Special thanks to Jack Murtagh for his exceptional, insightful, and annoying editing. Here’s to you, white man. ;D

Disclaimer for Tolkien nerds: I never read Tolkien, it’s a coincidence.

The last snowflakes had fallen, and the tread of leather boots through snow should have turned the single road running through Jinnsfjur to a muddy slush. It had largely remained its pristine white however, as the inhabitants of the village now only ventured outside when they needed to.

That was, aside from the small prints the children left in their wake. The handful of youngsters had lived through the last few years of raiding that the rest of the village had endured, they had huddled under tables as their homes were ransacked, yet they somehow still managed to enjoy the respite that the snowfall had brought from their torment.

Perhaps they thought the attacks wouldn’t start again, as they had each of the last few seasons. Perhaps they simply didn’t realise that there was a pattern to events which culminated in the marauding band returning at the start of each spring.

Perhaps they were simply the only ones who still had hope that things could change. They would soon that their hope was in vain.

The wafting aroma of freshly baked bread coming from Milena’s window was her daily attempt to bring some brightness to the lives of her fellow villagers.

She had tried so hard to keep her hopes alive that the situation may improve. It had to, she told herself; for her daughter, that she wouldn’t have to live a life of fear, scrounging for scraps in a world that had forgotten about her.

That had been the whole point, when Milena and the other eleven had first come here and settled Jinnsfjur. The nearby forest provided all the lumber they needed, its animals giving them meat, hides, and furs, the river gave fish and fresh water to irrigate the farmland. Most importantly, it was completely untouched by other settlers. There weren’t any other people living somewhere so remote.

Nor were there any creatures they had to fear; no trolls nor ogres roaming the mountains, not even any wolves in the forest, and even the city of Nirna – the closest point of civilisation – had never suffered a dragon attack.

It seemed an impossible paradise in the harsh world they known so far, and it was… at first. The town thrived in the first few years. They built their houses, they built two mills – one for flour and one for lumber, the flowing river waters powering both the grindstone and the sawblades.

They soon had enough produce that Pavel began taking a caravan back to Nirna, the city they had all worked so hard to escape once, to trade for the few things they needed which they couldn’t create themselves.

He’d told them all what it was like being back, that first time. Sat around the fire pit in Jinnsfjur’s common house, he related how the memories of begging in the streets had quickly returned, of sleeping under shop awnings to escape the rain, of taking whatever work they could find to earn just enough to scrape by one more day.

The city hadn’t changed, he’d said. Still overcrowded, still reeking of the grime and filth filling the streets. If anything, it had seemed that there were even more homeless filling the alleyways between the cobblestone buildings.

Seeing the desperation in their eyes had been like looking back ten years into a reflection he’d desperately tried to forget.

Seeing the poverty he had managed to escape made the finer clothes he now wore feel like a lie, as though the embroidered tunic and tailored boots were an attempt to trick people into believing he was something he wasn’t.

He struggled between wanting to take them back with him, and wanting to flee as far as he could from the grim reminder of his own past. He wanted to give them what they needed. He didn’t want to lose what he had managed to gain.

He didn’t even want to look at them, begging as they were, reminding him of where he had come from. He didn’t want the reminder of his past, yet he looked. He didn’t ever want to forget how far he and the others had come.

Of course, eventually word got around of the prosperous new settlement to the south, settled at the foot of the mountains rimming the edge the known world. At first it had been a single person coming home with Pavel’s caravan.

Luka had been a soldier in the past and had tired of fighting. He wanted to settle down, farm some land, and live a peaceful life. There was land aplenty to be found, and he seemed a genuine sort of man, so the founders welcomed him.

He looked to be a tall and sturdy man, one who could work a field well and reap a bountiful harvest. His years in the army had made him strong, but unfortunately they had taught him to use a sword much better than a hoe. He lamented that the tool of his new trade brought yet more callouses to hands he had thought would not have to endure any more roughening.

He needed somewhere to stay while his own home was being built. Since she had the most room, Milena eventually, and reluctantly agreed to let him sleep on a makeshift cot in her storefront.

Luka did his best to help Milena as he could, whenever he wasn’t building his soon-to-be home or preparing his land for planting - badly. Milena never failed to complain about anything and everything he did or didn’t do, often ending with what an indignity it was that she was forced to board him at all.

She told him that he was too young for his hair to be greying as it was. He told her that her straw coloured mane was the most lustrous he had seen.

They were married by the time Luka’s house was built. The whole village celebrated, throwing a feast in the house which would after go unused. Luka moved into the house above the bakery, and when they were not working, he and Milena were never seen apart, and always hand in hand. Katia was born the following year.

Brigid remarked she had her mother’s hair and her father’s nose. A shame, Luka said, gesturing to his own nose which had become misshapen after being broken several times. Milena playfully slapped his arm, rolling her eyes at her husband’s jokes.

More people came to settle in the growing hamlet, and the house built for Luka found a new owner. More children entered the lives of the villagers, a community of good and kind people grew, and for years it seemed that their future would bring nothing but joy.

Eventually even a certain stone tower was erected at the forest’s edge. It was inhabited by a mysterious man who had come to them once and found something he had been missing.

The perfectly formed stones offset the wooden appearance of the village beside it, as did its height, rising high above the villager’s homes, almost to the canopy of the trees it stood beside.

A single window at its peak looked out over Jinnsfjur, its people feeling like its owners protective gaze was watching over them, at least until he left on another of his journeys.

Then they came.

Down from the mountains they came on horseback. Clad in thick furs and brandishing chipped swords and rusty battle-axes they came into the heart of Jinnsfjur. They broke down doors and knocked their owners to the ground. They stole tanned hides and cured meats from racks as though they were theirs. They stole anything that took their fancy, valuable or not.

They stole pillaged and hurt without remorse, taking sick pleasure in the terror the wrought.

Then the villagers were brought before their leader, a mountainous man with a face full of ugly scars. He told them that they needn’t ever endure another day like this one; that he and his men could protect their growing community, and that Jinnsfjur could be certain of their safety so long as they kept their protectors fed and clothed.

For what seemed an interminable time no one moved, the villagers shocked at this development in their – up till now – peaceful hamlet. The ugly giant of a man simply stood there wearing his smug grin, the already grotesque scars covering his face pressed into a deathly white.

Finally, it was Luka who stepped forward to meet him, his soldiering instincts returning with force. He told the bandit leader that Jinnsfjur and its people needed no protectors, and that he and his band should return where they came from.

The bandit leader’s smirk didn’t waiver for an instant, he’d been expecting this response. He appeared to concede, saying that he and his men would leave, find another village that was in need of “valiant defenders”.

It was a lie. His attempt to appear affable was transparent to everyone present. Luka knew they would return soon, and it would not be to offer a better agreement. The people of Jinnsfjur would have to prepare.

***

When the last of the raiders was gone, Luka turned to his fellows, battered and frightened as they were, and told them they would need to fight to defend the village. Brin the woodsman and Olan the blacksmith readily agreed, they were not about to give up everything they had worked for the last ten years.

The next day was a flurry of activity. Luka organised everyone into groups and laid out his plan to repel the bandits. Most of the villager’s had never fought anything more than a hungry rat or a particularly smug chicken, and were understandably afraid for their lives.

Milena’s heart warmed at the ease with which Luka comforted and inspired them.

This village was their home, their legacy, and no one was going to take it from them. For all the gloom of the impending attack, the one bright spot in Milena’s eye was that it revealed her husband’s true path. He was never really meant to be a farmer, he was a leader.

Olan spent every waking moment in his forge, his large muscles bulging and sweat beading down from the top of his bald head all the way down his stocky shoulders. He was hoping to arm his friends and neighbours with proper weapons, yet he managed to forge only a half dozen spearheads over the course of the day.

Passionate as he was to fight for his home, it was a new experience for him too. His years of crafting nails and horseshoes had left him ill-prepared to forge weapons of war. His first attempt to use his normal iron stock left him with a spearhead that shattered as soon as it struck a shield, before he recalled what he had been taught about folding ores for use in weapon smithing.

Brin was there with him, attaching the spearheads to shafts he had whittled, his experience showed as he hastily crafted the weapons with skill born from a life of hunting.

Ill-equipped as they were, the entire village was committed at this point. Two barricades were hastily erected at the town entrance by noon, designed not to stop intruders, but to funnel them into an enclosed area. Luka said this would give them their best chance to prevail as he calmly gave everyone their orders, the old soldier in him emerging once more.

The few with spears among them would meet the invaders head on, and those of the village who hunted in the forest would remain behind the barricade with their bows, they had new prey to hunt. Brin would lead them; experienced as he was in its use, he always took meticulous care of his bow, applying a fresh coat of wax to the strings that morning. It was his most prized possession, the shaft adorned with a single feather, lock of hair, or tuft of fur from every different creature he had hunted with it.

Everyone else scrounged whatever weapons they could from their homes. Shovels, pitchforks, kitchen knives, and other assorted tools were repurposed into instruments of death as dusk began to fall and the rag-tag formation readied themselves.

Marko earned himself a knock across the head before the battle even started, after Freja caught her husband breaking apart her favourite pot to back the simple wooden shield the carpenter had built.

As Luka addressed his newly-formed militia that night, somehow making each and every one of them ready to face death itself, the youngest of the children were huddled in Brigid’s root cellar.

No one had told them exactly what was going to happen, no one had wanted to scare them. Katia, barely five years old, was the youngest. Milena and Luka would do anything to get through this night alive and see her again. Their daughter meant everything to them.

Soon the thunder of hooves reached the peasant army’s ears, and to their credit, not a single person’s courage failed them. They stood ready to meet the invaders, trusting in the leadership of the one who had rallied them to not give in to tyranny, to not accept anything less than what they deserved, to mark their place in history as a people who would make a good life for themselves, despite the depredations of evil men.

The band of marauders was almost upon them, their horses bearing down on the town with no sign of slowing. Clearly, there would be no mercy to be had. Luka’s presence at the very front, and his war cry that bellowed out filled the people of Jinnsfjur’s hearts with resolve. They believed in him and in themselves, they believed they would win.

Milena’s heart soared to see her beloved husband as she never had before; as a warrior, as a leader. She had frequently told him how bad of a farmer he was over the years, in earnest at first, then as their love had grown it had become a cherished joke between them. At this moment however, such jokes were far from her mind, for he had never looked as magnificent to her as he did now.

That, though, proved quite the distraction; as she stood beside him ready to defend their home, she almost had to suppress a snicker as she silently promised herself to never tell him what a truly amazing man he was.

As it happened, she would never get the chance. That was the night Luka died.

He had said the raiders would charge headlong into the village – thirsty for blood and heedless of danger – expecting little to no resistance from simple farmers.

And he was right.

The mountainous leader of the marauding band galloped headlong towards the centre of the barricades. If he was surprised at all by the presence of defences, he didn’t show it. There was nothing but murder in his eyes.

The half dozen spears he rode into did their job, though, bringing his mount to a stop as it struggled with the wounds the villagers inflicted upon it. In its death throes it managed to throw its rider from its back, thankfully giving a reprieve from the wild swings the scarred giant had been making.

It didn’t take him long to recover however, and to make his displeasure known. By now his underlings had caught up to him and a fierce melee ensued. Those who had been on horseback hadn’t fared much better than their leader, a rain of arrows from behind the barricades bringing down one horse after another, and more than a few of the bandits atop them.

Their own archers had made to return the effort, firing from bows and crossbows wildly at the people huddled behind the simple wooden walls. A few of the villagers were struck, but by the time all of the invader’s horses had been felled, the height of the barricade effectively prevented further reprisals.

The melee at the convergence of the two barricades had grown into an all-out battle, villagers and raiders mixed so much that either side firing arrows into it carried the risk of hitting their own people.

On both sides bows were dropped, while the invaders grabbed axes and swords the villagers took pitchforks and shovels to hand, and all rushed into the ensuing frenzy.

At the centre of it all was the bandit leader, the ugly mountain of man’s scarred face twisted in delight as he savagely swung his sword at his next victim. It too was an ugly, jagged thing matching its owner in how oversized it was.

By Luka’s side several of his friends now lay dead, those who had bravely - or perhaps foolishly, attempted to fell the bandit leader themselves. It seemed to him that the man’s appearance belied his martial skill, the many scars criss-crossing his face bearing testament to the many battles he had fought – and lived through.

He had just finished removing his sword from Marko’s belly. The carpenter’s hastily assembled shield had provided him little defence, his best wood and the mangled remains of his wife’s favourite pot now lying shattered by his side.

It was then that Freja, who had always been a meek and almost painfully shy person – except when facing her husband, saw the beastly man cut him down with nothing short of contempt. Kitchen knife in hand, she lunged at him screaming in rage only to be impaled and held aloft on his enormous sword, painting a grisly tableau of the villain’s savagery. As she slid down to the hilt, her weak attempts to stab the villain’s heart were barely strong enough to pierce his skin.

Luka, upon seeing this, quickly dispatched the nameless bastard he was fighting, delivering a swift cut along his throat as he had been taught, and ran to engage the biggest threat to Jinnsfjur’s victory.

The clash of steel rang out all around, blow after blow the two commanders traded steel, their skill and determination matching each other as they moved, viciously attempting everything they could to end the other’s life as the battle raged around them.

Brin proved himself a natural with his dagger, bringing down three of the invaders single-handedly as easily as he would a wounded, thrashing stag.

Even Milena, who recoiled at the idea of killing the occasional rat which infiltrated her bakery, didn’t hesitate to go on after being drenched by a spray of blood coming from a bandit’s throat once she was done burying one of Marko’s awls into it.

Soon enough the marauders realised that their raid wasn’t going as well as expected, and several of those remaining, began to retreat. Two of their number made towards their leader’s side.

By this point both he and Luka were heaving heavy breaths, they had gained and lost ground, inflicted small wounds upon each other, but neither had yet gained a decisive advantage.

The image of Luka standing there, his dented breastplate shining in the torchlight, squared off against the imposing giant in his patchwork furs might’ve made the very essence of a heroic epic.

But this was not a noble tale to be told in taverns and kings’ courts, this was a deadly struggle between people and predators at the edge of the known world, a tale of nameless heroes in a place no one had ever heard of. A tale that would never be told. It was the kind of tale that rarely had a happy ending.

The two remaining members of the raider gang were now struggling to pull their leader back from the fray. Eyes seeing only red and frothing at the mouth, it was clear the brute still felt nothing but rage even as many of his fellows lay dead and dying around him.

What reason he had eventually won out though, as, seeing the mob of angry villagers now beginning to crowd around him, he finally turned and ran, leaving Jinnsfjur – and his conquest – behind.

The people of Jinnsfjur exhaled a heavy breath. The cost had been great, but victory was theirs. Friends and family had fallen, more than any had hoped but fewer than some might have expected. Their preparations and Luka’s leadership had proven fruitful.

A cheer erupted among the survivors as they watched the raiders flee. They had done it. Against all odds, they had prevailed. They had shown the would-be invaders that their people would not be cowed, they would not be made slaves.

Milena’s heart stopped in the next moment. The adrenaline coursing through her veins had let her shrug off the sickening gore, the horrid violence, and the chaos of the battle. It could not, however, stop her from freezing in place when the arrowhead erupted through her husband’s throat.

She was looking into his eyes, joy and disbelief warring within her mind. The smile he gave her bringing tears of relief, when suddenly he gasped, a ghastly rattle coming in place of his voice, and a choke of blood leaving his lips.

Just beyond the town’s barricades, beyond the mess of dead men and horses, the ugly leader of the bandits had apparently determined that their happiness could not go unpunished.

He had stopped to pick up a bow from one of his dead comrades, knocked a single arrow, and took aim. Too caught up in the high of their victory, none of the townspeople had noticed.

But his skills extended beyond just his sword. Those people would know this, he decided. They would soon know the name Cruvik, and know to fear it.

What had been a moment frozen in place erupted with activity. In the seconds it took Luka to drop to his knees, then forward onto the bloodied ground beneath, several of the villagers rushed after the bandit leader, weapons in hand, anger in their eyes. But he was already gone, disappeared into the darkness.

The battle had seemed endless while it was happening. Each second filled with dread and adrenaline for the farmers-turned-soldiers fighting for everything they had.

Now it seemed like it had passed in mere moments, and the rest of the night was dragging into eternity.

The one pristine white of the snowy road was now a splashed all around with a grisly dark red, tainted with death for the first time.

Gathering the bodies of the fallen had been the first priority. Few words were spoken as they moved the dead to the side of Jinnsfjur’s only road, they would have to start digging graves in the morning.

With Luka gone, the others had looked to Milena for leadership, but she was inconsolable. Several minutes had passed before she moved from her spot, eyes still staring at the fallen form of her love.

Eventually, Brigid returned from unlocking her root cellar to let the children out. She removed her fur cloak and wrapped it around Milena’s shoulders, and took her – walking slowly and listlessly – to her house where the children waited with too many questions and too little hope.

Katia immediately ran to her mother’s arms, the few hours away from her had been almost too much to bear. It wasn’t until she asked after her father that the first tear crested Milena’s eyelid.

Katia didn’t know why her mother was crying, but she thought it must be something awful, her mother never cried no matter how bad things got.

She remembered that when her father had broken his leg one summer while foraging in the woods, her mother had only told him to “Walk it off!” Nothing ever scared her.

Whatever it was that could make her mother cry, Katia knew her father would be able to make everything better, like always. She hoped he would be back soon.

The children all slept soon after, they were the only ones; other than Freja, understandable given that she had chosen to fight despite expecting to bring a new child into her home in only a few months. She fought well, all things considered, but the exhaustion had caught up with her.

When she woke the next morning, she wasn’t sure what sight she expected to greet her upon exiting her house. She hoped with all her heart and prayed to any gods who would listen that the last night had been nothing but a terrible dream.

The pit in her stomach knew it wasn’t, vying as it was for size with the child growing inside her, and as she emerged into the village fresh tears sprang forth as she saw the bodies of her friends arranged in a row covered by dirty sheets.

She felt nothing but emptiness as the tears ran down her face. When Pavel and Brin approached her, it sounded like they were speaking from so far away that she could barely make out their words.

The barricades still stood there at the village entrance, and just beyond them the corpses of the dead marauders had been dragged into a pile, a grisly reminder of the horrors of the previous night.

When she came back to herself, she realised they were asking her how she was feeling. She assured them she was okay, that she wanted to help. Pavel suggested she help prepare food for those who would spend the day digging graves.

Brigid agreed, the less she had to see of what was to come this day, the better.

***

A week went by while everyone tried to return to their normal lives. A pall had hung over the village ever since that fateful night. Milena had tried countless times to tell Katia what had happened to her father, but could never get the words out.

The only hope shining through the gloom was that while the cost of their freedom had been high, they had paid for and won it.

Or so they had thought.

On the eight day after the battle, Cruvik returned to Jinnsfjur. Casually riding into town with twice as many men as he had brought with him that night. Several of the people outside ran, either screaming into their homes or to retrieve the weapons they thought they would never have to use again.

He waited patiently while all the villagers gathered and armed themselves, a smug smile on his scarred face as his horsemen squared off against the rag-tag mob once more.

Milena pushed her way to the front of the crowd, the rage in her eyes was the first feeling she had felt beyond despair in over a week. The calmness in her voice betrayed that fire in her eyes as she asked the bandit leader why he was back.

Cruvik told them of himself and his band, told them that the force he had brought with him before was but a small number of the men he commanded. That he in fact led all the marauding gangs throughout the Mehann Mountains.

He told them, in no uncertain terms, that he would have the tribute he expected and that if they continued to resist him, the “soldier” as he described him, wouldn’t be the last example he made.

His dismissive tone as he spoke of her late husband was the last straw for Milena. She lunged at the giant with her hands outstretched, seeking only to satisfy the burning anger that had been building inside her since she watched this man take what was most important to her.

Olan was quick to hold her back however, and the only response this display elicited from Cruvik was an amused chuckle. He then turned and left with his gang of raiders, promising to return.

And return he did the very next day. Olan tried his best to fill Luka’s shoes by trying to inspire resistance in his fellows, but it was in vain.

The barricades that had been so hastily erected before had already been dismantled and used to build coffins for the fallen. They had no materials from which to build new ones.

When Cruvik and his men returned, the people of Jinnsfjur were woefully underprepared to resist this time. Olan made a brave stand, declaring to the bandit leader’s face that they would not submit. The stocky, muscular blacksmith seemed small next to the giant, and he was cut down within moments of speaking his resistance.

Whatever hope they had left was gone, no one was left who was willing to fight. Jinnsfjur and its people stood silent as the raiders took what they wanted from their homes, fields, and shops.

For the next three years the marauders would return at the start of each spring to announce they were expecting their tribute soon. Wanting to minimise their interaction with their oppressors as much as possible, the villagers always prepared a pallet loaded with food, skins, and anything else they produced.

Each year Milena spent a few hours by the prepared pallet, staring at the food they painstakingly grown and harvested, slowly fingering the bottle in her pocket.

The occupant of the stone tower at the forest’s edge had given it to her before he left. After she had complained of the rats infesting her bakery, he had handed her the small round bottle and told her a single drop on a piece of bread left as bait would kill any pest that ate it.

The first year Pavel came up to her side. “I’ve thought about it too, Milena. Maybe stuffing some of the meat with hemlock. But we don’t know if it would kill him, or any of them for that matter. They would just come back and slaughter us all!”

Milena replied sullenly. “I know, but I still like to think about it.”

She knew she would not risk her daughter’s life on a vain attempt at revenge which may not even work, yet each year she stood there, fantasising about killing the monster which had taken so much from her.

And each time one of their tormentors thanked her for her offerings, each time they took more than they needed, each time one of them threw one of the young girls over his shoulder and took her kicking and screaming into the common house, Milena inched ever closer to throwing caution to the wind.

They continued to provide their tribute, but it was never enough. Each year, the gang rode through the village taking all that they could carry, and the pallet as well. The most valuable thing they stole however, was Jinnsfjur’s hope for the future.

Those three years marked the end of the town’s growth. Some had already packed up and left; Brigid being the first, after her baby had been born. She had resolved that her child would not live under Cruvik’s yoke, even if it meant returning to the crowded slums of the cities.

And as time passed, more agreed with her. Some of them had looked longingly at the empty stone tower at the forest’s edge, but that hope was a distant one at best. He had been gone so long, they didn’t know if he would ever be back.

Jinnsfjur had been a dream of a better place, for a people passed over by history. Cruvik and his gang had now turned that dream into a nightmare.

The last snowflakes had fallen, and spring would soon be upon them once more. The single road running through Jinnsfjur remained a pristine white as no one left their homes anymore.

Katia had eventually stopped asking about her father, Milena wasn’t sure she even remembered him anymore. That thought saddened her, but also left her conflicted when she though that it might be for the best. If her daughter didn’t remember what she once had, then perhaps she could not mourn what she had lost. In her darker moments, she almost wanted to blame her daughter for forgetting the wonderful man who had been her father.

The wafting aroma of freshly baked bread coming from Milena’s window was her daily attempt to bring some brightness to the lives of her fellow villagers. She felt dishonest doing it though, knowing that she was planning to take Katia and leave Jinnsfjur herself soon.

She was already packing a bag with the things she couldn’t bear to leave behind, when her front door then burst open, as her now eight-year-old daughter came rushing in, tracking snow inside the house.

“Mummy!” she yelled.

“Katia! What have I told you about wiping your boots before coming inside?” Milena scolded her child.

“But Mummy, Mummy!” Katia pressed on, ignoring her mother. “He’s back!”

“Who’s back, darling?” She asked without even looking up.

“The wizard!” Katia exclaimed, the glee on her face the kind that had not been seen in four winters.

Milena could only stare at her child. Her first thought was how could this girl not remember her own father, but remember a man she hadn’t seen since she was three? Old feelings resurfaced for a moment, despair and anger raging within her, before the meaning of her daughter’s words finally sunk in.

Milena’s eyes widened as she rushed outside, looking to the entrance of town she saw a crowd had already gathered, the other children of the village having done the same as Katia, and rushed to tell their families the news.

It all the remaining inhabitants of Jinnsfjur had emerged, gathered as they were around a hooded old man with a staff in one hand and a donkey’s lead in the other.

It was true. Melkor had returned!

***

Ever since he first arrived he had caused a stir; his dark skin indicating he originated far from these lands. And now, years later, he hadn’t changed at all. His wrinkled face and charcoal beard presented the visage of an old man, yet he stood tall and proud, standing over even the largest of the village’s young men.

His garb was strange as well; the cut of his robe was not the kind the people of the south had seen before, and it always drew interest when he travelled these lands.

The sleeves ended at his elbows, the bottom hem at his knees, and the front remained always open. But the hood which covered most of his face gave the garment its air of mystery. Ordinarily only cutthroats and scoundrels sought to cover their faces.

He was not the usual image of a wizard that these people were accustomed to. In fact, when he first settled in Jinnsfjur some seven years ago, he built his tower at the forest’s edge by using his magic to fly stones through the air straight from Mikhal’s masonry workshop and into the form of the tower that now stood there.

When Mikhal pointed out that he would still have to mortar the stones before placing them, he had waved his staff and chanted out what sounded like a song from a foreign land; a grating sound rang out from the tower’s stones and Melkor assured him there was no need.

It had been quite a spectacle for the little village at the edge of the world. Some of the children had asked if his skin was as dark as it was because he was magical. Their parents, and Melkor too, had laughed at that before explaining that he looked different because he was from a far-away land.

Melkor’s presence in their village had proved to be quite the boon. Between his various expeditions to lands near and far, he had done much to help his fellow villagers; he had healed ailing crops, livestock, and people with his alchemical concoctions.

When Marko’s wagon had broken an axle carrying trees to the lumber mill, Melkor had magicked the logs to float through the air and saved the effort of having everyone move them from the wagon by hand so that it could be repaired.

He had even provided entertainments the people had not known before - giving the children magical trinkets which gave off sparks of glowing lights, and sharing with the adults a particularly strong and sweet tasting beer from his homeland brewed from something called a “banana”.

And each time he returned to Jinnsfjur he would sit with everyone in the common house and regale them with the tales of his adventures – which he appropriately exaggerated in their excitement for the children’s enjoyment.

Jinnsfjur’s people had never had to fear for anything in this idyllic place, but his presence had grown to comfort them with a new sense of safety and security. When he had left five years ago, he had said he wished to see more of these lands, he had said he would be gone for quite a long time. Everyone had been disappointed, not for the wizard who would fix all their problems for them, but for the friend they had grown to care for.

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But now he was back, and he was the only hope for saving them.

Melkor greeted everyone crowding around him, exchanging clasped arms and warm hugs with the many friends he had long been away from. He could see they were happy to have him back – as they always were, but there was something else this time, he could feel they were deeply worried.

When he caught Milena’s eye, the kindly old man gave her an exceedingly warm smile, the same one which had never failed to comfort her. Until now. Now all she could feel was desperation and the fleeting hope that he could succeed where the rest of them had failed.

“Melkor!” she said quietly, walking up to embrace him. “It’s good you’re back, we need you!”

Concern flashed in his eyes, and he passed his donkey’s lead to Brin before taking her hand and leading her home, telling the others gathered that he would see them all soon.

In the front room of Milena’s bakery Melkor sat in a simple wooden chair, slowly eating the freshly baked loaf she had provided for him. As the breadcrumbs sprinkled into his long beard, the joy on his face was unmistakable. He had always said her baking was the best he had ever tasted.

“What troubles you, my dear?” he asked her, finishing his food.

“Things have happened, Melkor.” Milena’s voice was barely a whisper. “People came to the village. Raiders.”

Melkor stared intently at her face, the haunted look in her eyes telling him more than her words just how bad the situation had become in his absence.

“Luka?” he asked her, noting that he hadn’t seen her husband since his return.

“He tried to get us to resist. We almost succeeded too. But then…” she had to stifle a sob.

Melkor stood and embraced her, understanding now why he hadn’t seen Milena’s husband yet.

“Without him…” she continued “The rest of us don’t know how to fight. Don’t know how to stop them from stealing from us. From killing us if we try to resist. Olan tried, and that vile monster who leads them cut him down without a second thought!”

She broke into tears. “So many of us are already preparing to leave, to abandon Jinnsfjur! This isn’t the life we envisioned for ourselves, having to give so much of our harvests to killers. Even the tax collectors in the cities were never this bad.”

Releasing her from his embrace, Melkor placed his hands on Milena’s shoulders and looked down into her watery eyes, and with grim determination set on his face said “Don’t worry Milena, you won’t have to leave. I will make sure these people never return to Jinnsfjur.”

Motioning her to sit down, he asked “Now, tell me everything.”

***

That night Melkor sat in his tower, observing the accumulation of dust the past five years had brought to his scrolls, books, and various paraphernalia.

He briefly considered making a spell to clear the dust off and blow it out the lone window, but suspected he would end up with a wreckage more problematic than the dust itself – that level of precision with his Power required more focus than his tired mind could muster at the moment.

Instead he looked out over the village, now illuminated only by moonlight. When Melkor had first come to this village, it had seemed a slice of paradise in which he could while away his remaining years.

He was old, to be certain. To look at his face one would guess him to be a man of sixty or seventy years, though in truth he was much older than that. The Power had sustained his body long beyond any mortal lifetime.

But in recent years, despite the strength he had always felt flowing through his limbs, he had found himself faltering, getting slower, making mistakes he hadn’t in centuries. He could feel time’s grip slowly tightening around him.

That was what made him leave Jinnsfjur in the first place. Melkor knew he didn’t have many more years left, and had wanted to see more of these strange new lands before his time came.

Travelling the towns and cities of these cold, southern lands had been an interesting experience to say the least. While his strange, outlandish appearance was often met with looks of curiosity, shock, and sometimes suspicion, most of the people had been nice enough once they adjusted.

He had made something of a name for himself with his spells and potions he offered wherever he went – The wizard of the northern deserts, they called him, although his home in the savannah was not near any desert these people were familiar with, being a journey of years just to reach his native lands.

Wizard. That term had struck him the first time he heard it. He still wasn’t accustomed to the ways of the natives here, and had briefly wondered if it was meant as an insult.

They had envisioned frail-looking old men in flowing robes and pointy hats making profound declarations every time they spoke. Melkor would never wear a pointy hat, the very idea was silly.

In his home he was known as his tribe’s shaman, the magic man of his people who would commune with the nature spirits to guide the tribe through their troubles, and the warrior who would protect them from great threats.

When he had been born, the tribe had rejoiced. A strange thing, given that the cause for their joy was the death of his mother in childbirth. Their shaman of the time – Zanbor – had said this was a good omen that Melkor would know the Power and become the next shaman.

His path had been chosen for him at that point. Learning to wield the Power had taken many years under Zanbor’s tutelage, and he had first thought it strange when the other children he had grown up with began developing grey hairs and crow’s feet, yet he remained the very picture of a young man.

As he was soon to learn, though, the tragic cost of being the next shaman brought with it certain benefits. While he had learned to channel the energies of the world through his body, he was still required to learn the ways of his father, one of the hunters who spent their days feeding the tribe.

He soon found he could do more than just conjure gusts of wind from nothingness and heal fresh wound with nothing but his will; using the Power easily made him the strongest and the fastest of the men of his tribe, outclassing all the other boys as they trained to hunt and fight.

When he threw his spear, he already knew exactly where it would land, and he could track game through the tall grasses without even needing to see it.

Sometimes, he could even sense the intentions of those around him. As a boy, this had helped him hunt by letting him know if an animal had been startled or not; and as a man it had saved his life more than once – it was hard to stab someone in the back when they would turn to face you the moment you thought to try.

By the time he left his people – many years after all those he had grown up beside had died, Melkor already considered his life to be one well-lived, and sought to further expand his knowledge and experience of the world beyond the savannah.

And when he found the idyllic little village by the forest, he realised he had found a place to settle at last.

Alas, it seemed that fate had a sense of irony.

His peaceful haven was being threatened now, and he suspected that protecting it would require him to be anything but peaceful.

***

The next morning Melkor awoke, and went about the tedious process of dusting his long-neglected home by hand – he never was a morning person, then stopped when he sensed an air of foreboding emanating from Jinnsfjur down below.

Peering out his window, he saw several men on horseback entering the village, and many of the villagers walking outside to meet them.

He watched Milena walk up to the largest man he had ever seen – it must be this Cruvik she spoke of – and stare at him defiantly. The bandit leader only deigned to spare her a dismissive glance before casting his gaze over the people gathered.

“Milena.” he acknowledged without meeting her face. “I expect you’ll be ready with the next tribute soon.”

His tone may have seemed pleasant to one who had never seen the beast in action, but everyone present had seen him the night Luka had died. The night the monster disguising itself as a man had stolen so many lives from them. The villagers’ eyes saw nothing but the horrors of that night every time Cruvik returned to them.

“There will be no more tributes! Come down here and speak to me!” Melkor declared as he strode to Cruvik’s side and demanded he dismount. The old man carrying the staff spoke as he would to a petulant child.

The murderous warlord could not believe his ears. No one dared speak to him like that. Even these pathetic villagers, with their impotent anger, never spoke as though he was beneath their concern. Yet this stranger did.

Bristling at the attitude of this old man, Cruvik did indeed dismount his horse, he was intent on teaching this vagabond a lesson. Melkor was a large, tall man to be sure, yet still Cruvik looked down upon him.

He opened his mouth, ready to spew terror and vitriol at this man who would dare oppose him. If his stature and his anger were meant to intimidate the hooded foreigner, they failed.

Melkor spoke first. “You will leave this place. If you return, you will all die.” He said it so calmly, and with such certainty, that for a moment, Cruvik hesitated.

The seasoned marauder recovered quickly though, he would not be intimidated by some old man. He laughed at the defiance before raising his hand and using two fingers to signal to one of his men.

The man behind him to his right raised a crossbow and took aim at the hooded man’s chest before almost lazily letting the bolt fly.

A collective gasp took the villagers and Cruvik only smiled, anticipating a hasty solution to his newest problem.

Yet Melkor still stood. Quicker than anyone around had seen, his hand had shot out to grasp the bolt before it had struck.

It was a simple enough trick Melkor had learned long ago, to sense the ripples of energy incoming danger signaled. In battle he would know how to move and what to do to avoid things as simple as crossbow bolts, but catching them mid-flight had often proved an impressive enough act to avert further conflict.

Both Cruvik and his men, as well as the gathered villagers were astounded, none of them had seen someone do such a thing before.

Melkor held the missile in his left hand, hefting its wait and considering the thing. He could sense the mind of the man before him, there was no mercy there, no kindness. This would not be resolved without conflict.

The astonishment in the air soon turned to confusion, and then to panic, as Melkor threw the bolt back at its source, impaling the crossbowman on his own projectile.

Seeing this instantly sent Cruvik into a rage, yet before he could do anything about it, Melkor attacked.

The Power flowed through him, strengthening his muscles and quickening his mind. Using his staff, he swiftly struck the giant raider on the head, then twice in the gut before sweeping his legs out from under him.

Cruvik fell to the ground with quite a loud thud, and his men scrambled to engage this new threat.

Several more bolts fired out, yet with movements faster than any could see, Melkor knocked them aside with his staff, the final one which would have struck him in the head instead lodging itself firmly in the head of his staff.

The wizard’s hand struck out and a wall of invisible force propelled all the remaining bandits from their saddles, startling the horses and causing them to scatter.

Melkor stood over Cruvik, looking down on him. “This village is under my protection. If you return, it will be at the cost of your lives.”

Cruvik sprang to his feet, pure rage painted on his scarred face, ready to fight tooth and nail. He didn’t survive this long by being foolish, though. He hadn’t brought enough men with him for a proper fight, and this dark-skinned newcomer had clearly proven himself a formidable foe, so for the second time Cruvik left Jinnsfjur in defeat.

Melkor’s watchful gaze was cast over the raiders as they trod back towards their lair. When they were far enough away he relaxed his control over his breath, and drew in deeper lungfuls, it had been some time since he had last fought, and it had tired him more than he had expected.

When he finally turned back to the villagers who had watched the whole encounter, several more gasps came from them as the retreating marauder attempted to replay an old trick.

Melkor simply raised his staff aloft, and the crossbow bolt aimed at his back simply hung in mid-air, before dropping to the ground.

Vexed once more, Cruvik could only scream in impotent rage before following his men away from the village.

Relief washed over everyone gathered. Though she was happy at the turn of events, Milena still cautioned Melkor. “It won’t be enough to stop him. He’ll be back soon, with more men.”

“With all of his men, hopefully.” Melkor replied. “I will be ready to face them, but the rest of you should consider hiding in the forest, in case the fighting spills into Jinnsfjur.”

***

The mage returned to his tower and set to meditating upon a solution to the threat, Milena had told him everything about their battle with Cruvik and his men, she had said they numbered a few dozen. If he simply killed their leader, the others may retaliate on the village later. He would have to kill them all, or else terrify them enough to ensure that they would never return.

Cruvik had also boasted to Milena that there were other groups of raider under his command, but when Melkor inquired further, she said that each year it was always the same men who came to collect the tribute.

This was good, it might mean that those other encampment he spoke of knew nothing of Jinnsfjur. In Melkor’s experience, these kinds of people seldom shared their spoils. With Cruvik and his own camp gone, there was a good chance Jinnsfjur would be forgotten about once more.

Melkor’s rumination was soon interrupted however when the sound of tiny footsteps ascending the stone staircase reached his ears.

“Katia?” he called out. The eight year old entered the doorway with an inquisitive look on her, one that would’ve seemed more befitting on an adult.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked, planting her fists on her hips, and looking more like a young girl now.

“The stones whispered it to me.” Melkor said enigmatically, wearing a cheeky smirk and waving his arms about for effect.

In truth, most everyone in the village had quite a distinctive gait, and he had learned to recognise them all when he first lived in Jinnsfjur. It helped add to his air of mystery.

 “What are you doing here?” he then asked her. “You should be at home with your mother.”

“Mum’s scary to be around right now. She can’t stop fretting about the bad men coming back! She’s really ank…ank-chus?” She tried to say.

“Anxious?” He supplied.

“Yeah, anxious!” The little girl looked sad now. “I’m really worried about her. When Dad died she was broken. She barely moved around at all… I had to stop asking about what happened to him because it only made her cry. I don’t want her to be like that again!” She was frantic.

Melkor motioned the girl towards him and took her in his arms, offering her what comfort he could.

“Shh.” He whispered to her. “She won’t be. I’m going to make the bad men go away and never come back!”

“Promise?” The girl implored him.

“Promise!” He said, smiling.

In all his centuries Melkor had never had a child, he didn’t know of any shaman, witch, sorcerer, or oracle who had. But in his idle thoughts while waiting for sleep to take him, he had sometimes pictured a family of his own, and he thought now that he would have liked to have had a daughter such as Katia.

“I wanted to ask you for something, Melkor.” Katia said, quietly.

“What is it, child?” the old shaman asked, trying his best to sound paternal.

“I asked Mum once what happens to people when they die. She said that they go to another world. And I thought, well, if you could bring Dad back from where he’s gone, then Mummy wouldn’t have to worry so much, and we could stay here.”

The girl’s earnestness made Melkor’s heart ache, he wanted more than anything to be able to grant her wish. It was something he had been asked before, many times in his centuries of life, to return loved ones from the grave.

Yet he had never known anyone, no matter what powers they claimed, to have the ability to restore life to the dead.

“I’m sorry, Katia.” He said, shaking his head.

The finality in his voice was a disappointment to the heartbroken little girl, but not an unexpected one. She had held on to the faint hope that he could do the impossible, but deep down she had known that hope was misguided.

“There is no ‘other world’, is there?” Katia asked him, holding back tears.

“Not that my old eyes have seen, child.” Melkor replied, holding her tighter. “And they’ve seen a great deal.”

Melkor had to send her off soon, or else he would spend the whole time he should be preparing for the bandits’ raid trying to comfort the sweet girl. Setting her down he said “I’m sure your mother is worried about you, and I have to prepare to make the bad men leave so, off you go.”

She looked up at him with a pleading expression. “Can I have some magic first?”

Melkor chuckled, ‘some magic’ is what the children of the village had taken to calling the simple enchanted trinkets he would give them from time to time.

Scratching his beard, he realised “You know, I think I have just the thing.” And went to the knapsack he had carried in his travels. Rummaging through it he retrieved a short length of pitch black twine and went over to Katia.

“A seer I met in Solan Nor gave me this.” Reaching his palm out, a simple hand mirror flew across the room to him and he handed it to the girl, instructing her to look into it.

Katia, like her mother and many of the people in these lands, had bright blonde hair. The old wizard gathered her locks into a ponytail and used the length of twine to tie it together.

Katia’s mouth dropped open in awe then, as she watched her hair turn the same pitch black as the binding. “Wow!” she exclaimed, marveling at her ponytail. “She just gave you this!?”

“She did. I think she meant for me to use it on my beard.” Melkor told her, stroking the grey curls. “In case I wanted to look like a young man again!” he said, laughing, the many wrinkles under his eyes becoming prominent with his smile.

Katia gave a girlish little laugh, and reached up to hug him about the neck. “It looks like Daddy’s hair now. Thank you!”

“Just tie it into your hair whenever you want to activate it, and take it out to go back to normal.” He explained, then ushered her outside.

Melkor returned to his tower room and sat in meditation, as he always had when battle was imminent.

Annoyingly, worryingly, he wondered more than once how many more battles he had in him.

Shortly before sunset he heard the hoof beats coming. That he could hear the marauders before he felt them was a concern, it meant there were many more than last time.

Melkor took his staff, donned his robe, and leapt from his tower window. Channelling the Power to slow his descent, he landed sprightly, and broke into a sprint towards the invaders.

Passing by the villagers’ homes, he could no sign of them inside. Good, they had heeded his advice and hidden away.

He met the marauders near the entrance to Jinnsfjur, they numbered almost forty this time. Cruvik had brought his horse to a halt at the front of their formation, no doubt wanting to posture once more.

Melkor knew that this conflict would not be resolved with words – monsters could not be reasoned with. He let the Power flow into him once more, and felt the rush of strength and vitality it brought with it.

Without breaking his sprint, he leapt high into the air and kicked Cruvik square in the chest powerfully enough to unseat the mountainous marauder, and before landing swung his staff around and struck another of the raiders in the head, knocking him from his mount as well.

The second battle for Jinnsfjur had begun.

The invaders swiftly dismounted and advanced on the old man and, bringing daggers, swords, axes, and spears to hand, a vicious melee broke out as each one of them attempted to bring down the wizard.

That was what he had to be, Cruvik had concluded. The way he had thrown his men from their mounts, the way he had stopped the bolt without touching it, without even looking at it, could only be the result of sorcery.

Cruvik’s rage that day had been unlike anything his compatriots had seen from him before, even more so than after his forced retreat years ago at the hands of a single soldier and a mob of farmers.

He had called every one of his men to come with him this time, single-mindedly determined to teach the upstart village that he was not someone to be defied.

His closest comrades – that was all they could ever be, someone like Cruvik didn’t have such things as friends – had tried to sway their leader from investing so much time and energy into the tiny village.

Certainly, it was useful to have such a steady supply of food and materials close by, but the caravan’s coming to and from the nearby cities were the real source of their profits.

Cruvik, however, would not be swayed. Somehow, for reasons known only to himself, it had become a point of pride for him to harass and terrorise this insignificant hamlet.

And so his men had come, and they were regretting that loyalty right now. As much combat as the forty odd cutthroats had seen between them, it seemed it was not enough to fell one old man with a stick.

The shaman’s staff moved in a blur, swinging around his body and connecting with the heads, legs, and bellies of any who dared stray too close to him.

The clang of weapons and the crunching of broken bones were heard all around, but for Melkor the reverberations of the magical energy flowing around him, and within him, created a symphony of sounds only he could hear.

When attacked, Melkor handily batted away the flats of blades and the hafts of spears and axes, sometimes even connecting the head of his staff with the edges of the weapons, only for powerful bursts of invisible force to propel the offending weapons and their owners meters away through the air.

By the time Cruvik had risen from the ground and drawn his jagged greatsword, half of his forces lay around him bleeding and broken, with those remaining letting a sensible amount caution keep them from provoking the dangerous old wizard.

Undeterred, Cruvik strode towards Melkor. He was audibly huffing, a prominent vein in his temple bulging at his ire. He would deal with the insipid old sorcerer himself.

He lunged at Melkor, almost forgetting that fights were won through skill. Almost, but not quite, as he dodged Melkor’s swing. The old man was struggling for breath himself, he could not keep this up forever. Yet as skillful and experienced as he was, Cruvik was no match for Melkor, and continued to lose ground as the fight wore on.

Melkor was too fast, and deceptively strong for a man his age. Again and again the bloodthirsty giant’s blows were parried and countered by a simple length of wood. And each blow Melkor struck only heightened the fear Cruvik’s men were feeling.

Several had backed away all the way to their horses, retrieving their crossbows to engage Melkor from a distance. It was a good idea on their part, for as Melkor now had to concern himself with deflecting the incoming projectiles, he was barely able to hold off Cruvik.

He was wearying, the toll of pushing his old bones past their limits showing as his movement continued to slow. Even the Power flowing through him had its limits. Melkor took his first step backwards for the battle.

Suddenly a rock struck one of the bowman in the head, causing him to grunt in pain and fall to the ground. His comrade beside him looked towards the source of the new attack.

Upon the eaves of the nearby stable Katia crouched by a bag of stones. She had slipped away from Milena’s side while her mother was preoccupied with following Brin through the forest. She was going to help Melkor beat the bad men, then without them she and everyone else could stay in Jinnsfjur.

The bowman’s comrade fired back with his weapon, narrowly missing the girl, but causing her to tumble from the stable’s roof and fall heavily to the ground.

Melkor saw her fall and a spike of worry shot through him. “Katia! Get inside!” he yelled.

When he saw the man she had hurled the stone, now back on his feet, and aiming his crossbow towards her, his fear intensified. The shot rang out, and Melkor turned his back on Cruvik, thrusting his staff towards the projectile and stopping its flight before it struck her. Cruvik took advantage of his momentary lapse and slashed a deep cut across Melkor’s back.

The pain shot through his body and Melkor screamed. For a moment, a sense of fear held him. It was something he had not felt in many years. Pain, however, was not something new to the old shaman, and that moment was all it took to marshal his mind to the task at hand.

In a remarkable act of will he summoned the Power and sent a wall of force emanating from himself, throwing back Cruvik, several of his men, and the crossbow bolts still flying towards him.

He made his way over to Katia, now huddled behind a wooden post. The battle was not turning out as he had hoped. He shielded her from the incoming fire, batting aside incoming missiles, as they made their way to the nearest house, and Katia ran inside.

Quick as he was with the Power flowing through his limbs, he barely managed to block the projectiles now heading towards him. Finally a bolt slipped past his defences and speared through Melkor’s left shoulder, bringing him to the ground momentarily.

Their confidence renewed after seeing the wizard bleed, the remaining raiders moved to converge on Melkor and overwhelm him. He was fading fast, the blood running down his back and from his shoulder taking both life and the Power with it. He had to end this quickly.

He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, he wasn’t sure he would survive doing this again. The Power flowed within him, and he held it there, letting it build to a crescendo he could barely contain.

Melkor managed to rise to one knee and, grasping his staff in his right hand, swung it in a horizontal arc before him. Speaking an arcane tongue, the tip of the staff spouted a plume of fire at the encroaching bandits, engulfing several of them and lashing across several more.

Caught off guard and panicked, the raiders screamed, ran, and fell about thrashing. Their advance was halted. That is except for their leader who appeared to be all the more determined for now being on fire. The pain in his screams could not quell the rage he still felt, as he continued to stagger towards Melkor.

A solid thrust with his staff and Melkor sent Cruvik flying several meters through the air, all the way past the edge of the village.

The remaining bandits – those still alive - fell to the ground and floundered about in the snow, trying desperately to extinguish the magical flames. Only seven survived their ordeal, and immediately fled the village, screaming for mercy. They would never return.

Cruvik, on the other hand, had to be dealt with permanently. Melkor knew that he would never give up his designs on Jinnsfjur, not so long as he lived.

With barely any strength left in him – the arcane fire sapping the little energy he had left - Melkor stood and used his staff to as a crutch as he limped towards where Cruvik had fallen. He had to see his body and make sure he was dead.

There was no body to be found.

Melkor cursed this turn of events. That evil son of a bitch had somehow survived everything he had thrown at him. Arcane fire was exceedingly difficult to put out, had Melkor’s aim not been impaired from being wounded, none of them would have survived.

Now, as it was, their enemy was alive and doubtless already plotting his return.

And Melkor was wounded. Tired. Old.

He made his way back to the village, the blood dripping from his shoulder and down his back once again painted the snow of Jinnsfjur red.

Milena had realised Katia was missing, and had rushed back to find her. They now stood together, watching Melkor struggle to walk, and looking at him hopefully.

“I’m sorry, Milena. He’s still alive.” Melkor struggled to get out.

A range of emotions flitted across Milena’s face, chief amongst them desperation. “Maybe you scared him off for good… Maybe he’ll stay away…”

She wished it could be true, but the grave expression on Melkor’s face gave the lie to her hopes. She sent Katia to get the other villagers and helped Melkor home.

***

An hour later Melkor was once again in his tower, his shoulder and back spelled with a healing charm – it would not mend soon, he simply didn’t have the strength in him for that – and with the weight of the entire village crushing him.

He had failed. He knew he was no longer the warrior he once was, yet at the beginning of this day he believed he could save these people, now he wasn’t so sure.

Cruvik would return. He knew he would, and with more men than ever before. Milena said he had told them that all the raider gangs in the Mehann Mountains were his to command. He could have been lying, but Melkor doubted it.

He would return, with all of them, eventually.

Melkor needed to think of a way to save Jinnsfjur, but eventually, sometime around midnight, he begrudgingly had to accept that he would not be able to do so tonight. A potion from his satchel numbed the pain of his wounds, and gave him a pleasant feeling of euphoria, allowing sleep to take him.

***

Days passed. Melkor used the time to heal and meditate. He spent long hours staring into a roughly hewn crystal he had found on his journeys.

That seer in Solan Nor, the one he had told Katia about – the one who had given him the colour-changing twine, who had seemed to carry the wisdom of ages with her, had also directed him to curiosity he now held in his hand.

She had given him a curious look after he had inquired about a similarly rough-hewn crystal he had seen in her parlour. He could feel the Power emanating from it, something he had never encountered before. Magic sprung from the earth itself, and only those who could wield the Power gave off any sense of it themselves.

She told him of a cave far to the northwest where he would find a chamber in which the stalactites were composed of just such crystals. His curiosity peaked, Melkor had travelled there immediately, crossing a harsh and lifeless plain in order to reach it.

Inside the cave was an otherworldly experience for the centuries-old mage. Bright luminescent crystals lit the entire cavern, and at the centre was the largest crystal he had ever seen. It was rounded, perfectly formed, and emanated the Power more intensely than Melkor had ever felt in his long life.

He was awash in the energies of the place, his mind almost overwhelmed by the pure, burning brightness of the magic he felt, and there he found a profound sense of peace.

After carefully hewing a chunk of crystal from one of the stalactites, using a blade as the seer had instructed, Melkor knew it was time to return to what would be his final home.

He had found his tranquility, and had no need to search for it anymore.

During his journey back to Jinnsfjur he had studied the chunk of rough crystal extensively, he had channelled his Power through it attempting to probe its secrets. He had even spoken to it, the isolation of his travels leaving him in want of company.

Then one night, while again attempting to learn what made this particular crystal so peculiar, he saw himself reflected in its depths. Only it was wasn’t mirroring him as he was, he was seeing and - most peculiarly – hearing the conversation he had had with the crystal just the previous night.

He had been astounded, this curious mineral could somehow store the image and voice of whoever looked into its depths! Most curious. Eventually, with further experimentation, he had determined that one needed to pass magical energies through the crystal in order to activate this ability.

Curious what other properties it held, Melkor carved a small portion of it off of the main body and experimented further. He attempted to change its form, tried to transmute it, even did his utmost to destroy it. Yet despite his best attempts, both magical and mundane, the fragment remained unchanged and unmarred. It seemed the only response it had to magic of any sort was to absorb it.

Suddenly Melkor knew how the seer in Solan’Nor had possessed such vast wisdom – it had not all been hers! Her crystal was old, perhaps older than she herself, old enough to have been passed to her by another with her gifts.

These crystals could provide an everlasting store of knowledge and experiences, ones which could be passed from generation to generation. While knowledge may not be valued in some places in the world, Melkor knew its power.

He knew it could help his homeland – his people had no written tradition. Melkor had not learned to write until he was already over a century old. Having taught the one who would replace him as shaman all he knew, he ventured into the larger world, just as Zanbor – his own mentor – had done before him. It was there he first learned of books and scrolls.

But people – even shamans – were flawed, and memory was a fleeting thing. Despite all the skills Zanbor had taught him, Melkor always knew there was much that had been lost to time from the minds of the shamans.

But with this simple little thing, his people could have the combined knowledge of his own life, what he could remember of Zanbor’s, and of all those who would come after him.

The nights of his journey became the highlights of it from that point on. He recorded all that he knew about the Power, about the skills of a shaman, about the ancient Songspeak.

He transcribed every spell he had ever created and all those Zanbor had taught him into the crystal’s infinite facets.

When he finally saw Jinnsfjur on the horizon, he was excited to get back to his tower where countless tomes of magical teachings were contained. He would gleefully spend what time he had left committing as much knowledge to the crystal as it could hold – which could very well be more than there was knowledge he had to offer.

And finally, he would give Pavel a hefty sum to travel to the farthest northern reaches and deliver the priceless bounty to his people. It had been a perfect plan.

Of course, his plans that day had not gone as expected.

***

The fifth night after Cruvik had escaped his wrath, Melkor dreamed of a day long ago, when he had been but Zanbor’s errant pupil. The day when a roaming pack of lionesses had attacked his tribe.

This was not too unusual in itself, however this time, the hunters were away and Zanbor was nowhere to be found. Melkor, eager to prove himself, decided to drive them away himself.

He had been brave, but not much more, and certainly not up to driving away a pack of hungry predators. He was about to become the lionesses’ first meal when Zanbor finally appeared.

Using his own staff, he carved a line through the air – glowing blue light appearing in its path; he chanted the Songspeak, and a magical barrier appeared between Melkor and the results of his hubris. The lionesses gnashed and clawed at the invisible wall, when they tried to move around the obstruction Zanbor chanted again, and the barrier shifted to block their ingress once more. The lionesses eventually grew tired, and left to hunt for easier prey.

It was a spell Zanbor eventually taught him – a way to protect those close to him with an impenetrable barrier that could shift and move at the shaman’s command.

Melkor’s eyes shot open. That was it!

A barrier around Jinnsfjur could protect the villagers from Cruvik’s band no matter how many they numbered. Should they return he could simply summon it once again. Eventually, like the lionesses from his youth, the raiders would tire of trying.

But not Cruvik. Melkor knew that monster would never stop in his pursuit of Jinnsfjur and its people. He would have to be dealt with, permanently.

Except such barriers required the shaman to maintain concentration in order to last.

Damn it! He could not maintain the barrier and engage Cruvik at the same time!

The crystal! It could hold magical energies in ways he had never seen. Could it hold a spell?

Melkor immediately set to finding out. Time was short and his need was great. He spent every waking moment of the next few days experimenting with the crystal and its strange properties.

***

A week passed and Melkor had succeeded in making the crystal chunk hold simple spells active, and he was confident he could make it hold a barrier, he just was not certain for how long.

He had briefly toyed with the idea of modifying the spell further, and adding new properties to the barrier, but that would surely have decreased the time it could remain active.

And whatever length of time that was, it would have to do. That night Melkor saw torchlight on the horizon moving towards Jinnsfjur. An enormous number of torches, meaning an enormous number of marauders – at least a hundred.

As Melkor strode through the village, with his staff in hand and the crystal within his robes, he saw Pavel loading everything he could into his wagon, and Freja ferrying her children and others to him to travel by horse. The rest of the villagers would head for Nirna on foot.

Milena was nowhere to be seen. Unknown to Melkor, Katia was adamantly refusing to leave, and Milena was at her wits end trying to pry the small child from their home.

He reached the edge of Jinnsfjur, the place where less than a fortnight ago, he had sent that mad animal Cruvik cowering away. Tonight he would not leave at all, Melkor resolved.

The bandit horde arrived. Melkor could see that there would be no parlay this time, they would run roughshod through the village burning everything in their path.

He chanted the Songspeak, a particular spell he had learned long ago, and more recently modified to function through a conduit. The Power flowed through Melkor, reverberating off of the buildings around him, off of the trees in the distance, off of the ground under his feet.

It was a beautiful symphony of sound that all but he were deaf to. Only other wielders of magic could hear his Song.

He directed the flow of energies into the crystal in the pocket of his robes, and felt the barrier come to life as he stood motionless, chanting. The marauding horde rode into it, not knowing until it was too late.

Rider upon rider crashed into a wall they could not see, each and every one collapsing into an ever-growing heap of flailing limbs, frantic whinnies… and dropped torches. Cruvik was among them, preferring as he did, to lead from the front. Whether he was caught in one of the many small conflagrations that erupted from the fallen torches, Melkor couldn’t tell.

A full third of the advancing horde had struck against the barrier before their remainder realised something was wrong and halted their advance.

Melkor saw him then. Cruvik once more rose from where he had fallen. Their previous encounter still evident as the already scarred giant now bore burn marks covering his face and neck. Melkor hadn’t thought he could get any uglier, and he returned Cruvik’s malice-filled glare with a grim smile of his own.

Beginning his chant anew, Melkor modulated the barrier to allow Cruvik to enter – a moment of surprise registering on the bandit’s face as he stumbled through, his frenzied wailing on the invisible wall up to that point having met no success.

They stood a mere stone’s throw apart, staring each other down, each waiting for the other’s nerves to give.

At almost the same moment they broke towards each other, both screaming inarticulate war cries meant to frighten. Cruvik’s rage and determination strengthened his resolve, Melkor saw the fiery fruit of his labours before him and strengthened his. The Power flowing through him once more.

Staff struck sword with thunderous blows, Melkor’s plan had worked, and he could devote his energies to the fight. He would make quick work of this monster standing before him.

As it had previously, their fight was close, but ultimately one-sided. Melkor’s skill, strength, and speed had been honed over a multitude of battles spanning centuries of conflict – much more than any mortal man could have gone through.

Even without the Power he would win, but there was no need for him to fight fairly.

He struck Cruvik with magically enhanced blows again and again, until he barely had to move to evade the defeated giant’s exhausted swings.

He swept Cruvik’s legs out from under him, just as he had the first time they met, and held his staff aloft with both hands, ready to deliver the killing blow.

Then Melkor’s heart dropped, as he felt the Power emanating from the crystal in his robes sputter and die. He watched, horrified, as the barrier fell and the piled heap of burning men and horses abutted against it fell forward.

If he held any hope that the invading bandits were as stupid as they looked, it was quickly dashed when those who had remained safe behind the barrier realised that there was nothing to impede them anymore, and began a mad dash towards him.

Melkor’s mind raced. Even if he struck Cruvik down, he couldn’t engage all these enemies himself. Many would get passed him into Jinnsfjur, and burn it to cinders.

A look of exhausted desperation came over his face. Cruvik noticed this and looked up to see his riders approaching. The sadistic joy in his laugh sent raw fury racing through Melkor’s veins.

Then he decided. He looked down at Cruvik and, feeling only contempt, struck down with the butt of his staff and crushed the man’s windpipe. He would be dead soon, but Melkor didn’t stay to watch.

He calmly walked to the centre of the road, and waited for the oncoming horde. He had decided. The barrier was the only thing that would keep them out. But it wasn’t enough to just halt their way, he would have to make sure they would never come back.

Calling upon the knowledge of his ages, he began the Songspeak, and formed the modified barrier he had conceived of the day before.

It would make sure that none would ever threaten his haven again, and any who dared would pay the price for their hubris. The crystal wouldn’t be enough, though. It clearly could not maintain such a complex spell long enough. It would have to be him who held the enormous amount of Power it would take.

Dark clouds gathered above, blocking out the little moonlight there was, and most of Jinnsfjur fell into darkness, only the bandit’s torches offering any illumination.

The arcane chant came to an end and the spell was ready. The Power within him felt like it could burst forth at any moment. All that was left to do was to define the barrier.

Then Melkor took his staff, and drew a line in the snow. A glowing blue light followed its path, arcing around the shaman into a perfect circle. He felt the edges of the barrier grow and grow, until it encircled all of Jinnsfjur.

He could feel the Power pulling at him with tremendous force, his arms outstretched by the strength of it, the enormous barrier straining him from every direction.

More energy than he had ever felt flowed through him. This was how it had to be, he knew. Whatever the cost, they would NOT have this place, they would NOT have these people.

The Power coursing through him was deafening to Melkor, what had once been a symphony of sounds now sounded like he was amidst a roaring hurricane. So great was the strength of the magic that the nearby houses, the trees beyond the village, even the ground beneath his feet shook with its might.

Everyone in the vicinity of Jinnsfjur could feel it. It echoed off of the nearby hills and through the forest, sending all manner of critters scurrying in fright.

When the first bandit was encompassed by the growing barrier, a bright, glowing orb of light shot from Melkor’s chest and headed directly for the one offending the spell. The raider and his horse were enveloped by the light and reduced to ashes in an instant, as were the many that followed mere moments after him.

Rider after rider fell before Melkor’s Power, and even after the mage’s own body had been consumed by the strength of the spell, any of them who attempted to breach Jinnsfjur’s border met the same fate.

Everyone in the village had fled to the forest when they had seen the wall of burning invaders. None of the tragedies they had witnessed before had prepared them for such a sight. Nor for the booming reverberations of Melkor’s magic as it echoed around, and seemingly, within them.

It was more than an hour after the screams had died out and the storm clouds had receded, before Brin was able to summon to courage to enter the village and investigate.

He returned to the forest just minutes later, looking noticeably pale and sickly, but assuring the others that it was safe to return.

They found their homes untouched. Pavel’s wagon had tipped over when the horses had broken the hitch and run off, but their belongings were all still there.

The street dividing their houses however, was littered with large piles of ash, dozens of them. And a good number of burnt and mangled corpses – of humans and horses alike – still lay at the entrance of the village.

They were safe. They knew it, deep down. Despite the horror surrounding them, they were safe at last.

They went looking for their saviour, but all they could find of Melkor was the burned remnants of his robe, his staff – now charred black, and a strange rough crystal which had somehow remained completely unmarred.

They could only stare at each other, there were no words which could describe all they were feeling. Brin collected Melkor’s remains, and everyone went home to their beds, trying in vain to escape from the horrors of reality and into a world of dreams.

***

The people of Jinnsfjur emerged the next morning, their sleepless night affording them little rest. The night winds had scattered the invaders’ ashes, leaving the snow of their village a dull, lifeless grey.

A pyre was built to dispose of the remaining bodies, these savages didn’t deserve the dignity of a burial. The sight of Cruvik’s lifeless corpse, his mouth agape in fear, was only a small relief after all the harm he had wrought.

This ordeal would change the village and its inhabitants forever. They had taken what remained of Melkor to his tower, not knowing what else to do with the items. Though the charred rags, burnt staff, and rough crystal held no value whatsoever, everyone felt that they should be treated with reverence.

Time went on and eventually the denizens of Jinnsfjur released the collective breath they had been holding. It really was true. They were safe once more.

***

The years passed and the once again growing village eventually came to be called a town. More people came to settle, some came back after hearing it was free of Cruvik’s yoke, and many more passed through on their way to other places.

Wooden structures gave way to stone, and when it was decided that a paved road was needed, Mikhal and his son created a beautiful flagstone to be lain first, and placed it where their saviour – their friend – had fallen.

Katia eventually grew up and moved into the old wizard’s tower. She spent hours upon hours looking through his books. After much pleading, she eventually convinced Pavel to teach her to read. And though she was a good pupil, the tomes of arcane lore held little meaning for her, describing the intricacies of forces she had no understanding of.

Melkor’s journals however, contained descriptions of wondrous people and places which filled her imagination. She became obsessed with hearing the stories that could be behind them. Stories of the world outside Jinnsfjur.

For a while she longed to leave, to travel and explore, but she couldn’t leave her mother. Milena was getting older too, and frequently needed Katia’s help in her bakery. A solution eventually presented itself when Pavel suggested that the parade of travelers entering Jinnsfjur could use a place to stay.

The old common house was converted into an inn, and Katia assumed the role of its proprietor before anyone could ask. She would cater to the travelers and their needs, and hear their stories of the world beyond. She would also entertain and impress the town’s visitors – children and adults alike – by magically changing her hair colour in an instant.

There were those, eventually, who sought to fill the void left by Cruvik and the Mehann Mountains’ raiders. Many tried, over the years, to be the new, feared warlord of these lands. But whenever they set their sights on the town of Jinnsfjur, any who entered with ill-intent were quickly cowed.

At first it was glowing orbs of coloured light which appeared out of thin air to incinerate those with malice in their hearts, leaving only ash heaps behind. Then the orbs grew dimmer; the scoundrels would die, but leave only a badly burned corpse behind. And eventually, invaders would leave Jinnsfjur alive, but carrying a burning, grisly reminder of their folly.

It was obvious to those who had been there that night. The protective barrier was fading over time. But by the time it did, it had done its work.

None came to Jinnsfjur anymore with the intent to wreak harm. Far and wide, all had heard of the small town that was magically protected. And none remained who would dare test its limits.

A legend had grown around this little town at the edge of the world.

The legend of Melkor, and the line in the snow.