> When the time is dire, when the world is split in two,

> The last allmage will attack the Tyrant of the east.

>

> The lightning Tyrant will be struck down by a weapon,

> Born from lightning, fire, ice and earth,

> Nurtured by life, water, time and light.

>

> The last of the old rulers will usher in a new era,

> An era of change and wonders.

Verse 1, Grand prophecy of Samoht

***

The door creaked open, morning rays invading our main room. Before my mother and I could shield our eyes, the  silhouette of a man blocked the sun from the door. Cold air pushed inside, fighting the stuffy warmth from the rekindled hearth.

“Close the door,” I said. “You’re letting out the heat.”

The stranger squeezed himself through the entrance, rising to his full height, but the ceiling prevented it. He spread his broad shoulders, rounded by muscles that could crush bones. Few other villagers were taller than me, but this man still dwarfed them all.

I swallowed hard. “Berserker.”

As frightening as his physique were his clothes that slowly revealed themselves as he walked out of line of the light behind him. His long-sleeved gambeson was deep blue, with dark brown plates inset into his chest, shoulders and underarms. The octagonal crest sewn on his chest left no doubt. It was the uniform of a high ranking member of the royal army.

I jumped up, grabbed the broom leaning on the wall and put myself between him and Mother. There were few reasons for a man of his rank to get into our house and none of them were good.

The officer looked down at me with his turquoise eyes. A freshly groomed ash-blond beard and hair of the same colour adorned his head, complementing his tanned skin. An old wound on the left side opened up his tightened lips, revealing white teeth.

"Lay down the broom." His deep voice sounded like the lowing of a stubborn cow. "It won't do you any good in a fight."

The makeshift weapon trembled in my hands. He was right. The only thing I could hope for was that I was able to stall him, hoping that Mother could get far away in the meantime.

The berserker spoke again. "I'm not here to harm you or your family in any way, if you think that for any reason."

"Then why are you here?" I spat. "We're not due any tax."

"A horde of orcs is en route to Forlam. Every able man has to join the army."

I gripped the handle harder. "Not interested. Go away."

"It's the order of the king."

"I don't care, go away."

The man took a step closer, and before I could react, he grabbed the handle of the broom and ripped it out of my hand. I got pulled forward, but the berserker pushed me back against the edge of the table. My fingers traced over the wood, searching for anything that could defend me.

I reached the wooden spoon from breakfast and brought it forward. The berserker looked at the cutlery and grunted. Then he looked up into my face, and his expression changed to one of surprise.

A thin hand laid down on my shoulder.

"Stop," Mother said, then turned to the berserker. "He will join, please forgive his brashness."

"He'd be better off if he keeps it in check." The army official threw away the broom that he still held. "Is there any other man in this household?" 

"My father, but his leg is stiff, he can't even walk properly."

The man narrowed his eyes. "Did he get hurt in the Broken War sixteen years ago?"

"Yes. Like most our problems, that was your fault too."

His eyebrows shot up. “Other siblings?”

"None alive."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't need your false sympathy," I said. "I need you to get out."

The intruder sighed. "Tomorrow at dawn, in front of the chapel.”

He pushed his shoulders through the entry. His massive outline slowly moved out of view through the open. A small cut of wind carried in the cold air from outside.

I shivered. “I said close the door, are you stupid or something?”

“Sh, he might still hear you,” Mother shushed me. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? You know it doesn’t end well when you shout at the back of a blue gambeson.”

I sat back down on the bench, which gave a sound like it wanted to break. "Then what else should I do?” I leaned my head back against the wood of the wall. "I can’t go, you need me here. Spring is just around the corner, and somebody has to tend the fields. Father can’t help much."

My mother grabbed my hand and squeezed it. Her skin was as callous as mine, made even rougher by a long winter. "It’ll be fine. I've run this farm alone once before; I can do it again. Plus, I had to take care of two little children then."

I placed my other hand atop of hers. "But you’re older now, and back then, grandmother was alive. "

She let go of my hand and rubbed away the lonely tear, past the quite new scar by her left eye. “At least there’ll be no one to mourn over this time.”

“But no one to help you either.”

“It's no use."

She grabbed both wooden bowls before us, carrying them away.

"Off to a battle, huh?" I said almost to myself. "Maybe the curse will finally catch up with me."

The bowls slipped from Mama's hands and onto the counter. "Don't say that."

I looked down. That had been out of tone.

The typical grunt of my father standing up sounded from the adjacent bedroom. Mother took that as a sign and started sawing some bread. I couldn’t take the scraping sound, taunting me that we couldn’t use the rest of our broadcorn stock, which would be better for baking.

“Have you seen the size of that guy?” I said to cover the noise. “He looks like a boulder that grew legs.”

A raspy voice called from the bedroom, “He's normal height for a berserker.”

Father stumbled into view in the doorframe. His felted, brown hair mirrored mine, except for its extensive gray strains. His angled nose and pointed chin, his unblinking, brown eyes made him look like a hawk. His expression had a seriousness about them, a feeling that he would reach anything he would set his mind to. My face twitched upwards; it was the same look of determination I thought I remembered before he went to military service. A look he had lost for years to bottles of alcohol. 

He made his way over to the table, dragging behind his right leg.

With a deep sigh, he sat down on his designated chair, clutching his stuff leg. “You were lucky that he isn't of noble blood. You wouldn’t have survived talking like this to a mage.”

“How would you know all that about that guy?” I asked. “You haven’t even seen him.”

He averted his gaze, changing the subject. “You might have to pick up the spirit cleansed seeds today.”

“It’s rather soon for that, the equal day hasn’t even passed,” my mother said, putting the slices of bread in front of my father. 

"He’s right,” I said. “Or would you want to take the trip on your own?”

“No.” Mother admitted.

“I will go in the afternoon." I stood up. Until then, I’m in the backfield, ploughing.”

My father spoke with his mouth full of dry bread. “I’ll join you when I’m finished.”

My mom said, “Just wear something warm, I don’t want you freezing your ass off.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I walked to the door, the freeze from outside pouring in. I reached out for the thick wool tunic, which reached to about the centre of my thighs, but changed my mind and grabbed my surcoat instead. The expertly sewn cow hide protected from wind, rain and snow. After years of use, the hairs were already peeled off in most places, revealing a lighter colour. With leather pants, tunic and surcoat, one could even go out for hours in the winter. As the only layer above the shirt, the coat might just be right for today. I secured the coat with a belt and fixed a waterskin and a belt pouch to it. 

The door creaked again as I closed it behind me. I turned my head upwards and closed my eyes. The rays of the sun tingled on my face; the slight breeze was barely noticeable. Still, the chill of the morning seeped through my clothes.

I sighed and made my  way towards the stable, stopping at the overflowing rain barrel to fill up the water skin. I took a swig of the water, but broke the contact immediately. The freeze hammered into my forehead, making me squeal in pain. I gripped the side of the barrel, my knuckles white. When the feeling wore off, I took another gulp. The second time, the feeling was manageable. 

Heaving a sigh, I walked to our pasture. The cows, sheeps, blood hens, the rooster and the old donkey Ratter all lifted their heads when they saw me. One animal was missing. I found the almost black hen back in its usual place behind the stable door. She trembled a little when I picked her up. The veins under the translucent skin on her face showed a panicked pulse. I threw her to the other animals . The red hens charged her and the bird scuttered away back to the stable door. I sighed again and whistled for Ratter. The old donkey perked up and hoofed over without any hurry. I stroked him between his eyes, as his warm breath blew from his mouth.

"Now, Ratter. Do you wanna get ploughing?"

A bobbing of his head and a positive Eee-Ah might seem like he was happy to, but he acted the same to everything else.

"At least one of us."

I led him into the stable and hitched the old, trustworthy plough behind him. The field I thought of working on today was not big, but at an uncomfortable incline that had flipped the plough more than once. 

I stopped Ratter as we ploughed closest to the border of a forest of conifers and deciduous trees. 

A patch of snowdrop flowers broke the monotone ground. I picked one of the flowers and put it in my pocket. 

When I turned around, I stopped for a minute. From here one had a great view of rolling hills patched with fields, meadows and forests. The plants still wore their drab, brownish winter colours. In the shadow of some trees, old snow remained. A gust of wind shot into my clothes and made me shiver. 

“I should’ve listened to my mother.”

I looked further. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the few lonely farmers’ houses that were Hazelbrook. The white walls of the chapel stuck out like a weed on a freshly ploughed field. Ratter puffed, sending his warm, moist breath on my skin. I rubbed him between the eyes.

“I’m leaving, you know?”

The old donkey just puffed again.

A frown appeared on my face. “I don’t know if you’ll still be around when I come back.”

"Eee-ah."

"Me too, buddy, me too."

My father stumbled out, and I stood back up to continue ploughing before he could join me.

The next time I looked up to the sky, the sun had passed noon. I nodded to my father and led Ratter back to the stable. A few minutes later, the donkey pulled our one-axled cart. I sat down on it beside a shovel, and Ratter hoofed forward slowly. We stopped at the house, where I switched my surcoat for the tunic. I went back out, past the cart, to the eight poles driven into the earth beside the path. A year of weather had done a number on them, and I added it to my list to replace them; they won't be forgotten. I fished out the snowdrop, only two pedals on, and placed it next to the fourth pole. “Sorry, it looks a little tattered.” 

Hannah loved flowers. It has been sixteen years since her death, almost twice as long as she had lived. Still, the memory of her face stayed in my mind, hopefully forever.

I finally turned away and jumped back onto the cart. Ratter continued on the old path, past the overgrown remains of a small house and towards Hazelbrook. Though the old donkey's steps were slow, the cart jumped up and down, threatening to break at any moment.  I had to hold the shovel beside me, so it wouldn't jump all over the place.

A sudden jolt threw me against the railing, hitting the wood with my elbow. I let out a short cry of pain. The right side of the cart had sacked down, and although Ratter tried to continue, the cart wouldn't move.

 I ignored the pain and jumped off to look at the issue. The right wheel got stuck in a muddy hole between two stones.

“For fuck’s sake.” I kicked the cart. “Stupid wheel.”

The same thing every year after winter; the path had never survived the snow. I looked out further. This time it was especially bad, with more holes than path. I had been tempted to just let it grow over and have the tax collectors deal with it, but we needed the path more often than them.

"Stupid tax collectors," I said, then grabbed the spokes of the wheel and pulled upwards. The muscles in my arms groaned as the wheel lifted out of the hole. My fingers slipped; the wheel fell back down. Without the weight, I lost my balance, and I fell back on the wet grass beside the path.  

“Stupid cart.”

I worked myself to my feet, brushing off the plant bits from my behind.

A triumphant horn echoed through the early spring landscape. I turned to the sound. The army had arrived in Hazelbrook.

"Mighty soon here, aren't they?"

I leaned against the stuck cart and watched the procession coming from the east. The lead were horse riders in royal army blue, followed by a number of carriages in a single file line. Then came foot soldiers clad in blue; enlisted, men who spend a year or more in the employ of the army. 

"Idiots," I said and helped myself to a handful of nuts from my belt pouch.

As the army went along, fewer people wore a coloured uniform, instead opting for utilitaristic brown clothes. These recruits made up the bulk of the procession. Recruits taken from their home. From tomorrow, I'd be one of them. A few people carried their belongings on the back, some rolled a barrel in front of them, and again others brought a mule or a donkey.

I looked at Ratter. Our old donkey wouldn't survive such a long journey, so I would be carrying my stuff on my own.

While the army continued on their way, I focused on getting the cart out of the mud again. I fetched the shovel from the cart. Using it as a lever, I freed the wagon from the hole, which I filled with a stones by the side of the path. I had to stop a few times for repairs on the path so we wouldn't get stuck again on the last stretch to Hazelbrook. As the path got better - a road now - and I passed by the first houses, the chatter got louder. The villagers had come out of their houses to greet the new arrivals. I sighed; the worst time to come here. And I had to travel on the main road to the seed stock as well.

The familiar faces of the locals seemed more bony than when I last saw them. Beside the villagers, small pockets of unknown men milled around, having stopped before reaching the camp at the other side of town. Some wore the army's uniform, most others tunics and leather pants just like mine. I scoffed. Not exactly like mine. Mine was covered with careful stitches that showed their age. 

Like many Hazelbrookers, most of the men had either a darker complexion or a greyish tint to them. With one notable exception; A strange, pale man leaned against the side of the only tavern in our village. His pristine, leather cloak was too thick for the temperature and he seemed as still as a statue, not a muscle moving in his body. He stared at me, and I stared back.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

A jolt went through the cart, breaking our eye contact. Ratter had stopped before hitting a tiny girl who had wandered onto the street. I jumped off the carriage and faced her. She looked up at me with unblinking eyes. She was the daughter of a farmer, the father only a year older than me, and now she was already five winters old. For a second, both of us were still.

I stretched out my tongue and crossed my eyes for a silly face. The small girl let out a refreshing laugh. I smiled, but as soon as I uncrossed my eyes, my cheeks fell down again.

The girl's mother dragged her off the dirt street, throwing me a disapproving look. I evaded her stare, choosing to focus on the road instead. A barrel of a recruit had broken into pieces a bit further along, and a group of men scrambled to pick up all belongings.

"Stupid soldiers," I swore under my breath. For now, I'd be stuck here. 

In an instant, disapproving looks from the locals focussed on me. I The mother of the girl in the street knelt down and berated her. "I don't want you to talk to that person."

"But why?" 

"You would die," the mother said.

The little girl started crying and hugged her mother, who carried her away. They disappeared in the crowd, and the other villagers stepped forward to protect as if I would come at the little girl with a knife.

I climbed back onto the cart, trying to ignore the looks. A few recruits had noticed the commotion, and I didn't know how they would act.

"Greet the Maker," a voice started with the formal greeting. "I believe we have not yet met."

I turned to see a young man standing by my cart. His bluish skin and the blue down feathers above his ears showed him to be of gargoyle blood. He wore a black robe with the crest of the church sown in at the centre of his chest; a red octagon around a red hand on a white background. He put a hand on the crest, which revealed a belly under his robe.

"I am the new ceremon in Hazelbrook," he said. "And you are?"

I took another handful of nuts from my pouch and started eating, one by one. All the while, I did not look once at the man of religion.

"We will celebrate a small ceremony in the evening to ask for the maker's protection for the recruits," the ceremon continued. "I know your family has not heeded the weekly call, but it would be great if I saw you there."

"Ceremon Altone, nobody of us wants him anywhere near the chapel," a woman's voice said.

The ceremon turned to the grey-haired woman, the waitress of the tavern.

"Now now, Silvia," he said. "Samoht taught us that nobody is too wayward to get back on the right path."

"He's got the curse of death upon his head. Don't get too close or you'll be caught in it."

"A curse?" The ceremon walked away from my cart. "Preposterous, there is no such…"

"It's true," an old woman at a table said. "Every last one around them dies before their time. Seven children they had, five dead in birth, one has not seen ten winters, he's left. Their neighbour burned alive,..."

"And even their dog doesn't bark anymore," her husband added, mulling over his ale. "I tell you, they were all sacrifices for the grey demons to let their crops grow tall."

My hand formed into a fist. I had to put Bello out of his misery last fall after a wild animal attack. His whine still rang in my mind from time to time. And they say I wanted to do this?

"If what you are saying is true," the ceremon said with doubt in his voice. "Then why is he still alive?"

"He should have died a few years ago," the waitress said. "Hanged for the murder of Britta, the eldest daughter of the Hahn family. He pushed her off that tower to her death. It doesn't matter what the army inspector said, we all know it was him."

I pursed my lips and checked the street. Finally, they have cleared the path, and I tapped Ratter's behind to get us away.

As the cart got moving, they still discussed further. "I still suspect that the farm hand they had was actually that priestess-rapist from Sunhill."

I scoffed. That one was the only one that had a bit of merit. Yrgal was not a rapist, though. If a priestess and a monk were caught together in bed, they would both be punished, except one takes all the blame on him. His love repaid him by slipping him a key to escape. And it wasn't a priestess, it was a priest. 

I still vividly remembered how we plastered hair on Yrgal’s bald head to trick those that searched for him. In return for our help, he taught me things that no other farmer knew.

As I pondered in the memory of my friend and teacher, Ratter pulled me past all other bystanders to a wooden hut not far from the soldiers' camp, where some soldiers were building up their two-men tents.  

The old donkey stopped right before the seed stock. I jumped off, turned the animal with the cart around and walked to the hut. An ancient man slept on the ground, wrapped in blankets. Joseph had already been old when I had been just a young boy. Although senile, he oversaw giving away the seeds. He was the only one in the village who could - officially - read highfont, save for maybe the new ceremon. 

"Wake up, Sepp!" I called to the old man.

No reaction. He lay there, not moving at all, making me think he finally kicked the bucket. But, as I came closer, his chest was still heaving up and down.

"Wake up!" I nudged him with my boot.

He jerked awake. "What? Who?"

"I'd like to take my share of seeds."

"Isn't it a little too early?" 

"It's afternoon," I extended my hand, so he could stand up.

He sighed in exhaustion, pushed his blankets off and heaved himself on his feet. He stood wary, threatening to fall over any second. "No, I mean early in the year."

"I know. But I have to join the army tomorrow."

"The army is already here?"

"They just arrived and were not silent in doing so. How did you miss this?"

He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the tents. "Aha, what do you know? So, what are you doing here?"

"Getting my share of seeds."

"Isn't it a little early for that?"

"Yes." I gave a smile.

He staggered for a moment before he continued. "Okay, then let's take a look at the list."

I picked up the big, leather-bound book he had used as a pillow, before the old man even tried to. 

He took it from my hand. "Thank you." 

He set the book to the small table that stood by the stock. He opened the index and turned filled page by page until he got to a page which was almost empty. I skimmed through the column of the table and found the symbol for my name within a few seconds. Joseph took longer; almost pressing his eyes to the page, he searched for the information. I took the time to look around in the stock for the things I could take with me.

Joseph tapped on the paper. "Ah, there we go. So, you can take...two bags of longseeds."

I checked the list again. "That's a three."

"Where's a tree?"

"No, I mean the number is a three."

He squinted at the writing. "Oh, right, my mistake. Thanks for pointing it out. You should be standing here, not me."

I took a look around. Luckily nobody was in earshot. If anyone found out I could read, they might find out about Yrgal, and punish the people who harboured the apostate monk. 

The old man didn’t seem to care, or he had forgotten already. He went into the low room and pointed at three yute sacks with the church's crest printed on. “Take these."

I bent my knees and wrapped each arm around the bags. Taking in a short breath, I heaved them on my shoulders.

I carried them out of the stock house, while Joseph babbled on, “I heard that it’s a horde of orcs again that we’re fighting. Can you imagine they’re so stupid as to attack the capital?”

I grunted as I put the sacks on my cart. “No, I can’t.”

The old man’s rambling followed me a second time to the storage room. “Stupid green beasts. Do they really think they have a chance after we defeated them only a few years back?”

My reply was another gasp as I yanked a sack of longcorn and one of broadcorn on my shoulders. With the direct comparison, it was clear that the latter was lighter.

Joseph stopped me. "Hey, that's not longcorn, put it back."

"But I know that I definitely also get a bag of broadcorn. This makes it faster."

"Put it back!"

I sighed and did as he said.

After I loaded the third bag of longcorn on the carriage, Joseph read the next column. "Broadcorn, two bags."

I stared at him for a moment, before I made a heavy sigh and loaded two bags onto the carriage.

Josef continued reading. "And one bag of peas."

"Only one? In the last few years, we always got two in the beginning."

"Are you questioning the decision of the church?"

Yes.

I smacked my lips. "No." 

Silently, I took the designated bag. On my last trip into the stock house, I could take smaller amounts of other seeds. With them in one hand, I said, "Bye, Joseph."

"What?" 

I just waved him goodbye. He did the same and lay down on the floor again.

As I turned to the cart, the pale man from before now leaned against the wheel of the cart, eerily still. Even as I closed in, he didn’t show any intentions of moving. I examined the man further.

His thick leather cloak hid his body form, though the slight bulge around his waist hinted at a sword. A deep blue gambeson and wool lining peeked out at his sleeve. His hair was black, with only a few signs of grey in it, his slender face clean shaven. Slight wrinkles gave him a look of experience, while still retaining some youthfulness. I guessed he was around his late forties though it was hard to tell. His orange eyes seemed to glow on their own. I made a second take. The shine might have been a trick of the light, but what was even more strange were his vertically slit pupils. Now that I looked for it, I found other abnormalities. At his collar and at his wrists, his skin turned reddish. He had to be a member of a magical race, one that I had forgotten the name of.

“Can you move?” I said while putting the last seeds on the cart. “That’s my wagon you’re leaning on.”

The man unfroze, reaching into the pocket of his coat. With one quick movement, he produced a decimetre long, thin, porcelain tube with a small circular compartment at the end. The strange pipe had a gleaming white coating, with a sky-blue floral pattern. With his right hand, he took out a small pouch, and filled some dried leaves into the compartment. He pushed them down with the index finger of his left hand and put the pipe in his mouth.

I pointed in the direction of the army camp. “You could easily struggle to light the tabak just a few metres that way and not bother me.”

As soon as I said it, thin smoke streamed out from the pipe, while his finger was still in. His eyebrow went up just a little bit.

I narrowed my eyes at the smoke. “How…”

“Apple?” The man mumbled with the pipe still on his lips. His raspy voice had an authoritative undertone.

My head fell down and I noticed that he now held out a yellow apple with his right hand. I struggled for words at the sudden offer, and my stomach growled due to the lack of lunch.

“No,” I said finally. “My mother told me to not take food from strangers.”

“Good point.” With one quick motion he pocketed the fruit.

“What do you want?”

The man breathed away a stream of smoke. "The other villagers say you're cursed because your family members died." 

Hate welled up in my chest. "Why would you care?”

He took another whiff from his pipe. "I wonder if they are right."

"Maybe they are,” I said. “So you better get away from me before you die as well.”

He ignored me. "It's most likely 'hogwash', as a farmer like you would call it. It's not too uncommon that a woman struggles to birth alive children, especially if that woman does not have a drop of magical blood. Is your mother human, through and through?"

"Is your mother a donkey considering how stubborn you are? Fuck off already."

"Hmm," He blew smoke over, and did not move an inch. "Do you have any special talents? Strength, good eyesight, a talent for swimming?"

“I was never in water deep enough.”

The hint of a smile appeared on the strange man's face. "Good."

“I’m getting tired of this.” I turned away and started walking homeward. 

"What about your cart?"

I whistled, and Ratter started walking.

The man lost his balance from the sudden movement of his support. His pipe fell from his lips and raced to the ground. He jumped forward, catching the object, but hit the street hard.   

"You damn..." he swore.

I skipped further, Ratter barely catching up to me. I let out a small laugh, which caused many of the bystanders to look at me in fearful concern.

When I was back on the path home, I stopped Ratter. It was a little early to plant seeds, and Mother and Father would profit more from a well maintained path. I took the shovel and got to work.

 When I was back at home, the sun was close to the horizon. Back at Hazelbrook, the army men were in their camp, while the locals grouped up to go into the chapel. 

I stored away the seeds in our storage. Despite what the church wanted, we won't use their blessed seeds for our field; seeds from last year's harvest sprouted more plentifully in our soil. 

Then I tended to the animals in the last light and said my goodbyes. Some of them would die before I’d come back in one- or two-years’ time.

When I went back inside, a savory smell hit my nostrils, coming from the cast iron pot in the middle of the table. Father sat by the table, with short hair and close to no beard now. Mother stood beside one of the chairs, with shears in her hand.

“Smells good like always" I said.

“Rabbit stew, a hare went into the trap,” Mother said, pushing me down on a chair close to the entrance. “But first we need to take care of your unruly mane.”

“For what reason? Nobody cares how I look. Not even me.”

Mother ignored me, and started to cut along my scalp. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll find a nice girl to bring home on your journey.”

“I already found a nice girl years ago.”

My mother didn’t comment. She continued cutting my hair and then moved on to my beard.

When she finished, she took a step back and looked at me. "See, if you're groomed properly, you are quite a handsome young man."

I scoffed. There were many things that one could use to describe me; handsome was not one of them. With the same pointy chin and hawk-like nose, I looked like a copy of my father, save his wrinkles and warts that undoubtedly would come with time.

"Thanks, mum."

I stood up and joined my father at the table. Mother scooped some of the steaming stew into my bowl.

I took a spoonful and moaned at the taste. It could have used more salt, but that’s a luxury we didn’t have. I finished my first bowl with a side of the hard bread and took seconds, the pot still not empty.

“This could’ve fed us for days,” I said while putting another spoonful in my mouth.

“Yes, but I just…” my mother’s voice broke as she struggled for words. “I thought you’d like it as a last meal at home.”

I looked into her brown eyes. “I guess it’s only a little battle on the other side of the map. I should be back within a year.”

The sombre silence settled between us again. 

After the meal, my mother went to sleep, and I washed the pot and the bowls with the rainwater outside. When I went back in, my father still sat at the table.

“Sit down, son.”

“I still need to pack my stuff.”

"I already prepared that for you."

He pointed at the corner, where clothes, provisions and other things I might need on the journey lay beside the rucksack we normally use to carry tools.

“Please, sit down.”

I sighed and slid back on the bench.

He started, "The battlefield is a place you will wish you’d never come to."

My hand formed into a fist. I knew this spiel. "Are you drunk again? Are you also going to claim again that you punted the allmage?"

A line formed between his brows and his jaw clenched. "No." He stared deep into my eyes. "I know I normally only talked about the war when I've had a few, but now, I'm sober and you need to listen to me so you're aware what will come for you. The battle is chaos, pain, and loss. I've seen some of my bravest friends freeze at the sheer sight of it. And that cost them their lives."

He reached for my hand. "You will have to make difficult decisions within a heartbeat. Spare a man, and he will drag you to the floor. Kill him, and you'd live your whole life with the tears of his family.  Give your life for the lives of others,..." He sighed. "Maker knows that I and my company didn't always choose right."

His eyes reflected the horrors he had seen. "In the end, you can only come home and hope everything will be alright."

I remained silent. He didn't even get this luxury.

He reached under the table and took out a bottle of schnapps and put it on the table between us. I stared at him, anger welling up inside me.

"Don't worry," he said. "This is my promise to you. It doesn't matter how hard it's going to get; this bottle will stay closed. And when you come back, we can decide what to do with it."

I looked in his eyes and gave him a small nod. 

My old man pushed himself up, grunting when putting weight on his hurt leg. "Don't be too long. You have long days ahead of you."

With these words he stumbled to the sleeping room, leaving me alone at the table.

Before long, I stood up, took the candle holder and made my way over to the things my father had prepared for me:

My spare clothes, a water skin, provisions like bread, sausage, eggs and carrots for a few days, patches and threads and a needle for repairs, shears to cut my beard,...

The only things missing were my knife, and the tunic that I still wore. I put all of them into the rucksack, then tested its weight. Manageable.

My eyes fell on the patch in the pattern of a flower on the rucksack. I traced my fingers around it. The leather of the patch was a bit softer, I hoped it and the seam would survive the journey. I breathed out of my nose and took my hand off again. 

It was time to go to sleep. The tall candle had shrunk significantly, only a few minutes of dim light left. Just enough time to check something.

Instead of going to rest, I fetched a chair to reach the books stored away on the top of the cupboard. ‘Books’ was a generous term; they were collections of self-made parchment pages bound in shoddy leather. I took the one on the very bottom of the stack and carried it over to the table. Carefully, I opened the cover. The first page stuck to it, and when I freed it, the edge of the brittle parchment broke off. 

In the candlelight, a rudimentary map of the kingdom appeared, as well as Yrgal could draw it from memory on the uneven parchment. Hazelbrook lay far to the east, Sunhill just a bit further west. That was the farthest I’d been in my life. I traced my fingers further along the indicated street. Not far after, there was a city called ‘Arkyras’, the seat of our baron. Then, the path continued along the coast of the Granaq river, which turned southward as if to escape the massive forest that made up the centre of the map. Eventually, the Granaq reached the city of Torza, where it turned westward again, past the city of Eugenia, to Westpass. From there, the road turned north, along another river to Forlam, the capital of the Kingdom. Simply going there would take months, and going back would take just as long. 

I sighed and flipped to the next page. With effort, I deciphered the heading in the highfont symbol.

Naiad

Thankfully, the more common name of the race was written beside it in simple script.

Gargoyle

I turned the page. I knew enough of the blue skinned people with down feathers above their ears. 

I turned the next few pages as well. Zivot, dwarf, berserker, elf, orc,... I knew the strange man I’d met today was none of those. 

The next page spoke about ‘Albos’. 

‘White hair, red eyes,...”

As soon as I started to read the first line, I knew that was not it either.

That left the last page. The highfont on this page was even less readable. I remembered, this was around the time when Yrgal taught me to write.

Squinting as hard as I could at the page in the low light, I deciphered the symbol on top.

“Souvra,” I said.

At that moment, the candle finally died down, leaving me in the dark.

“Damn it.”

If there was still time tomorrow, I’d need to read further in the morning. I yawned at the unusual time. I placed myself on the coarse straw and pulled the wool blanket over me.