Theus

“To arms men! To arms!”, echoed down the street. The voice was accompanied by a rhythmic march of a metal-clad entourage.

Russell: “Eigh boy. You betta get ought a ere. Them banners will snatch you like a maiden at midnight”. Russel stared at the young man as he exchanged coins with a customer at his stall. The stall’s fresh bread was almost potent enough to overpower the stench of mud from last night’s rain.

Theus: “I ain’t leavin with nothin”. Theus stood at the stall with his arms out. He was tall for his age. But his skin clung to his bones. He had light brown skin that was darkened by the mud that found its way onto his tattered clothes.

Russel: “Boy I can’t keep this up. Jon’s gotta new calf to care for and gave me a deal on cheese for me scraps.” Russel then threw Theus a large bundle. It had several loaves of thin bread bound with twine. “Go on now boy. Them banners will snatch you if you don’t”.

Theus smiled as he hugged the stale bread. He always knew to rely on Russ. He was stern. But always cared for him when he wandered to his stall.

Theus: “Thanks Russ,’’ he yelled as he ran opposite the marching bannermen.

While he ran, he started to gnaw on one of the loaves. It was days old and burst to dust in his mouth. He didn’t care. Every bite fueled him with the vigor he’d been lacking for days now. Eight has it been? Theus thought. He couldn’t remember how many days since he last ate.

Theus's run turned to a jaunt, then a fast walk. Due to the heavy mud's moisture, his steps echoed down the pitch and thatch alleys. He turned a corner and heard voices from a house close by.

Soldier: “Ma’am, we can take him by force if you wish. The Baroness cares not the method”.

Theus peered around the corner of the hovel and saw two bannermen standing at the entrance of the open door. Inside, a woman dressed in a tattered apron was holding up a rectangular butcher’s cleaver.

Mother: “I ain’t care bout no war. Yur not taking my baby”. Her eyes were that of a wild beast. Her glair cut the men deeper than the knife she bore.

The men laughed. Their gauntleted hands rest idly on their belts.

Soldier: “Put the knife down. We don’t want anyone to get hurt now, ma’am”. One of the men reached slowly for the raised weapon.

Mother: “You ain’t taking my boy!” she yelled swiping the knife at the soldier’s arm. It slashed his forearm and blood pulsed onto his tabard. Staining the green and white sigil of Willowood. An upside-down tree with knotted roots.

Soldier: “Bitch!” he cried. He then slammed his offhand into the woman’s face. She attempted a duck. But the gauntlet crammed into her lower jaw, following through into her neck. She fell to the ground. One of the folded plates of the gauntlet carved a gash in the woman’s neck.

Theus could hear her breath be taken over by blood; thick wheezes turned to bubbling gurgles. He’d been spying just long enough to see the grizzly punch. Now being ducked behind firewood, all Theus could hear was the muffled cries from the hut.

A minute passed and Theus began to peak again. The two men were pushing a struggling boy out of the house. He cried for his mother. Her face had now been pushed into the mud by the trampling of the bannermen. The boy’s tears made distinct lines on his face, cleaning streaks from the dirt on his cheeks.

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The men handled the boy like a sack of turnips and pressed his head inches from his mother’s face.

Soldier: “You see boy! This is what happens when you disobey the Baroness”.

The boys screaming and thrashing began to dwindle as the bannermen dragged him off. His face reflected dread. Theus could tell he was only a year or so younger than himself. Just a boy to some. But still ‘old enough to man a spear’, Theus had heard the bannermen yell in the streets.

He should have been that boy. He should have done something. He shouldn’t have just watched. He shouldn’t be doing what he was now.

Theus crept to the hut and began going through their things. A few onions hung from the thatching. Theus picked one and ate it, picking the papery peel out from his teeth with each bite. He found a coat of wool that he put on.

He felt shame to steal from the dead. But he needed food.

Theus left the slums unaccosted. He had to dodge a few more soldiers who prowled the streets. Eventually, he landed on the only cobble road in town. This road had much more folks about it. Trading of wares and uplifting banter created a pleasant atmosphere. A rhythmic clanging of metal encased the road from the nearby smithy.

Theus knew that he could take the wool coat to the market to trade for more food. He had already eaten all the onions as they were small enough to eat whole.

Looking around he noticed the din of the street’s loud banter had halted. The crowds parted and Theus heard marching.

Theus: “Damn”, he said turning heel to the closest alley.

Theus in his pivot slapped into the chest of a man standing right behind him. WHAM. He fell to the stone.

Josiah: “You need more wits about ye if you plan on making it past training, let alone a battle. Come on son get up,” a bannerman; older than most Theus had seen; reached down and yanked him from the street.

Theus: “I’m no soldier sir. I’ll be on my way please”. Theus clutched the two remaining loaves he had, his third had snapped in half and was now paste in the wet cobbles.

Josiah: “Sorry my boy. We gotta take you in. Get you a proper meal”.

Theus: “I don’t want no fighting sir. I can’t. I can’t leave sir”. Theus unconsciously pressed his eyes closed. He knew he was bound to be caught. He knew this was waiting for him. He knew he couldn’t wander the town forever. Waiting for his parents to return.

With his eyes shut, Theus prayed. It was all he could think of. He mumbled under his breath a prayer he had recited so many times in faith of his parent’s return to Willowood.

Theus: “The wood creaks the cry of the wind. The branch hangs the noose of the fruit. The roots dig the grave of the mole. We pray for the wind’s pain. Mourn for the picked fruit. Avenge the mole’s death. May our cabin protect us from the wind. May our strength come from the fruit of pit. And may our hearth burn with the roots of the earth. Please protect our home and being Willowmother. Please”. There was more he could recite, but the hymn was all he had time for.

Theus opened his eyes. He could see the overcast sky of grey. The clouds drifted south.

Josiah: “Boy we’re not throwing you to battle this day. There ain’t no need for the mother’s protection. Let’s get you a proper meal”.

Theus knew it wouldn’t work. If prayers came answered he’d be sitting around a fire with his mom. His pop would be coming home with his bow slung over shoulder, carrying dressed rabbits. His prayers were never answered.

Isabrell: “Josiah! The boy’s mine. Not one finger on him”. A tall woman marched to the center of the street. Her hair was bound out of her face. She wore a black apron and leather gloves that ran up to her elbows. She stared down the group of bannermen crowding Theus in the street.

Josiah: “Isa you can’t be serious. You ain’t got no son”.

Isabrell: “He’s mine. How you expect me to get all them arrows done in three days without another pair of ands”. Isabrell looked at Josiah and his men. She dominated the street with just her stance. Stout and emanating.

Josiah: “You’re killin me Isa. We’ll recruit that daughter of yours at this point. We barely got enough men to man the wall”.

Isabrell didn’t reply to Josiah. She just looked at him. Not wavering once or blinking.

Josiah: “You get em for a week. Then he’s to be a pikeman. Don’t work ‘em too ard Isa”. Josiah and his men formed up and continued on. “To arms men! To arms!” they yelled down the street.

Isabrell: “Come on then lad. Need not be fraid. Thems banners won’t touch you now”.