

“I can do that if you don’t feel up to it,” Una offered.

“I can do it,” Robin said, sharp enough so she wouldn’t ask again. For the ten thousandth time, she wondered who his father was and what he was like. Not once in her life had Lucinda ever done dishes without grumbling.

“I’ll get the surprise,” Una said.

Again, she had his full attention. She creaked outside, another bad day for her hip. The morning was overcast, there was rain on the wind, a welcome relief from the heat. She retrieved the cardboard box from the back of the station wagon, it rattled as she set it down on the kitchen table.

“What’s this?” Robin asked.

“It’s you,” Una opened the box and produced a small ceramic bird.

Robin squinted in confusion at the clay robin. There were other types, cardinals, bluebirds, goldfinches and a painted bunting. There was a smaller box inside with a spray can of white primer, a dozen colors of paint, and a selection of brushes. Underneath it all was an instruction manual.

“Birds?” Robin was flummoxed.

“I asked Father Domingo how we could make some pocket money for you. He’s got a line on a program for people who are laid up in bed or too old to work. They pay fifty cents for each bird you paint, and the church gets a quarter on top of that. People put them in their gardens. I thought we could paint some together and you can use the money to buy that toy soldier you want.”

Robin’s eyebrows leapt.

“How long does it take to paint a bird?”

“We’ll have to see. Father Domingo say’s its slow at first, but not bad once you get the hang of it. You have to do a good job painting them and follow the manual exactly, or they won’t take them. They gave us two bluebirds to practice on.”

“That sounds easy. I can do that!” Robin said.

“It’s good practice too, for painting your own soldiers. Let’s start slow, we don’t want to run out of paint.”

The wind wailed outside and thunder rumbled a long way off. It was a perfect day for arts and crafts. Robin hardly seemed to notice. He could not wait to begin.

* * *

The watchers were long dead.

After an endless march, Barak’s band arrived and found Wintermore Wall sundered and shattered. This was no slow slide into ruin. Some monstrous force had torn into the ashlar of the Imperial Fortress and scattered the ten-ton stones like pebbles. Even the ground itself was undone. The keep’s foundations had tilted and cracked and the pavers rolled in waves. The dwarves rankled at the disturbed earth. Barak was no stonemason, but something about the lay of the land touched a deep place and struck him wrong.

This was cursed ground.

As the army neared the keep, they could see the scope of the devastation. The twin watchtowers were toppled, the outer buildings were smashed, and the keep was crushed from above. Only the chapel remained intact, they could see the distinctive sledge-head shape from far away. Here too, the ground was disturbed, the crust was cracked and jagged boulders jutted from the ridges. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Barak looked to the other leaders.

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“A sign! The forge is unbroken! The Emperor is Everlasting!” Gunag Doreson invoked. His halberdiers each took a knee and made the sign of the hammer.

Close at Barak’s side, far-sighted Cinabinathi shook her head. He needed no words to know what was behind her emerald eyes. All was lost.

“Should we warn him?” she whispered.

Barak considered it and shook his head.

“No. The fool is blinded by paper faith in that feckless emperor. It’s no armor at all.”

“He may break,” Cinabiniathi warned.

“Better here than in battle,” Hilg opined. “We ought to leave those wishful weaklings.”

“Someone’s got to soak casualties. Men can be replaced,” Cinabinathi said.

The three leaders nodded the thought. They were all worried about the imperials. The hawkbows were elite, Hilg’s veteran shieldbearers were as tough as the bulwarks they bore. As for Barak’s squad, there was no question at all. The berserkers were utterly insane. They would fight until their veins ran dry. Humans could not be trusted. Even now, Doreson hurried towards the chapel, heedless of the dangers that might lie in wait. The other leaders reluctantly followed. Ahead, Prescote hobbled after them with his apprentice Bobbert in tow. They soon caught up, the endless march had nearly lamed the sage.

“What did this?” Young Bobbert asked, gawking at the ravaged keep. Prescote cuffed the back of his head, hard enough to make the boy’s jaw clack shut.

“Mind yourself, dunce,” Prescote’s gave a meaningful look to the dwarven leaders.

“No need to dance around it. It’s a drake,” Barak spat.

Hilg flinched. To dwarves, the word was a slur, a bitter reminder of their undoing.

“It could easily be a giant, or some other great beast. There’s no scorching on the stones,” Hilg observed.

“Now who’s wishful?” Barak jabbed.

Ahead, a scream rang from the chapel.

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Sandy asked.

Robin noticed his little smile and froze. He pulled back the Berserkers and looked at the board again.

Sandy was a sophomore. He wore round glasses and cut his hair in a mop top, in vain hope girls might think he looked like a young John Lennon. Was Robin really missing something, or was it a bluff to try and get him to make a mistake? It was the first time Robin had faced Sandy’s Reavers. He wasn’t sure how to read Sandy, yet.

With a scowl, Robin picked up his Mead composition book. “BATTLE LOG - ROBIN MARTILLO” was written in magic marker on the black and white cover. Inside, Robin had sketched maps of each battle. As they played, he sketched notes and logged every move he and his opponents made. Later, at home, he would pore over each log, reviewing the positions and thinking of what he could have done differently.

“Oh my god, are you checking your notes?” Sandy asked.

“Yeah, of course,” Robin said.

Robin had written down all the special rules for the scenario. Sandy had 2500 total points, but he could only bring in 500 points per turn. Robin only had 1500 but he got his whole army at once, plus he had objectives on the board. He’d written down each and underlined them.

TAKE AND HOLD THE CHAPEL - 1 CP PER TURN

PERFORM THE RITE OF PURIFICATION - 3 CP

REACH THE RUINED KEEP AND ESCAPE BEFORE YOU’RE OVERWHELMED - 2 CP

“Why are you doing that? It’s a game, not class,” Sandy teased.

“I like making maps and recording stuff,” Robin bristled. He was ready to get into it if Sandy started making fun of him.

“Can I see?” Sandy asked.

Robin’s instinct was to refuse. Once, his friends from Houston found a half-completed comic book he’d been drawing and never let him hear the end of it. Sandy was an amazing artist, he might scoff at Robin’s amateurish sketches. But at the same time, Robin was proud of his Battle Log. He kind of wanted to show it to someone.

“I can’t show you this battle, it’s got some of my plans in it. But here’s my last one.” Robin flipped back to the skirmish from last Saturday. Robin’s Remnants faced against Chuck’s little brother, Sammy. Sammy put together a makeshift army from the Store’s display of Death Knights and some of Chuck’s old Unforgiven conscripts.

Sammy looked over the map, the numbered arrows showing the troop movements, charge orders and retreats. On the right hand side of the board there was a series of letters and numbers: BZ(ow)>>DK - A3-C3 - 1-5! and so forth, for each turn.

“What are these?”

“You divide the battlefield into an eight by eight grid, columns are letters, rows are numbers. BZ is berserkers, the arrows mean charge, DK is death knights. Then 1-5 is casualties.

“Your berserkers took out 5 death knights?”

“Yeah, it was Sammy’s first game. I warned him they were in overwatch but he said let it rip.”

“Ha! RIP indeed. Did you have Dismount! on them?”

“Yeah it’s really good. Totally wrecked Vlad’s Chaos Knights.”

“Cavalry are so vulnerable this edition, you really have to safeguard them. This is really cool, using a code to record the moves.”

“It’s just chess notation adapted for LOR. My grandma’s been teaching me, she’s really good.”

“Is she like a Grandmaster? A Grandma master?”

“Haha, no I don’t think so, but she’s really good. I haven’t beat her yet. So she has me write down each move as we play, just like this. Then afterward you can kind of visualize the whole game by remembering the letters. She says when I get good enough I can play a whole game without the board.”

“That’s so cool! And you’re like writing a whole story of what’s going on here.”

“I’m just goofing around,” Robin waved it away, but Sandy kept flipping through pages.

“Look at this! You’ve got drama between your squad leaders, a quest for revenge, wait, is this a forbidden romance subplot?”

Sandy grinned wide and Robin’s cheeks flushed.

“Are you two going to play or just yammer?” Vlad snapped. Clan Bla’Claw squared against Duncan’s Moonsinger Elves at the next table. Newly freed, Duncan’s Silverwind celebrated by landing two crits in a row on the Booga Chieftain. One more crit, and the whole army would get a huge morale bonus.

“Don’t rush me, fatso. Some of us like to think before we move.”

“Is that the secret to your success?” Vlad snapped back. He pointed at the leaderboard. Sandy’s Reavers were ranked 8th.

“Focus on your own opponent, both of you,” Duncan chided. “Guys, let’s keep moving so we can get a second round of games in later.”

Sammy clammed up. When the older boys turned back to their game he stuck his fingers behind his ears so they stuck out like Duncan’s. It was mean, but Robin had to laugh. Sammy handed back the Battle Log.

“This is really cool. You should turn it into a comic book or a short story or something.”

“Yeah, I’m not that good at drawing.”

“Just takes practice. I can show you some stuff if you wanna hang out sometime. Maybe you can help me out with chess. I keep getting whipped by my little sister.”

Vlad glowered at their table. Sandy stuck out his tongue.

“What were you saying about that move?” Robin asked. He didn’t want to get scolded again.

“Yeah so, I’ve played this scenario before. It seems like a good idea to move into the Chapel early and get the CP right away, right? But then your opponent’s deploy zone gets closer, he can swamp whoever’s at the chapel. Those CPs don’t matter if you get routed.”

“Don’t metagame!” Vlad hissed. “That’s terrible advice. Four CPs is a huge deal. The sceneario changed this edition too—.”

“AHEM!” Duncan cleared his throat. He pointed to the sign over the entrance to the game room.

NO QUARTERBACKING.

Robin was caught between their conflicting advice. He didn’t want to seem like he was picking Vlad over Sandy, but at the same time, there was every chance Sandy was either wrong or trying to mess with him. It was a ranked game after all.

“I already wrote the move down,” Robin said. “I’ll just run with it.”

“Hoo boy, ok. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” Sandy said.

He seemed like he meant it. Robin looked at Vlad, but his face was just a perpetual frown. If he meant to trick Robin, it was impossible to tell.

“OK.”

“Hold on, was the Chapel triggered?” Duncan turned back to their table.

“I didn’t activate it yet,” Robin said.

“How many units are within 12 inches of it?”

“Uhm, all of them now.”

“Roll this,” Duncan handed Robin a twenty sided die.

A chorus of “oooohs” swept around the room.

Robin rolled a one.

“Hang on, I need to get a model out of the case,” Duncan left with a wicked grin.

“Rut-roh,” Sandy said.