Bat’tor is walking through a prairie south of his home Calroun. The sun is setting and he plans to set up camp as soon as he reaches the woods, the wildflowers all blooming throughout the tall grass. Soft dirt left unpacked by travel rests under his ever stomping gait, the soft smell of pine brings memories of growing up in his family home in Calroun. This carries him to the thoughts of his parents. Bat’tor’s family ran a mill on the river, they provided the flour that supplied the king's larder in case of siege. Despite the pleasant scenery and gorgeous sky his mood still soured. He left home at the age of seven-teen to join Talora's warband, he heard promises of uprising and wealth for the people of Volanter. Rumors carried by horse and by wind eventually reach all corners of the continent, this being one such rumor that hit his ears while searching for a solution to his family’s money problems. The king had recently raised tariffs to aid in the everpresent war with Gobok, the war their kingdom had struggled with for almost ten years now. This fell on the shoulders of my family and their food stores, the last two years had been difficult for the millers in Calroun. The winters grew hungrier every year and this coming winter was to be the worst for them, they had no hope that all would make it through with the food supply we were left with. With this rumor came a solution, Bat’tor would go to join Talora and lighten the amount of mouths to feed. He would earn money to bring back to his folks and maybe the winters wouldn’t be so hard anymore.

It had been two years since Bat’tor left his home. His nineteenth year passed recently, he spent it drinking around a fire with the men he’d faced death with. It grows darker as he thinks, the shadows now indistinct from the rest of the world except in the deeper woods. He drew closer to the treeline and began gathering fallen sticks, anything dry carried by wind away from the towering pines. The smell of pine was it’s strongest and the flowers had all but disappeared as he closed in on the treeline, now more often replaced with wild lavender and mushrooms growing in deer tracks. After three days of walking he had come close to his home, just another day on his feet and he’d be able to find rest in his home. The thought of seeing his mothers smiling face again filled him with hope as he set down the stick into a pile and began making kindling, whittling small shaving of wood that would catch fire easier. Bat’tor brought his chainmail, bow, and dagger this far, he’d said away with the caution of keeping it secret. Retired soldiers could have anything from their time at war, and Bat’tor’s father was a soldier once in the king's army. A pile of sticks and kindling now lay in front of Bat’tor, he stacked some dry grass on top of the little pyre and reached for his satchel. The birds were singing a small song, telling eachother goodnight as darkness closed in around him. He smiled finally thinking of his mothers fresh baked bread, and he’d love to spar with his father again. It had been too long since Bat’tor had seen either of them, almost three months since his last visit home. Flicking the flint and steel over the fire the grass began to smoke, he leaned over and blew a soft whistle into the heart of the smoke. Before long fire was visible, it was already sitting on the logs and picking up, so he stood. He would need more wood to make a cookfire.

A rabbit killed not more than an hour before sat cleaned over a crude grate of sticks, just high enough so the fire wouldn’t ignite them. It dripped with fat and juices as the meat was close to done, taking it off the stack Bat’tor moved the hare onto his leather bag to cool. He grabbed his rosemary and salt to sprinkle them over the meal, Bat’tor found that as meat cooled it sucked in flavour better than just cooking the seasoning with the meat. Along with the mushrooms he’d picked this would make his first fresh meal in some time, spending time on the road with a group of bandits lent itself to salt meats and dry flour biscuits. After ten minutes the meat seasoned itself and solidified enough to cut, he took his knife from the belt on his waist and striped the meat from the ribs and legs. A spatter of cooked meat sat next to roasted mushroom, the air filled with rosemary and wild onions as Bat’tor relaxed and began to eat. The meat was tender and gamy, he preferred gamy meat to be honest. There weren’t many domesticated animals in Calroun growing up so the taste of home grown meat was foreign to him. He took his first bite and he could have cried, how long had it been since he had a moment to truly sit and enjoy a meal. Bat’tor thought about it for a moment, four weeks? No it had to be longer than that, they never stopped for long once things started getting grim for the band. Two months perhaps, yes somewhere around two months sounded right to him. The meal disappeared quickly and soon he was scuffing the fire and settling down for sleep.

Bat’tor walked down along the stream carrying a sack of charcoal, he was to bring it to his father and after he could walk to the public house nearby. Bat’tor was never a hard worker, his father would call him a slacker in fact. His mother always had kinder words but she was soft hearted, the whole town saw his old mum as everyone’s mum. She’d always be there to help raise kids and take care of anyone who was sick, Calroun never had a midwife so if there was a child to deliver she was there. His father fought against Gobok in the army, he made it to sergeant but took an injury that stopped him from combat so he retired to Calroun. His father would always talk about how important it was to take up arms against those that would destroy your home, that every man should hold a spear once in his life. Talora and Raith agreed that the spear was a good weapon but not fitting to their tactics, so they insisted on every man being armed with a hammer with a spear on the end. They often faced knights and heavy infantry when fighting the king's forces, and that decision had saved his skin more than once. When an iron behemoth is racing toward you with a halberd it’s hard to find the small cracks of vulnerability in armor, so a stick with a right big piece of iron on the end gives you options. Bat’tor could see town now and his feet began aching, his feet always hurt worst when rest was in sight. He looked over the lake and thought of Carrie-ann, the sweet innkeeps daughter who’d always give him a wink and a cold cup of ale when he was swindling travelers. She’d come over to the table where they play dice and butter them up for him, easy pickins.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

Bat’tor woke as the sunlight hit his face, he woke in good spirits with memories of home still fresh from his dream. He picked up his sack and oil bag then began walking again. Deeper into the woods now he could almost smell it, once he broke through these trees he could see Calroun and then his feet would start hurting. He couldn’t get Carrie-Ann out of his thoughts as he moved through the pines, he’d never been one to fall in love but he thought about visiting the public house. The way she smiled made his heart flutter just to imagine it again, that’s what he really needed now. After two years of dealing death on the nobility he’d grown colder, he didn’t like to talk about it but sometimes he woke up screaming. The archers all new but with how camp was laid out the sound didn’t make it to the farther tents, he missed when he use to sleep every night peacefully. Nightmares would shroud his mind with visions of decaying men clawing at him and calling his name, they always had the same face. The first man he’d ever killed on the field, the fight went poorly much like this final encounter. The caravan got wind of the ambush and sent scouts to circle around and pinch their forces, they didn’t know the archers were set up in the trees to the south or else they might have sent infantry to take them. But the small group of soldiers that came through the trees and without a word Jerricho fired on them, this was Jerrichos standard battle tactic. As soon as the first arrow was loosed that was the signal for the rest of the archers to follow suit, Bat’tor nailed a man in the throat not ten feet away. He saw the surprise in his eyes as well as the fear as he fell, clutching at the arrow as if removing it would fix the problem. One of the archers missed a vital spot and one of them screamed which set off the alarm but Bat’tor didn’t hear it, he was busy staring at the face of the man he’d just killed. He stared at his face as the light left his eyes and he wailed a silent scream. Bat’tor didn’t know how long it took for a man to die from an arrow in the throat, it felt like an eternity as he just stared speechless. No use thinking of all that right now, he hadn’t had a nightmare last night so he could shake the thought. His mind wandered back over to Carrie-Ann. Bat’tor had felt lost for some time, after the fight the brought Talora’s forces to a tenth of what they had been he felt like he’d made a mistake. He felt like everything he’d done for the past two years had been a mistake, like he had wasted years he could have spent with his family and courting Carrie-Ann. But now he knew what he wanted, he knew what he needed. He was going to go home and sweep Carrie-Ann off her feet, he’s going to go home and hug his mother and finally pick up the slack in the mill. After all, he finally knew all that he needed in life; a cohort who would help him in his schemes, and a warm bed with a family. Bat’tor broke through the trees and he finally saw it, his home Calroun. Bat’tor could see the mill on the river as the wind picked up toward him, his feet started aching and he felt hungry again already. A big smile spread across his face as the wind reached him from town. His smile instantly broke off and he dropped his pack, his feet no longer hurt and his stomach no longer rumbled as he frantically pulled his bowstring from his pack.

Bat’tor donned his chainmail as fast as possible and he left all but his bow, arrows, and knife as he rushed down the hill. Bat’tor felt the world shrinking before him, the only thing he could keep in his vision was the town. He rushed at a full sprint down the hill, unknowingly breaking his record for a mile run. He didn’t run like the wind, he ran like an injured deer; clutching onto the smallest hope for life as it’s heart's blood spilled on the forest floor. The smells grew stronger and stronger as he grew closer to the buildings and he could see it now, ash mixed with mud on the walls as burned thatch lay collapsed into the public house. Bat’tor reached the inn and kicked in the door, the smell hit him like a stone thrown by a trebuchet. Rot like a wave crash over him, the the smell of dead flesh filled his lungs as he scanned the main room. He went through the Inn smashing down doors to rooms searching for anything, any sign of life that could bely for even a moment what had happened. Bat’tor didn’t find a living soul in this building, just dozens of dead left rotting where they were slain. Outside now he rushes straight for the mill on the river. The building is still standing as he crashes through the door. Nobody in the main room moves to the bedroom and kicks it in as he draws his bowstring. He slowly lets the bowstring back into the bow, an arrow still knocked. No tears fall from Bat’tor as he beholds his mothers rotting form. He could still make out some of her features, it’s a face unlike a human with little bits of his mother left. Much of her face was missing but her eyes were still open, Bat’tor could recognize his mothers eyes no matter how long it had been since he last saw them. He quietly left the room as the fire left his body, he slowly padded out to the road Idly checking buildings as he passed. There are fewer bodies than there were people when he left. He searches until mid-day, he’s unable to find any bodies he could recognize as his father or Carrie-Ann. A numb man walks down the main road of Calroun, bow still strung in his hands. He sees tracks in the road that are vaguely recognizable as horse tracks. He knows that his dad must have died during the raid, but he most probably wouldn’t be able to find him if he kept looking. Bat’tor’s father is- was a warrior at heart, he would have gone out fighting. His mind worked without input and discovered a dead man lying in a hay bale near the stables, he held a shield with the insignia of Gobok emblazoned on the front. He makes no declarations, he barely even considers the fact as he absent mindedly walks back to his pack on the hill. Numb, he unstrings his bow and replaces his chainmail back into the oil bag. He picks up his pack and walks back down to the main road. He silently follows the horse tracks north up the road out of Calroun. Bat’tor walks until nightfall, always following the tracks. Some hours after the sun falls he sets his pack down and lays his head on it; Bat’tor doesn’t start a fire as he lays staring at the stars, he’s not hungry and he can’t feel the cold as he slowly drifts off. Bat’tor has the nightmares again tonight but the faces are replaced by his mother, father, and Carrie-Ann.