There were once whispers of war. These whispers began when, one day, a merchant from the nearby settlement of Hannge had spoken of a roving Centaur horde from the western steppe galloping towards our liege’s lands, including this town. A day later, another batch of flute-playing, wandering beggars from the south had spread a rumor about an impending war against the Baron that rules the lands around us. Lately, visitors of our burgeoning town had spoken of hordes of beasts running away from a great dragon of the land. Some say that it was not was not a dragon, but a giant boar ravaging the forests in the east.

I do not understand why our village is upset, why the adults were upset. Only those around my age were excited at the prospect of adventure. When our chores were done, we would go to the field beyond the town, sticks in lieu of swords and spears, and wooden boards in lieu of shields to prepare for war, until we get scolded by the elders.

My father once told me of his adventures during the day, as he sculpted the stones from the town’s quarry. He had been counted among the war hosts of our Baron. He had seen the red-and-gold crown of the King of Gannye, the ruler of the mountains, forests, and fields around us, in a battle for an important city among his royal bodyguards. He had ascended from commoner to soldier, from mason to squire. He had faced many foes with his brothers-in-arms, in a marching fortress of shields and pointed spears. He bragged about his enchanted spear, and I remembered its tip shining even in the darkest nights. On the darkest nights, however, I can hear his cries and screams even from my room. Some nights, there is deathly silence. My mother told me that it was the work of nightmares, not evil spirits, and it was nothing to worry about.

One day, my mother told me that his body rests deep within the foot of our mountain, and his soul ascended to the skies above, by the will of Ten, God of the Skies, and Kheer, God of the Earth.

I had grown up in stories of adventurers slaying monsters and discovering treasure, and heroes cutting scores of bandits, told by bards of the cities that were desperate for coin. In contrast, I had grown up in a boring village at the foot of the mountain where I helped the rest of my family cut stones from the quarry. Day after day, I had to chisel stones into bricks and other shapes to be sold to stone traders. According to my cousins who were allowed to accompany the merchants who sold our stones, even the great cities of the kingdom used our stonework to create temples, towers, buildings, and statues.

I want to be a hero that all will remember, a hero that bards will sing songs about, surrounded by merry men and women as I walk within the streets of the capital. Yet, my mother and the rest of my clan forbid me from venturing out of the city and becoming a gallivanting adventurer, nor be like my father and becoming a squire to a knight or a noble, so our family would move up a caste. Yet I was chained to my responsibility of carving out stone into brick like the rest of my family, carrying their hopes that I would become among the esteemed masons of the town. What’s so great about carving stone? What’s so great about living in this town for the rest of my days?

I heard from the merchants, bards, and travelers that come into our town that there is an entire world out there. Vast rivers, castles of gold, and cities floating in the sky. The farthest travelers bragged in the taverns and gambling houses that they had met many kinds of people, not just people like us, but people made out of paper, people with long ears, people who are short but strong, and people with horns and fur. They had spoken of “oceans”, lakes that were as wide as the skies above, and as vast as the steppes in the frontier.

“Stop dawdling and finish up! Lunch is ready!”

My mother interrupted my daydreaming, shouting from the high ground where our longhouse sits atop. With a few strikes with my chisel, the half-finished lump of stone became a rough brick. I threw the brick to the dusty pile of others like it, before I went into the long house where the rest of my family lives. It was a fair distance, walking on stone steps, before I had arrived before the wooden porch of the longhouse. Before I entered, I had to wash myself with a pot of rainwater to wash the dust off my hands and skin, washing my hands and arms.

I opened the sliding door and there were many of my uncles, cousins, and aunts eating in the long wooden table that dominated the hall, lit by the open windows. Food was already served, and I sat beside my mother as we ate the stew that was prepared by her. The talk of the day was always business, on the trade with the stone bricks and pieces that we sell to the stone traders, and somewhere along the way, it led to the rumors that I kept hearing about. My older siblings, uncles, aunts, and cousins of the clan have a collective conversation about it:

“I heard that the barony is in need of stone for their new fortifications.”

“A castle?”

“No, a new wall.

“A wall for the Centaur hordes? Or against the other lords?”

“The wall will be built along this town. Our town will become a city. A fortress city.”

“Assuming that those steppe barbarians do not invade us first.”

My mother clapped her hands, silencing them.

“Please. No business talk on the table.”

My relatives switched the topic to other gossip. It was not long before lunch ended, and I had free time to walk around the town, walking away from the longhouse nestled at the town’s eastern slope. The older members of the clan had refined the sculpting of the more important stoneworks, while a junior like me had finished the simple task of carving stones into bricks to be sold. From here, I can see the entire town, where I had lived my entire life in the foot of the mountain, with the ancient stone keep where the head of the town resides. I walked the slanted roads that led to the market district to buy a snack for myself. I had heard from my family that every brick that made up the stone buildings of the town and the wall that overlooked the steppes were painstakingly carved by my family’s predecessors. The western walls were chipped by time, but they stood defiantly in front of the neverending steppes.

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Tiny, moving shapes emerged from the black border of the horizon and kicked up dust clouds, and I realized that these moving shapes were galloping towards us, weapons and banners in hand, singing a haunting, guttural humming tune I had never heard before, nor conceive in my imagination, growing louder, and louder until the sound itself vibrated the insides of my ears.

It was only when the gong of the town’s tallest tower was sounded that I realized that war had come to the town.

We were on the walls, watching the horde of half-men, half-horse warriors muster in a rough wedge in front of the town’s gatehouse. The defenders of the town were on the ready with their spears and crossbows, but they did not dare to loose their bolts upon them. The Centaurs, men and women, wore armor that seemed to be made out of reptilian scales and leather bands on their shirts, decorated with fur, feathers, and finger bones, and their helms were either forged from simple metal to those with elaborate plumes. The barding of their horse-halves were also armored in the same way, with some hanging shields of many colors and shapes, decorated with limbs, some rotted into bone, some still freshly cut and dripping blood. They held lances and bows that were longer and taller than me and flowing pennons of green and blue written in their vertical barbaric script.

The leader, a Centaur with a colorful panoply of metal armor, inlaid with designs of clouds, dragons, and grass, and engraved with gold, trotted forward from the wedge. His blue, fur cape seemed to shine with power, and the three white and red plumes on his helmet fluttered in the air. The strangest thing that he wore was the emaciated person on his back, his legs seemingly bound to a modified saddle with metal and leather bindings, and his hands were cut, their stumps covered in cloth. The person seemed to be treated more like a decoration than a rider.

I saw the mayor of the town standing on top of the gatehouse, confronting the leader of the horde. I flinched when the Centaur spoke in his guttural tongue, for I heard that their loud voices could kill a person. After the Centaur spoke, the captive on his back translated:

“I am Tzamurbeg, Colt of Tzahan-Nu, Chieftain of Tzayhaandur of the Tribes of Jiongnuei. Surrender as vassals, or your town shall die by our arrows.”

The captive’s voice was loud, quivering, and fearful despite the fearsome words he spoke on behalf of his master. I didn’t hear what our town’s mayor had said in comparison, for I was far from the gatehouse.

The Centaur bellowed, and we saw a hundred arrows fly.

My mother pulled me by the hand as the arrows fell. We ran away from the wall, rushing downwards from the steps, almost tripping. The people on the walls were impaled by the many arrows that fell from the sky. We took cover under a stone awning when the first volley of arrows had come close to impaling us. My heart thumped with the sounds of arrows cracking the tiled roofs of the buildings of the town. We saw the town’s militia marching, with spears and repurposed farming implements in hand. They marched without fear until the arrows had taken them, impaling them indiscriminately in any part of their body, be it ears, eyes, ankles, ribs, and more.

“Do not cry. We will make it through this.”

I didn’t know that I had tears in my eyes until my mother wiped it for me. I did not know I was afraid when my mother comforted me with these eight words. We continued to take shelter in alcoves, in the homes of our neighbors, who were shaking and crying in fear, in the smithies where weapons and tools were forged, in shops where customers and shopkeepers were huddled together until we arrived at the longhouse the rest of my clan is living in.

“Are you alright?”

One of my uncles asked us. We nodded, reassuring him. My mother had ordered us to pack our things and head to the eastern gates before anyone else could hinder us. For the first time in my life, I was truly afraid. It was not like the stories that my father had told me, nor the adventures that the bards sang about. They do not sing about the blood spilled on the streets, nor the terrified bystanders, nor how a life can end in an instant.

We had mounted our things in a pile on a wagon outside our home. Only three people could fit in the front of the wagon. My mother took charge of steering the mule that pulls the wagon, while I was sitting beside her. One of my uncles rode with her with a crossbow, while the others trailed behind us, some carrying my younger cousins on their backs or in their arms.

Before we had even left the vicinity of our gatehouse, five of the Centaurs were already blocking our way, lances and curved swords in hand. When my eyes drifted to the plumes of smoke, the Centaurs galloping unhindered through the streets, and the broken gatehouse of the town, I realized what had happened. In an instant, the town was conquered. The stories about the Centaurs of the steppe were true about their blinding speed.

“We surrender.” My mother spoke up, despite the Centaurs not understanding our language. “We are a clan of stone masons. We can help you build walls, fortifications, and structures. Spare us, and we will be of use to you.”

One of the Centaurs galloped towards us and cut the head of our mule, but before his curved blade flickered in our direction, a bark had halted his hand. It was the one who called himself “Tzamurbeg”, with the captive rider on his back. He spoke with his booming voice, his speech rough, heavy, and demanding. The person on his back translated:

“My mounted herald had overheard that you are masons. Therefore, you will work under me. You will supply the horde’s catapults with stone ammunition. Attempt to escape this town without my say-so, and I will cut all of your limbs and drag you to the steppe. Understood?”

“Yes.”

The Centaur left to the city. The other Centaurs started to encircle the longhouse. We were forced to return our belongings back to our longhouse, under watch by our invaders. From that day, we had carved spheres out of our stone bricks, stone cubes, and even the commissioned stone sculptures.