Yule Tidings

As the cold winds of winter slowly gather, and the land falls under a glistening white spell of frost, the world braces itself for the holiday season. My somewhat early gift to you is the complete Steel and Silver, which has been available for a week now. Click the link to read the next chapter in Hugh, the far-fallen only son of an Esdarian noble family. Of course, for those who have not read the opening chapter in his story, Watcher of the West, my first-ever short(ish) story, is still available.

First, notice my festive efforts with the thumbnail. This is as good as it gets, I'm afraid.

This post has been one of the hardest I've had to write. I've been coming back to it for the last two weeks, adding to it here, taking a bit out there, never quite happy or sure with it. What started as a brief, three-paragraph footnote to this year has turned into its own short story about yours truly. That said, as far as Tales From Esdaria is concerned, this year has been a huge success: I've surpassed my own expectations with both quality and quantity of content, and have been overwhelmed with the gushing love and support I've had from so many people. However, as one may have guessed, I am sorry to say this will be my last update until 2017. Between now and some time early next year - I'm reluctant to specify an actual date - I plan to take a break from Tales From Esdaria to recuperate and resupply. I hope that stuffing myself with mince pies and chocolate will feed the fires of creativity into next year, and I will, as a result, have plenty of content ready to go early in 2017 - and, doubtlessly, plenty of Christmas weight to lose.

It has always been my dream to write in some form, and this year, thanks to this blog, I have been able to realise that in a very basic form. One of my earliest memories - I was perhaps three or four at the time - is presenting my mother with a poorly-illustrated page in a workbook upon which was scrawled the story of Sam, a Dalmatian (my mum loves Dalmatians) who went into the garden and did a poo - complete with illustration. 

We all have to start somewhere. 

From there, I spent my primary school years telling myself fanciful stories, writing silly tales about myself and my friends and drawing comics about the family dog; back then, that was a Labrador called Rocket who was, of course, a super hero (there was also less poo involved this time round - but much more bloodshed). Secondary school saw the exposition and development of my passion under new, keen English teachers with a real fire and passion for writing themselves. By my final year, I began writing what I was sure was going to be the next bestseller: a fantastical tale about a boy prince whose grief-maddened father tossed his kingdom into an alliance with an authoritarian, repressive, ultra-nationalistic Elven empire. At the same time, for my final piece of GCSE creative writing coursework, I channeled my inner angst-ridden, wanna-be-edgy pseudo-satanist into a fifty-page story - now (probably fortunately) lost. When I received this back after marking, at the bottom of the final page, after a short paragraph of feedback were written four words that went on to have a huge impact on me:

'You have to write.'

This fired me beyond belief. I was certain, as a result, I was on to becoming a winner with the other story I was writing. This is it! I once thought to myself, How can I possibly go wrong when all my English teachers assure me of my writing ability? I cannot fail! This fire began to burn, yet its flames were stoked perhaps too high. The heat was directed at the story about the boy prince, a manuscript that culminated in a 400,000 word tale which took me almost three years to complete, as I was forever dicing with either GCSE or A-Level exams, as well as playing in, writing for, and organising a band with a few friends at the same time.

When it was done, I proof-read it some half-dozen times - a gargantuan task in itself - to ensure that ever error was ironed out, that every paragraph was as riveting as the last, and that the grand, cinematic narrative that played in my mid-teen imagination was as clear on the page as it was in my mind's eye. When I was satisfied - no, elated that I had written something that could, at least to me, be seen as a possibly publishable text - I sent the finished piece to one of my high-school teachers, the very one who had assured me of just how I had to write. I wanted to feel their pride, for them to tell me just how far I had come and that my writing ability had improved exponentially in the two-years that had passed at sixth form. This was a terribly unwise decision, I admit with hindsight.

I never had a reply. The last thing I ever heard from that  member of staff came via an email sent almost three years ago to the day - their promise not to go through the story with a red pen. Not that I ever found out if they did or not, for I never heard back from them. For a time, my creative heart broke. I felt as if the grounds upon which I had built my love of the written word had cracked and crumbled beneath my feet: my drive and motivation had disappeared into a yawning chasm of apathy. I convinced myself that there was no hope, no future for me with stories or creative prose.

So I stopped.

It was only some months - perhaps a year or so - later, when I was midway through my first year of university, I rediscovered the manuscript. Still struggling with the fact I had been left high-and-dry, I reread the manuscript, trying to work out just what it was I had done so wrong. It was only then that I realised why the member of staff had never replied: the story was awful. There was no control, no thread of realism, and nothing remotely compelling about any one of the characters: the boy prince was so whiter-than-white in his morality that the plot armour he wore about his form was never once chipped; the female lead, an Elf, went through possibly the single most predictable maturity and redemption arc I'd ever seen; the various monarchs and other characters fitted simple stereotypes - the big guy was broody and grumpy; the good queen was calm and clever; the Merry-and-Pippin-style best-buds were torn apart when one of them was killed. There was nothing neither original nor compelling on a single page of the monolithic tome.

But in going through the failed opus I learned so much: I saw how not to create characters, how not to build relationships between the competing factions, and how not to make a world. It's interesting now, with the dozens of short(ish) stories and various other tales I'm slowly chipping away at, to see how far I've come - to see what I've built and have yet to refine.

As now is probably obvious, around this time of year, like most people, I begin to get reflective and nostalgic: I look back on the last twelve months and beyond, thinking of all that has happened, of what I have and have not achieved, the people I've gained and lost. As a result, for me, Christmas is always tinged with a little sadness. It's a time where I'm made aware of the smallness of my family, and the absence of certain members is one felt all the more sharply in the cold.

My family is small and scattered, across both England and the rest of the wider world. When I was growing up, the festive season used to be spent, in a very large part, with my maternal grandmother. Christmas Day was a time when Granny would appear in her little Peugeot, bearing Terry's Chocolate Oranges and armfuls of presents. She would drink a little too much sherry and doze off in front of the telly with a wide smile on her face. To her, I would present the stories I wrote when I was growing up - particularly the comics about Super Rocket, the hero Labrador (coincidentally, it was her and my grandfather who owned some dozen Dalmatians, and likely, several decades before I was born, began turning the cogs that would lead to the Sam the Dalmatian and the poo story).

She passed away in early January 2010 - the exact date I cannot ever remember, no matter how hard I try. The space she left is one that remains - and always will - raw and weeping. Her absence is most poignantly felt on Christmas Day: a spare seat still remains at the head of my parent's table which, years ago, she would have occupied. The 25th of December 2009 was also the last time I ever saw her, bedridden and fading though she was. It's a grief that has both been a weight and a weapon: it drags me down yet it drives me, and occupies a strange place in my mind somewhere between depression and ambition.

She is also one of - if not, perhaps the - reason I continued to write. She relished the words I put down on paper, even when I could barely hold a pencil. The pride in her hazel-brown eyes drove me then as it still does to this day. She ignited, tempered, and honed the love of the written word that lives within me - a love I hope has been made manifest on this little page before you over the last few months.

I started this blog on the 24th April this year following a careers advice session. Back then, I was nearing the end of my undergraduate BA and stood on the precipice of the future - and what a future it was to behold. Before me, on the edge of the Cliff of the Present, all I could see was a nauseating fall into darkness and hopelessness; no light of the future, no hope for prosperity and joy. I saw dead-end jobs in retail, serving dead-eyed, cold-hearted men and women whilst slowly my dreams turned to dust. I saw the fire of ambition being replaced by the cold, hard stone of failure. I saw myself fading into nothing, achieving nothing, and never again fulfilling a dream.

I told Adrienne - the careers lady I met with - all this. I told her that I saw no future for myself, never amounting to anything with what I had. I mean, I thought at the time, what will I actually do with a BA in History? Time and again, by dozens of people, I had been reminded it's not going to get me a "real job" and that doing a degree did not constitute actual life experience. I became convinced that I'd be tossed into the cold, hard light of the real world and left to disappear into nothingness, crushed under tens of thousands of pounds of crippling student debt with nothing to show for it. At the start of this year, therefore, I felt terrible: empty, owing more money than I could comprehend, and with what felt like no future. But when Adrienne asked me what I loved doing I, of course, responded with "Writing."

     'Well, do that,' she said with something of a wry smile.

     I laughed. 'Don't be ridiculous.'

     She shrugged at me. 'Have you ever tried.'

     'No,' I remember responding, 'but what's the point? I'm not good enough.'

     'You don't know that - you should try,' she told me with a broadening smile. 'You never know. Share some of your work. Try a blog, or post something on a forum. You never know what might happen.'

At first, I was dubious. Several weeks elapsed before I so much as dared considering writing something that I may or may not actually post on the internet. After all, I told myself, the internet is a dark and scary place full of cruel and terrible people who relish in the destruction of dreams and hope. Yet, over the last eight months, time and again I've been surprised and shocked by what I've seen thanks to this little site.

The praise I've had - from friends, family and strangers alike - has been incredible. The love, feedback, and (in some cases) pure hatred that has been elicited from some of you through my stories and characters has left me utterly gobsmacked. I had no idea anyone cared so much about the Vidorian Empire, the Kingdom of Maedar, Sir Hugh, Daith, and beyond. Even the most minor characters, in some instances, have received emotional reactions on levels I never imagined.

And you people keep reading this stuff! Eight months in, I expected maybe a hundred views from my closest friends, and perhaps a few page refreshes from the more sympathetic of you. Instead, Tales From Esdaria has been visited (at the time of writing this) over 3,700 times, and has reached countries in and beyond Europe, the Americas, and Africa. I can say nothing but thank-you to each and every person who has so much as glanced at this page. You've made me very happy.

This year, as you may have been able to tell at times, has been hard for me. Writing, however, has been one of the very few releases I've had from the real world. Escaping to Esdaria has constantly been an opportunity I've needed and loved. I can but hope that my work has provided each and every one of you with a few minutes of release from whatever you are running from - or towards! Your support, love, and feedback has dragged me out of bed on the darkest mornings, and kept my imagination alive and ever-expanding.

And you! You readers! You Englishmen, Americans, and Chinese! The Dutch, Danes, Russians, French, Polish, Spaniards, Czechs, Germans - the list goes on and on for longer than I could've ever imagined! - Thank-you! Your support has been incredible. To everyone - whether you've read each thing I've written, or just clicked about for a quick look - I really cannot thank you enough.

From what I can tell about you, readers, is that you rather enjoyed Stonesworn and Watcher of the West. You were relatively indifferent towards Blood and Gold (my personal least-favourite this year, I must admit), but absolutely loved Of Fire and Shadow. But nothing, I'm amazed to say, has come close to the popularity of the Silver Penny of Emperor Lyshir III, which has generated almost as many views as Of Fire and Shadow without so much as a tenth of the marketing effort. To any of my archaeologically-inclined friends who are reading this, you will see the irony, as coins have been something of a theme for me this year.

Finally, though, if there's one last message I could leave everyone before disappearing for the next few weeks or months, it's this: be proud. I think it was Adrienne who taught me this months ago, I just didn't realise it. When it comes to you, do those things you love for yourself: learn, write, read, create, enjoy. Draw the picture. Play the instrument. Sing the song. Write the story. Get the girl (or guy, or whatever). When it comes to your family - be they blood or otherwise - be proud of what you have. It isn't perfect, and you certainly didn't choose it. It is, however, the only one you've got. Love it while it lasts.

So, I wish a Merry Christmas and a wondrous New Year to all! I'll see you all in 2017!

Yours as always,

Rob

Steel and Silver, an Original Story by Rob Hebblethwaite

When the cart stopped, he had panicked. There had been no time for finesse or thought, for he felt only fear. I’m going to be caught, he had thought as he heard a muffled voice and a pair of heavy boots on the ground just by him. I’m going to be caught, and I’m going to be killed.

            He had leapt from the cart and run into the night, a deep voice yelling after him, calling him a thief, a stowaway, a criminal and threatening recompense from the guards. He clutched the few meagre possessions he had as he ran away, covered in blood and tears and whimpering like a kicked dog. He had no idea where he was, or in which direction he was running – all he knew was that he had to get away. Fear drove his legs like never before, and he sprinted full-pelt across the dark landscape. He passed trees, their summertime branches knotty and heavy with deep green leaves. He splashed through moonlight-silver streams, startling sleeping deer and soaking his bloody clothing as he went.

            He ran and ran until the sun broke the eastern horizon, and bathed the rough, grassy landscape in reddish-gold light, at which point he admitted to himself he was so hopelessly lost and that he had no idea what to do. Choking on sobs of grief, he slumped down against an old, wizened oak and slipped into a haunted sleep – one in which he endlessly drowned in a terrible red tide. Faces swam in the sea of blood; people he had known and lost.

            When he awoke, the sun was high in the sky. Overcast, the day glared down around him as he staggered to his feet. I don’t know where I am, he thought to himself, wiping new tears from his cheeks. I don’t know what to do. Thoughtlessly, he stumbled forwards, travelling the same way he had been the previous night. Again, he crossed silver streams and walked under the boughs of trees laden with heavy green leaves. At one point, he came across an apple tree and sat under it a while, his meagre possessions by his side.

            A sword and a scabbard on a belt – both too large for him. As he ate, he found his eyes constantly drawn to the sword. A little of its long blade was poking out of the sheath, and it was still sticky with blood. He felt sick and dropped the apple he was chewing on before vomiting yellow-grey slurry all over the tree beside him. Slumped in his own sick, blood dried onto the clothes he wore, he could only think of one thing: more death.

            It made sense, surely? How else to end this nightmare, he thought as he dragged himself southwards, but with one last death? Soullessly, he stumbled onwards in search of demise. The bloody sword was heavy in his hands and it dragged along the summer-green grasses at his feet. When midday came, the clouds above began to clear and the rolling green landscape around him was lit with golden light, yet his world only got darker and darker.

            He was unsure what end he was searching for. Wolves would be enough, he thought as he stumbled, tripping over his own weary feet. Painful, but an ending. Would bandits kill a boy? Maybe. They’d be more likely to enslave me or sell me as an illegal slave to someone – but is that really worse than this? He looked at the sword, heavy in his hands; the blood-sticky blade still peeped out over the stop of the heavy leather scabbard. Not that, he thought. That isn’t mine.

            As the days passed in a haze of hunger and loneliness, he came across places. The first was a tiny hamlet: two cottages of wattle and daub with thatched roofs and a farmhouse nearby. The hands in the fields looked up and eyed him as he made his way by, pointing and speaking to one-another, though none stopped him. I should stop and ask for help, he thought, but no-one will believe me. If they feed me, I’ll live longer. I don’t want to live. So he kept walking, one foot in front of the other, westwards, southwards, eastwards – anywhere but north.

            The second was a village; a dozen homes, a tavern and a smithy, surrounded by lush fields that gleamed green and gold in the waning light of summer – though he had lost count of how lmany days had passed since he fled. He drifted wordlessly through the middle of the place, washerwomen with armloads of fabrics eyeing the blood-spattered and filth-stained boy with the sword that was too big for him in his hands. A few called their men from the fields to look, but no-one made any effort to help him.

            ‘Is it a wraith?’ he heard someone say as he passed a low, humble home.

            ‘No, it looks more like a ghoul.’

            ‘Is it alive?’

            ‘I couldn’t say. Should we help it?’

            ‘No.’

            And so he wandered on in his quest for death. He slept when he collapsed from exhaustion, awoke to sunlight in the sky and darkness in the soul, and he ate only when he came upon bushes full of berries or trees heavy with fruit. It’s chance, he thought. Someone wants me to keep going. Someone doesn’t want me to die just yet – there’s a death waiting for me further on. He drank from silver streams and waded through rivers, wondering if he would be swept from his feet and drowned – the weight of the sword in his hands dragging him down. The sword; the bloody sword.

            Still it peeped over the top of the scabbard, the bottom of the blade now brownish with dried gore. By now it had gone dry and crusty, scab-like on the otherwise pristine blade. It looked at him, a crusting eye of silver and reddish-brown peeking over the dark leather of the scabbard. Stop looking, he thought. I’m not using you, I can’t. You aren’t mine.

            Finally, after many days of wandering, he had journeyed as far south as he possibly could. He was awoken in the morning by a screaming howl of wind, having collapsed the previous night face-down in a grassy patch between two high rocks. He opened his eyes and looked forwards, finding the land before him had come to an end. The South Seas, he thought as he slowly got to his feet. This is where I end; this is where I am meant to die.

It was if the weather had changed for him: the South Seas were swathed in dark cloud, sent whirling across the sky by the howling winds. The warm sun could not break the oppressive grey above, and the dark of the clouds became one with the grey of the sea on the far horizon. An endless abyss: the end of all things for me. The boy dragged himself over the thinning grass until he stood upon the precipice of cliff. Hundreds of metres below him, the grey-black churn of the South Seas roared, obliterating itself into a froth of white-cold fury upon the dark cliffs.

‘This is it,’ he said to the wind as more tears left his eyes. ‘This is where I end.’ He looked down from the edge of the cliff at the dizzying drop. Will the impact with the water kill me? he asked himself, Or will I be dashed on the jagged rocks before I even get that far?

There was no fear in the sea below, nor in the cliffs. He swayed, caught by the wind, the world below whirling. The cold, hard embrace that awaited his body below was preferable to the terrible, nauseating ache he felt inside him. The memories, the blood, and the fear would vanish with the fall, blown away by the wind that would whip past him as he fell. Then, his body would break and his soul would be free – unburdened from the woes and shackles of life. Death was freedom from the guilt, the shame, the blood. Oh, by the Empress, the blood…

He took a step forward, his toes over the edge of the cliff. Below him, the sea swirled like a dark vortex; it promised to chew him to pieces and swallow him up – a few moments of pain for an eternity of bliss and release. No more guilt, no more pain, no more heartache. But as he looked down at the rocks, the dark, jagged teeth of the ocean, and the swirling waves around them, he felt a pang of uncertainty. Is this really best? he thought as the wind screamed over him, battering his back and pushing him forwards. Is this really what I should do?

The sense of purpose that struck him drove him away from the demise hundreds of feet beneath. Like a weight in his heart, heavy and glorious, it shone a light on the shadowy horizon of his mind: there were things that needed to be done, and those things could not be achieved when dead. Ashamed, he stepped backwards. ‘No,’ he told the wind, still battering him, trying to push him forwards. ‘No, this is not right. There is much to do – this is not what is best.’

Slowly, he turned away from the edge and walked back the way he had come, the sword heavy in his hands. The landscape before him was glittering gold, swathed in sunlight and dancing in summer. The heavy heart in his chest lifted a little at the land before him: he had left those which had caused such pain. He knew no-one where he was now, and no-one knew him. I can start again, he thought. I can live on, there is still hope!

He walked out from the shadow of the dark clouds and into the gold of the Southern Imperial Heartlands. He had passed villages and towns on his way south, and he knew of a port to the east. He had no plan, only the reassuring sense in his chest that he was now on the right path. I cannot die this day, he thought. There is much left to do, folk to be avenged, wrongs to be righted – but I cannot do them yet.

Taking a deep breath of fresh, crisp summer air, he made his way back into the Imperial Heartlands. The hills were not so far from those he had been raised on, and the new territories held such life and promise. As he walked, a confidence began to grow from the fear that soiled him. It was a thorny, prickly flower with an ugly bloom, but it was there, nonetheless. With every step he took, it shed a thorn and its petals brightened.

I can do this, he thought, his hands shaking as he went, his fist clasped around the leather belt to which the scabbard was attached. With every minute that passed, with every hour further into the day that he dragged himself, he felt his sorrow slolwy lifting. As the hills rose and the sun soared its way across the sky, so did his spirits, and although grief dragged on his every movement, he had made up his mind. I can make the best of this. I can make them all proud of me. I can-…

Something was snarling at him. The boy stopped and looked around, a cold chill of fear crossing him. He had not gone far from the cliffs, perhaps a mile or two back into the green hills which he had staggered from the previous day. To his right was a narrow, fast-running brook over which a few morose willow trees were hanging, lethargically stroking the water with their silver-grey leaves. On either side of him, hills gently rose and fell, but standing between them was a large dog.

He thought it was a wolf at first, but as the thing slowly loped towards him, he saw its dark fur was discoloured with dirt and shaggy with mange. Its eyes were wide and bloodshot and its face was crawling with ticks, though its dry and cracked lips were drawn away from rabid fangs. Long tendrils of yellowed froth fell from between its sharp, glittering teeth. Its eyes were fixed on him.

No, he thought, taking a step backwards as the dog got closer. No, not anymore. I don’t want to die anymore! He grabbed the sword and tried to pull it from the scabbard, but it was heavy and his lack of sustenance and sleep left him weak. Eventually, after a fight, the sword came free, crusty with dried blood. It was too heavy for his hands and he was unable to lift the blade like he had been taught to, for it was much larger than a normal sword.

Clutching the hilt in both his fists, he locked eyes with the rabid, mange-bitten beast slowly walking towards him, snarling and slavering through its teeth. ‘Get away,’ he said in a trembling voice, hoisting the blade as high as he could. ‘Go on, get away!’

But it was no good, the animal crept closer and closer, its cracked black claws protruding from its scabby toes. Still it growled, its eyes fixed on the young boy. Readying himself for a fight, he gripped the sword as hard as he could in both of his hands to try and stop them from shaking. Oh, they’d be ashamed if they could see me, he thought to himself as he swallowed.

And then it was upon him. With a snarling snap the dog leapt through the air towards him. The boy let out a cry and threw himself aside, well aware he would never be able to lift the blade high enough in time to skewer the mangy animal. He swung the sword in a wild arc once he was clear, narrowly missing the dog as it veered around to make a second jump. Teeth snapped at the boy and as he took a step away, he found himself falling, the grassy floor no-longer beneath his feet.

Ice-cold water washed over him as he stumbled into the shallow brook. He tried to find his footing, but the rocks were slippery and soon he was falling again, slipping and sliding this way and that. The dog was still after him, and as he staggered around in the shadows, he felt the thing leap for him again. This time, it landed on his back, snapping at the side of his head. With a desperate cry, he lashed out with a wild fist and cracked the dog across the nose. It yelped and slipped from his back, falling into the waters of the brook.

Seizing his opportunity and the sword he had almost dropped, the boy spun about and drove the weapon into his canine foe. The dog let out a terrible, squealing yelp as the heavy, ungainly sword was thrust through its abdomen. It writhed and wriggled as the blade pinned it to the stone, howling and yelping as the wound widened and guts and blood spilled into the brook.

The boy let out a cry and staggered away, pulling the blade free as he went. As he stepped back, he slipped and fell, landing in the rapidly bloodying water as his foe slowly bled to death. Gore-tainted water washed over him, soaking him red. He scrambled onto the bank and ran whilst the rabid dog died in the waters behind him.

Even though he knew the beast was dead, he fled as if a pack of wolves were on his heels. His dry throat burned as he gasped for air, and the sword in his hands weighed him down terribly- though he dare not put it away. Fresh fear gripped him as he crossed new hills and ran through small woods, convinced he was seconds away from another attack. I did it, though, he told himself to try and bolster his nerve. It couldn’t stop me, I’m meant to do this. I can do this.

As dusk was setting in, the boy stopped atop a low hill and gazed towards the eastward horizon. Utterly exhausted, half-starved and in danger of collapsing from thirst, he cast his eyes across the darkening world about him. The sea was visible to the south, as were the cliffs that had almost taken his life earlier that day. He tried not to look at them, and instead tried to find somewhere to stop, somewhere to pass the night in moderate comfort. And there, before him, at the bottom of the hill he was atop, was just what he needed.

Lit by torches and a communal bonfire, he could see the shadows and shapes of a village. Glowing orange with the flames of dusk and the light of fires, it was everything he needed and more. It shone like a hearth in the shadows of the night, ringed with long stretches of fields. He could hear laughter, too – the people were celebrating. I won’t stay long, he said as he made his way down the hill. Just the night, if there is a spare hayloft for me to curl up in. Maybe they’ll even be kind enough to give me some food.

As he approached the village, the sound of revelry grew louder. He could hear voices, singing, music and laughter. Shadows danced around the central fire, upon which a large phoenix effigy was being burned. A near-heathen practice, the boy had heard that some of the villages in the Empire still practiced it: an effigy of a phoenix, to symbolise the Divine Empress, was burned following a good harvest. The ashes were then scattered upon the winds the following day in the hope that, like a phoenix, the fields would spring to new life the following year. It derives from an ancient practice, where the image of an Old God was burned instead, he thought as he approached.

Suddenly nervous, the boy slunk through the houses. He stuck to the shadows, avoiding the few imperial soldiers that were posted to guard the small village. There were a few farms on the peripheries that he had spotted as he made his way down the dark hills, some of them with substantial numbers of livestock. There were several dozen houses too, so the village was much larger than average, yet he was still afraid. He could see the clothes he wore, ragged and filthy, soaked in blood and brook-water and only half-dried. He placed a hand on his cheek as he walked next to a low home; his face was thin and gaunt, and his flesh felt very cold.

He came to the edge of the village square, where the ceremonial bonfire had been built a few metres away from the well. He could see some fifty, maybe even sixty, people clustered around it, toasting one-another, sharing bread and ale. Women wore flower crowns as they skipped around the bonfire, and several of the men played simple instruments: a battered lyre, a bone flute, a slightly out-of-tune harp.

The boy skulked in the shadows all the while, unsure and afraid. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all, he thought, swallowing. They’re busy celebrating, I’d just ruin it if I-…

‘What do we have here?’ a voice barked. The boy found himself grabbed and dragged from the shadows. Caught by surprise, he let out a shrill cry and fell, slipping free from the hands that held him. He looked up into the stern face of a single imperial soldier, dressed in black armour and holding a pike in his hand. ‘What are you doing? A thief, no-doubt, looking to take advantage of the revelry!’

‘No!’ the boy cried as he was grabbed again and dragged from the shadows and into the middle of the cobbled road that led into the square. ‘I was doing no such thing! I-…’

‘Silence boy!’ the soldier yelled, yanking the large sword from his hand. ‘And what’s this? It can’t possibly be yours! It’s far too big for you!’

‘It was a gift!’ the boy yelled. ‘Give it back, I didn’t steal it, it was a gift!’

‘Hah!’ the soldier snorted. ‘A likely story.’

There were some footsteps, followed by a second voice. ‘What’s going on here?’ a deep, low rumble said, cutting through the revelry and silencing the soldier, who now had hold of the boy by his wrist. ‘Who is this boy?’

‘A thief, I think!’ the solder said.

The boy turned his gaze to the new figure. He was a big man, tall and broad with a projecting belly and strong arms. He had a heavy, bushy beard and long hair tied in a knot of ponytail behind his head. ‘Oh?’ the large man said, looking over his wide nose at the boy. ‘He doesn’t look much like a thief – in fact, he looks like the victim of something foul, so covered in blood!’

‘What’s going on over here?’ another voice said. A woman appeared, then two more accompanied by a pair of men. Then, suddenly, the music stopped and the boy found the entire village looking at him and the imperial soldier. A sea of faces, murmuring in the crackling glow of the bonfire, all staring straight at him.

‘I’m not a thief!’ the boy cried, his voice cracking and trembling.

‘Yeah,’ one of the villagers cried, ‘he’s no thief! Look at him! Poor lad is lost and hungry – big sword though, where’d he get that?’

‘Said it was a gift!’ the soldier said. ‘A likely story!’

The big bearded man waved a hand. ‘That’s enough,’ he said in a cold, stern voice. He fixed his dark eyes on the young boy and leaned towards him. ‘He hasn’t the look of a thief, and let us not spoil our festivities with such talk! Everyone, back to the fire! Where has the music gone? Play on!’

The laughter began again immediately as the villagers leapt back into their revelry. Frocks and pinafores flew in the night, and booted feet tapped and danced. Songs and smiles resumed as if they had never been interrupted, and within moments, the boy was left alone with the big man and the soldier, the three of them standing in the shadows of dusk and summer.

‘You trust this lad, Olfden?’ the soldier said, folding his arms across his chest and pulling a face.

The big man, identified as Olfden, looked down at the boy. ‘Let us see,’ he said slowly. ‘Are you an honourable sort, boy?’

The boy stood straight. ‘Of course I am, Sir!’ he cried, his chest swelling with pride. ‘I am as noble as the finest knight in the emperor’s army!’

Olfden looked at the soldier and quirked a brow before looking back at the boy. ‘And if I were to invite you to sup with us this summer’s eve?’ he said. ‘In the village of Kirkby-by-Hill we pay our way. The revelry tonight can only take place because every man and woman has done their bit: planted the fields, harvested the crop, fattened the pigs, or milked the cows. If you sup with us this eve, you must help me with some chores on the morrow to make up for it. What say you?’

The boy puffed out his weary chest as best as he could. ‘On my name!’ he cried valiantly.

Olfden turned and looked at the soldier. For a moment, neither man said anything. Finally, the soldier shook his head and turned away, walking back to his post. ‘Fine, Olf,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘but he’s your responsibility.’

The big man looked at the boy through his dark eyes. ‘You’ll be no bother, will you?’ he said slowly.

The boy shook his head. ‘Never, Sir,’ he said quickly. ‘No, never! As I said, on my name!’

Olfden placed his big, scarred hands on his knees and leaned forwards, peering hard into the boy’s pale, gaunt face. ‘And what would that name be, lad?’

It had haunted him his whole life. A bastard’s name for a bastard boy, he thought, swallowing. His eyes dropped to the stone at his feet, but as he hesitated, the boy realised it was just what he needed. I could be anyone, he thought to himself. There are a thousand-thousand bastards with my name, and a thousand-thousand before all of them. His name clogged gutters and ran through filthy streets; it wore a loose cap and no shoes, passing discreet notes from one party to the other, or shovelling soil in a field. I will never be found, not with this name. With his name, he could be any boy from any broken peasant family. His father could be any soldier, and his mother any pretty tavern lass. He could sink into a new life and never be found, not by anyone.

He raised his eyes and looked the big man straight in his face. He took a deep breath and stood as proud as he could. ‘Hugh,’ he said without so much as a wobble of shame in his voice. ‘My name is Hugh.’

Olfden looked him up and down once more. ‘Alright, Hugh,’ he said quietly. ‘Welcome to Kirkby-by-Hill. Oh, and I suppose you’ll be needing this.’ He took a lump of something wrapped in a rag from behind his back and pushed it into the young boy’s hands. It was large and light, the size of a large rock.

A loaf of bread!

Olfden laughed as the boy tossed the rag aside and sank his teeth into the crisp, firm loaf. ‘But remember our deal,’ he said slowly. ‘Tomorrow, you help me!’

Hugh nodded quickly and continued to eat. ‘Of course, Sir,’ he said though mouthfuls, ‘though I am a little thirsty. Could you-…?’

Olfden laughed again. ‘Come this way, my lad,’ he said, leading Hugh by the shoulder out from the shadows and into the light of the summer bonfire. ‘I think it best we get you cleaned up and that you meet everyone, and I’m sure we can find you some water long the way!’

Sir Hugh Fortescue, son of the betrayed and murdered Earl Jacob Fortescue and Lady Isabella Beshing, was led from the dark and into the warm glow of the fire. For a few moments, Sir Hugh forgot all about his traitorous uncle, Lord Aesinger, and what he had done to him and his family; the shadowy visions of his headless parents, slumped together beside the murdered Captain Aethlar, faded in the luminous radiance of the bonfire. He won’t find me here, Hugh thought. Uncle Aesinger would never find me here.

He had thought he would never be happy again, but as he was passed a small cup of bitter wine and embraced by every one of the villagers he was put before, Hugh felt his heart soar. ‘Remember, though!’ Olfden said as Hugh was handed a second cup of wine, ‘You’re working all this off tomorrow! Then you’re free to do as you wish!’

Hugh smiled up at the big man, exhausted, bloody, bruised, and radiant. ‘Thank-you,’ he said.

*

‘Can you see?’ Hugh said, holding the pretty silver coin up to the cold light of the winter day. ‘This is Emperor Lyshir III.’

            Sara leaned closer. Her pretty face was inches from Hugh’s now, and he felt his cheeks enflame in a blush. ‘Is that really what he looks like?’ she said slowly.

            ‘I believe so, yes,’ Hugh said, trying to hide his crimson cheeks. He pointed quickly to the edge of the thumbnail-sized penny before Sara saw his blush. ‘And see here, around the edge. It reads “Emperor Lyshir III” in case you were unsure.’

            ‘What about the other side?’ she asked, reaching over to touch the coin between Hugh’s fingers. Her hand caught his and he felt his heart flutter for a moment. Quickly, he rotated the coin, trying to keep his thoughts in order. Don’t make any more of a fool of yourself, he thought.

            ‘This side,’ he said, holding it up to the bright winter sun, ‘has the Imperial Phoenix on it, see? The bird with its wings spread wide. Around the edge, it reads “Thennwin, Dorestadt,” which is the name of the man who made the coin and where it was made.’

            Sara fixed Hugh with her bright green eyes and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. Her breath caught on the cold morning air as they sat on the low wall just outside Felyr’s farm. ‘Are there lots of coin-makers?’ she asked.

            Hugh nodded. ‘A fair few,’ he said. ‘I believe there’s one other here in the southern Imperial Heartlands. The one who makes coins for the earls of the Western Heartlands is called Andrey, and his coins come from a place called Busnik, just to the south of Westwarden Castle.’

            Sara quirked her pale, curious brow. ‘How do you know that?’ she said. ‘That stuff about the western lands. Have you been there?’

            Hugh fell silent and quickly looked away. ‘Oh,’ he said, suddenly scared he may have overstepped the mark. ‘I learned it somewhere. I’m not sure exactly where.’

            There was a moment’s pause that felt like agony for Hugh. I’ve made a fool of myself, he thought. She’s going to work out I’m not from the west – damn, why did I even try to lie to them? Why didn’t I just say I was from the west like I am? Why-…

‘I always forget that you can read,’ Sara said, giggling quietly to herself. ‘You’re so clever, Hugh. Will you teach me to read?’

            As Hugh gazed into her apple-green eyes he found himself weak. Oh, by the Divine Empress, yes, he wanted to cry. He wanted to reach out and touch her rosy-red cheeks and caress her mahogany-red hair. I would do anything to spend the hours with you, he thought to himself.

            ‘Hugh?’

            ‘Oh, right,’ Hugh spluttered, his cheeks enflaming again. ‘Yes, I can try, I’d be happy to.’

            She giggled again and squeezed his arm. ‘Thank-you,’ she said sweetly.

            Every lie hurt, particularly those he had to tell Sara. I would give all for you, he thought as he gazed into her eyes. She quickly looked away and smiled, her slightly bucked front teeth catching her bottom lip. For ten years Hugh had been a part of the community at Kirkby-by-Hill, but the lies he had told in the opening days of his time there had dogged him for years and years. As far as the locals were concerned, he was Hugh – a nameless bastard from the village of Havarby in the furthest reaches of the Eastern Imperial Heartlands. He had claimed to have lost his memory one day, and had awoken to find himself beside an overturned cart and two dead corpses: a man’s and a woman’s. He had grabbed a sword from the cart for protection and wandered, helplessly lost, before happening upon Kirkby-by-Hill. All he had claimed to know for certain was that the sword had been a gift, he was unsure from whom it was or who it was intended for.

            Most of the village had bought the lies he had told, but a few had been reluctant. Guard Symonds – the very fellow who had caught Hugh the night he had arrived – was one who had, and still, remained sceptical. Syminds, however, had recently been promoted and moved to the nearby town of Dorestadt, he was rarely around Kirkby-by-Hill anymore.

At every opportunity for the last decade, though, Hugh had done his utmost to help the people of Kirkby-by-Hill and change their perception of him. He had started as a useless, unknowing farmhand, pushing an ox-drawn plough through a field or sowing seeds in the soil. Now, though, he helped Felyr, the village’s well-known butcher.

            People came from across the Southern Heartlands for Felyr’s sausages. They had graced the tables of the gentry, as the tall, grim-faced man liked to tell people. ‘Earl Harathad himself comes by once a year!’ the old, sour-faced butcher had told Hugh on his first day almost twelve months ago, and almost every day after that.

            Earl Harathad was everything that Aesinger was not. He was just and honest; a good man who had not earned his position through trickery and deceit. He was kind and generous to those on his lands, and cared for his people. But more than anything, he was absent. He made a tour of his extensive lands once a year and, just as Felyr liked to tell, when he came to Kirkby-by-Hill he stopped for some sausages.

            Hugh had no notion as to where Earl Aesinger was, or what he was doing. He did not know if he was looking for him or if he had given up, certain that he had been killed somewhere out in the wilderness. All Hugh knew for certain was that he had not found him, and ten years was a long time to spend looking for a single nuisance nephew. Would he even recognise him? Surely, since being lifted to the lofty heights of earldom, his uncle would have his hands full running the Western Heartlands.

            In the intervening decade since he last saw his uncle, Hugh had grown taller. Slightly above average height, he had grown lithe and tough from his days labouring in Kirkby-by-Hill’s fields and barns. His hair was still black and cut short around his ears, and his complexion still pale despite many long days in the sun, but he had shed all fat from his features and his jaw had grown stern and hardy at the bottom of his long face. He worried that he shared a resemblance with his father, but every time he caught his reflection in a stream he wondered if his fears were unfounded.

            Aesinger had been made earl of the Western Imperial Heartlands almost two years after secretly murdering Hugh’s parents. His coup had been quick and clean, perfectly executed and utterly terrible. Hugh had been surprised it took as long as it did for his uncle to be made earl. I wonder if perhaps Emperor Lyshir III does not trust him, the young man thought as he gazed at the silver coin in his hand. I would never trust that snake – I wonder if my father ever truly did. The thought made Hugh’s spirits drop and he gazed at the stern silver face in his hands.

            ‘I saw him once,’ Sara said, reaching out to touch the coin again. She stroked the edge of Hugh’s hand as she did and, despite the cold, Hugh felt himself blush again. ‘I was in Vidoropolis once with Ma and Da, and he went past in a big procession.’ She straightened up and looked at Hugh, gesturing with her hands. ‘He wore a huge suit of armour – it made him look this big!’

            Hugh smiled. He opened his mouth to respond, but before words could leave his tongue, a shout came from behind him. ‘Boy! Get in here, it’s time to work!’

            Hugh quickly jumped to his feet and span around. Standing in the doorway of the large, barn-like building behind him was a tall, thin man with a grizzled face. ‘Coming, Mister Felyr!’ Hugh cried. He shot a quick smile to Sara. ‘I’ll see you later?’

            ‘Sure,’ she said with a small, shy smile. ‘Work hard!’

            Reluctantly, Hugh hurried away from the pretty young woman and into the large wood and thatch building he had been sitting in front of. The floor was covered in thick rushes and reeds, stained dark with crusty-red gore, though the rest of the room was dark and stank of blood and soot. From the rafters of the wide building hung dozens of butchered carcasses: cows, pigs, and chickens, all skinned and plucked as they need be.

            ‘You’d best put all thoughts of Miss Longfields out of your mind,’ Felyr grumbled at Hugh as the young man picked up a heavy leather apron. ‘I’ll have no accidents today on account of your mind roamin’ over that young lady’s curves.’

            ‘There will be no accidents, Mister Felyr,’ Hugh said as he tied the apron around his middle and picked up a heavy, slightly rusted cleaver from one of the many wooden tables that littered the room. ‘No accidents yet, sir! See? I still have all my fingers!’

            Felyr turned his dark, sunken eyes on Hugh. ‘Ain’t your fingers I’m caring about, boy,’ he said and spat onto the rushes. ‘It’s my meat I’m afearing for. Now go on, get!’

            Hugh quickly set to work on a side of beef. He had learned quickly under Felyr, and although the man was renowned for his bad moods, his terrible teeth, and for only having seven fingers, Hugh had found himself fond of the grizzled old man. He was a fine teacher – stern but clear – and would not accept anything less than the best.

            Hugh worked hard and swiftly, trying to keep his mind from Sara. No matter how hard he tried, though, he found his thoughts constantly returning to her. She is rather lovely, he found himself thinking as he plucked the feathers from a chicken shortly after midday. Perhaps I should tell her how lovely she is – no, no. That would be foolish, I-…

            ‘What did I say about curves, boy?’ Felyr snapped from somewhere off in the gloom of the chilly barn. ‘The only flesh you’ll get your hands on this day is that which hangs headless and gutless from these rafters!’ The butcher laughed as he threw open some of the shutters, cold light flooding the barn. ‘A chill day, and snow is falling!’

            Hugh placed the bird he was holding down on the bench he was working at and crossed to the shutters Felyr had tossed open. Felyr’s butcher-barn was located on the easternmost edge of Kirkby-by-Hill, slightly elevated on the hillside. From the open shutter, Hugh could see down onto the village, now covered in a thin layer of white snow. The green hills for miles around had been turned white, though the livestock that walked upon the hills continued to munch at the snow-covered grass, undeterred by the cold.

            Down in the village, children ran through snow-slicked streets, whilst their mothers and sisters went about their daily business. Some tended the small herb gardens they kept adjacent to their homes, whilst others carried bundles of furs or clothing to and from the small steam that ran through the village. The men kept their business to the barns, moving boxes and sacks of grain and produce from place to place, loading a few onto carts to be taken off to market in the nearby town of Dorestadt. All was done under the gentle caress of the snow falling from the pale heavens above.

            ‘It’s a fine place,’ Felyr said slowly with a nod of his grizzled head. A small smile graced his thin lips for a moment as he and Hugh gazed out of the window together. ‘A place worth fightin’ for, so my Grand-Da used to say. But enough talk, let’s get on.’

            Hugh and Felyr turned away from the view from the shutters and back to their work. The hours ticked by in relative quiet, the two men exchanging words now and then, remarking on the blood or build of the beasts they butchered, or on the sharpness of the blades in their hands. Still, time and again, Hugh found his mind slipping away from the task at hand and back to Sara.

            He began to worry if he had given too much away. I should not have mentioned Andrey of Busnik, he thought, chewing his lip as he removed the legs from a chicken. Sara is not any run-of-the-mill foolish peasant girl; she has a spark of intelligence, and she may work out that I come from the Western Heartlands.

            The sword had almost been a giveaway. Ten years ago, when he had first arrived, he had carried with him the bastard-sword given to him by Captain Aethlar, his late combat instructor, mentor, and friend – another victim of Earl Aesinger’s coup. He had dragged the weapon all the way across the Imperial Heartlands, more out of duty than actual want of the item. He had been called a thief and viewed with suspicion when he arrived, and when Olfden had asked him to get rid of the weapon, he had reluctantly agreed to. ‘It doesn’t do right for a young lad to be seen with such a weapon,’ Olfden had said one night. ‘You’d best dispose of the thing.’

            The stag’s head etched into the pommel had been the last thing Hugh had seen as he hid the weapon – the sigil of his family, the Fortescue crest. He could not bring himself to toss it into the river or bury it somewhere where he may forget, so one night, as Olfden and his wife Lynna were sleeping, Hugh stole out to the village well. He found a loose cobble beside the tall, upright structure and hid the blade in the nook beneath it. One day I may wish to see it again, he remembered thinking.

            ‘Look, boy,’ Felyr said, cutting into Hugh’s thoughts, ‘we need to do something about this – it’s getting ridiculous.’

            Hugh looked up from his bloody work, eyes wide with surprise. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said.

            ‘You can’t get your mind off that girl, it is painfully clear!’ Feyr said, putting his cleaver and the leg of lamb he was holding down on his wooden workbench. ‘We need to do something about this or you’re never going to be able to do a proper days work again in your life!’

            Hugh blushed. ‘I mean, I wasn’t actually thinking about-…’

            ‘Nonsense,’ Felyr said with a growl. ‘Look at your face, lad, you’re away with the faeries and thoughts of Miss Longfields – she’s been on your mind for months!’

            ‘Felyr I really wasn’t-…’

            ‘Now, boy,’ Felyr said, leaning over the butchered lamb before him and glaring at Hugh, ‘are you a man or a mouse? A hearty Human or one of them namby-pamby Elves to the east? A child of the Phoenix or a Dwarf, cowering under his mountain?’

            ‘I’m-…’

            ‘Damn right you are!’ Felyr yelled, slamming his cleaver down into his workbench where it stuck, quivering in the wood. ‘Go out there and get Miss Longfields! Win her heart or you’ve no job to come back to tomorrow!’

            Hugh felt his face go pale. ‘You can’t be serious,’ he said, weakly. ‘She’s-…’

            Felyr leaned towards Hugh, eyes narrow, bald head lined and weathered. ‘She’s a fine missy, well-liked and respected, as are you. What’s the matter, don’t know how to?’ He laughed.

            Hugh blushed. ‘Well, I mean, I’ve never really had a woman before, you know?’ He felt deep shame within him as he said it, but he had been raised to expect an arranged marriage. It was the courtly norm for the sons and daughters of the imperial elite to be married off to one-another to strengthen familial ties and help keep the Empire secure. Hugh had never imagined himself actually being able to choose a woman of his own, or to allow feelings to dictate whom he pined for.

            Felyr’s deep-set eyes widened and he laughed again. ‘You’re joking? Well, what, you want tips from ol’ Felyr?’

            ‘No!’ Hugh cried, waving his hands, ‘By the Empress, no! I just…’ Hugh trailed off for a moment. ‘How do I make her like me?’

            Felyr frowned a moment, wiping a bloody hand on his leather apron. ‘Well,’ he said, pulling his cleaver from the workbench and setting it aside, ‘she’s Burr the tavernkeeper’s daughter, no?’

            ‘Yes,’ Hugh said, taking another chicken from the hooks hanging from the rafters. ‘How does that help?’

            ‘Well,’ Felyr said, tossing a lump of bloody gristle onto the rushes on the floor, ‘go there tonight and speak with her.’

            Hugh frowned. ‘What, you’re saying go and profess my affections for her in front of her father?’ he said and shook his head slowly. Such practice would’ve been laughed at in the Imperial Court, Hugh thought to himself.

            ‘Why not?’ Felyr said with a shrug of a shoulder. ‘Also, that chicken isn’t going to behead itself – get.’

            With a sigh and a chop of the cleaver, Hugh shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said slowly, quietly. ‘I don’t think this is worth it.’

            Felyr snorted as he cut the leg from the pig before him. ‘Speak for yourself,’ he said. ‘She’s a pretty lass. Just a matter of time before someone else notices her.’

            The two men fell to silence once more, continuing their bloody work in hushed quiet. The fleshy smacks of cleavers on dead animal flesh continued for a few hours as the light began to dim outside and the day became old. Hugh found himself alone with his thoughts: his parents, his uncle, his sword, Sara. Ten years, he thought with a wince. Surely he’s given up – he must have given up. Maybe I can settle here and start a new life after all – perhaps I can throw that sword away for good. The same thoughts dogged him every day of his life, but Earl Aesinger had no jurisdiction within Earl Harathad’s lands. Surely I’m safe? he thought. Surely it would have been easier to hunt me down years ago before I settled – if that is even my uncle’s motive? Oh, how can I drag Sara into this terrible life?

            Feeling suddenly alone, Hugh shivered in the chill wind that blew through the butcher barn’s open shutters. Outside, the snow was falling heavily from a blanket of heavy grey cloud. Livestock had retreated into the shelter of barns and most people had made their way inside to escape from the cold. By the Empress, Hugh thought, who’d have thought that after ten years I’d still be finding this peasant thing hard?

That evening as the snow fell heavily through the gloom of an encroaching winter’s night, Hugh made his way back from Felyr’s. Pulling his loose, threadbare cloak around his shoulders as he went, he tried to get his thoughts in order. His head still whirled with all Felyr had said, as well as the uncertainties about his uncle that still plagued him. Ten years, he told himself. Ten years has passed and he has not found me – he would not even recognise me! I’m sure it’s safe for me to tell Sara how I feel. By the Empress! Hugh let out a sigh and watched his breath mist on the air before him. Who’d have thought that peasant problems were so hard to deal with?

He made his way through the village, his eyes down and his head lost in thought. He passed under the low eaves of the humble homes that lined the roughly cobbled road that ran through the village and out of the valley. When he reached the centre of the modest settlement, he glanced at the well. Tall, narrow, made of dark grey stone, Hugh knew exactly which of the cobbles at its base hid his sword – No, Captain Aethlar’s sword.

With the snow blowing about him on a cold wind, Hugh made his way to the low house he had shared with Olfden and his wife Lynna for the last ten years. Ten years, he thought for the umpteenth time that day, I was only supposed to stay for the night. How did I end up staying ten years? Hugh knew every cobble in the narrow road that led to the low, wide wattle, daub and timber-framed home.

He had done as Olfden asked that night ten years ago and awaited until the next day to assist in the fields. He had helped spread the ceremonial ashes and tilled some of the soil as asked, and before he knew it the sun was setting and he was eating the villager’s food again. ‘You’ll have to stay another day and work it off!’ Oldfen had said from beside him. He had soon realised work always needed to be done, and once he found the opportunity to leave, a year had passed and he had grown attached to Kirkby-by-Hill and its humble inhabitants – particularly to Olfden, the man who had filled a little of the void left by the death of his own father.

Soon, he was standing outside the home he had lived in for the last decade; thatched roof low but straight, with a long, wide stone chimney sticking from the rear. The shutters were firmly closed, though from the few cracks in the battered old door, Hugh could see a warm orange glow coming from within. Stretching out his hand, he pushed the door open and stepped in.

‘Good day?’ Olfden’s low voice called out as he entered.

Hugh stood in the warm glow and quickly closed the door behind him. ‘Productive, as ever,’ he replied. Shaking off the winter’s chill, he cast his eyes over the room within. The long, low house was a single room, a large bed at one end for Olfden and Lynna, and a smaller one at the other for Hugh. The stone-flagged floor was covered in rushes and there was even a scrap of old rug before the wide, warm hearth.

Olfden sat on a low stool by the fire, drinking from a pewter tankard with numerous dents in it. Still enormous and strong in build, the last ten years had done little more to the large, brawny man other than grey his hair. His face was dark and his beard as full as ever. Lynna, Olfden’s wife, had changed little too. Short, with a wide chest and hips, but a minute waist, she was a tough and hardy woman, often seen carrying great bushels of produce or casks of drink around the village. Unlike some of the men and women, she did not shy away from hard work and her frame reflected that. The bright blue eyes in her face were always alive with light and love, and she looked at Hugh as if he were her own son.

‘Stew’ll be done soon,’ she said as Hugh took off his threadbare cloak and placed it by the fire to dry. ‘Rabbit and leek – good for the soul.’ She smiled at him and kissed his brow.

Lynna and Olfden had been married some thirty years. Despite their efforts, they had never been able to have children of their own, yet they had continued to stand by one-another. Hugh had thought it strange at first, for he had heard stories from his parents of noble men leaving their wives if they were unable to bear children. Ten years later, there was something he found admirable in Lynna and Olfden’s utter devotion to one-another.

He knew that he was like a son to them. Hugh had filled a void in Lynna and Olfden’s lives that nothing else could, and they had taken him in and partially filled the whirling darkness left by the murder of Hugh’s parents. Still, he had not told them the truth of his upbringing. The lie about the cart, the bodies, and the lost memory dogged and haunted his every day. My life here is wonderful, but built on lies, he thought as he sat down beside Olfden.

‘Lyn, tell Hugh what you saw today,’ the big man said, taking a swig from his flagon and glancing sideways at Hugh, a small smile on his rough features.

‘Ooh, quite the thing it was,’ Lynna said, looking at Hugh with a raised brow. ‘I heard from none other than Clara that there was something going on towards the east edge of the village! So, I hurried over to see what was about, and what should I see! None other than you sitting sharing a rather quiet moment with the lovely Sara Longfields.’

Hugh felt his cheeks enflame again and he looked into the roaring fire in the stone hearth. ‘What of it?’ he said quietly.

‘She’s a lovely lass,’ Lynna said with a big nod to Olfden. ‘Sweet, pretty, intelligent to boot! You’d do well for a lady like her.’

Mortally embarrassed, Hugh put his face in his hands. ‘Does everyone know?’ he said meekly.

Lynna winced and made a gesture with her hands. ‘Well, not everyone-…’

‘Yes,’ Olfden interrupted with a low chuckle. He clapped Hugh on the shoulder with a heavy hand and took a swig of his drink.

‘By the Empress,’ Hugh muttered. ‘Felyr was giving me a talking-to about it, he said I should go and see her in the tavern tonight-…’

‘Why don’t you?’ Olfden said with a shrug of his enormous shoulders and a final swig of his tankard. ‘Sounds like a magnificent idea, if you ask me. Lynna and I always wanted grandchildren.’

Hugh made a small groaning sound and sunk deeper into his hands. ‘I don’t think I can,’ he said. ‘I don’t think-…’

‘Hush, you,’ Lynna said, cuffing Olfden on his shoulder with the back of her hand. She appeared above Hugh and pushed a heavy wooden bowl full of hot stew into his hand. ‘You don’t have to do anything. Have some dinner and decide for yourself. All I’d say is that you’ve known her for years, so follow your heart and do what you think is right.’

Hugh picked up an old wooden spoon from the hearth and looked up into Lynna’s bright blue eyes. ‘Very well,’ he said quietly, taking a spoonful of warm, sloppy stew. It was unrefined and simple, yet hearty and warming – just like the folk of Kirkby-by-Hill. Hugh felt a warmth spread through him as he ate, along with a slowly blooming confidence.

After a few spoonful’s, he was resolute. ‘You know,’ he said, placing the half-eaten bowl down, ‘I shall go and see her.’ He stood up and picked up his worn, half-dry cloak. ‘I’ll do it right now. Why waste a moment longer?’

‘Hah!’ Olfden laughed and clapped him on the back so hard Hugh thought he would fall over. ‘That’s the spirit, lad! Go and get her!’

Hugh thanked Lynna for the meal and promised to eat the rest on his return. With a final nod to Olfden, he turned and headed out into the dark and cold of the night. The snow was falling hard and no moonlight pierced the thick, heavy clouds above. The only light that fell upon the village came through cracked shutters or the occasional firebrand left in a sconce on a wall – though most of those had gone out in the wind.

            It was not far to The Grotto. Kirkby-by-Hill’s only tavern was a small place, two stories tall and with a wonky thatched roof. The bottom floor was given over to tavern use, whilst the upstairs was given over to whosoever wished to sleep and housed the Longfields family: Sara, her mother, father, and younger brother. Hugh often gazed through the upper shutters when he passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sara as he went about his business. Today, though, as he walked across the snow-covered cobbles towards the squat doorway in the side of the long, wide building, his eyes were fixed ahead of him.

            What do I say to her? he thought as he approached. His feet crunched over the thickly-fallen snow beneath him, and dozens of large, fat, fresh flakes caressed his cheeks and brow as he went his way. Hugh pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders and chewed his lip. Should I just profess before all, or slip her a note? Oh, but she can’t read! Damn, Vidoria give me strength, what am I to do?

            He paused before the door a moment and took a deep breath. He could hear sounds of revelry from the other side, and guessed it would be busy within. Sara will be hard at work serving, he thought with a sad sigh. Perhaps this was a bad idea after all, she won’t have time to talk to me.  The clink of mugs and crack of horns upon benches rumbled away from the other side of the door, as did the familiar sound of laughter. There was always lots of laughter in Kirkby-by-Hill, and it was infectious.

            Hugh found himself smiling. No, he told himself as he reached out a hand. No, I can do this – these are good, happy folk. I am one of them now; I am good and happy too. Yes. He pushed the door open and was greeted with the roar of revelry. Swamped in warmth and laughter, Hugh stepped into the tavern’s spacious lower room. Lined with benches and small tables, the room was centred on an enormous hearth in which a giant log was crackling. There were perhaps a dozen men and women seated in the tavern, sitting in groups of three and four, sharing smiles and joy.

            Suddenly unsure if he had made the right decision, Hugh stood by the door for a moment, wondering if he should just turn around and leave again. Something about it felt wrong, trying to bring Sara into his life in such away. I lie to her about who I am every day, he thought, suddenly downcast. What if something should happen, and she finds herself thrust into my world of lies and deceit? No, this is wrong. He turned to leave.

            ‘Hugh!’ a voice called through the din.

But not just a voice, it was hers. Hugh felt himself go weak and his resolve fail him. For a moment, he wanted to flee. He wanted to turn and run out into the cold and not face her. But then, there she was before him, a smile on her lips. Her apple-green eyes seemed to glisten with joy, and the dark green frock she wore bustled about her as she advanced towards him.

‘Sara,’ he began, his voice catching in his throat, ‘I was wondering if I-…’

‘Come in and sit, silly,’ Sara said with a wide smile, revealing the tips of her slightly bucked teeth. ‘I’ll have Da get you a drink.’ She took his hand and led him into the room, leaving him weak and flustered.

Unable to protest, Hugh was led to a seat close to the roaring hearth, where he sat and watched Sara quickly retreat across the room. Suddenly, he was far too hot. He took off his cloak and loosened the collar of the simple tunic he wore, but still he felt a sweat on his brow. He looked around the room, trying to take his mind off his current predicament.

He knew most of the faces and a few names. Behind the counter was Sara’s father, Burr, a man of similar stature to Olfden. Bald of head and unfriendly-featured, his arms were as huge as the boughs of an oak, and his girth was just as impressive. Burr Longfields was a former soldier, discharged from the Vidorian Legion for dishonourable conduct – a story everyone in the village knew. Bandits, meant for trial, Hugh thought as he looked at the enormous man, swallowing the nervous lump in his throat. They’d been harassing Burr’s unit for some time, so when he caught them he had them hanged without proper authority. The story, once it had descended into rumour, even went as far to say that Burr was sentenced to death, yet no man was brave enough to stand before him with an axe.

Burr was fierce to look at and was well-respected in the village. Dark-jowls and sunken eyes, he was a cold mountain of muscle. Hugh had seen the big man toss drunks out two at a time, one in each hand. And I’m here for his daughter, he thought with another nervous swallow. When Hugh and Burr made eye contact across the room, he gave Hugh a somewhat cold look, followed by a slow nod, which Hugh quickly returned. I had best not upset him now.

 Trying to take his mind off the frightening man behind the bar, Hugh turned his attention to the other patrons. Three of the small contingent of black-armoured imperial soldiers were sitting at a bench drinking quietly together. There was Borgas and Leddon Stoneswright, the local stonemason’s twins, sitting with two older-looking gentlemen Hugh did not recognise; not far from them sat Hettie, one of the oldest ladies in the village, with a woman who looked even older than she did. There were a few faces amongst the groups he did not recognise; friends of those he knew from nearby villages, no doubt. They were welcome, and ate and drank with those from Kirkby-by-Hill.

But then something caught Hugh’s eye: sitting at the far end of the tavern in the darkest corner, furthest from the light of the hearth, was a hunched and hooded figure. There was a long pipe between his thin lips and a covering of stubble on his chin. The rest of his face was lost to the shadow of his hood, though Hugh could clearly see the hilt of a sword shining in what light from the fire reached the corner.

‘Don’t stare,’ Sara’s voice cut into his thoughts. She giggled and placed a wooden flagon of cider down in front of Hugh.

‘Oh? Sorry, I-…’ Hugh trailed off, shooting the figure another glance. ‘He’s not from around here, is he?’

‘No,’ Sara said, sitting down on the stool beside Hugh. ‘He’s been here a few days. Think he’s a wanderer or a traveller of some sort, possibly some official. He has a sword and wears some leather-looking armour under that cloak, I saw it when he first came in.’

‘Has he said much?’ Hugh asked with another glance at the fellow in the corner.

‘Little and less,’ Sara said with a shrug. ‘He pays for his room and his food in good silver, though, so we cannot complain. Anyway, feel like teaching me some letters? I can get some coins like earlier.’

Hugh smiled at her, putting all thoughts of the mysterious stranger from his mind. ‘I’d like that,’ he said.

Sara smiled at him and stood, squeezing his hand. ‘Thank-you for this, you’re a sweetheart,’ she said as she retreated towards the counter where he father was standing guard over his establishment. This is perfect! Hugh thought to himself as she went. I have her all to myself, we can talk quietly for a little while and then I can tell her, I can tell her exactly how I feel and-…

Hugh’s thoughts trailed off as he caught Burr’s gaze again. Sara was standing at the counter, taking a pinch of coins from her father. His eyes were narrowed and he glared past his daughter and into Hugh’s face. That must have been the last thing those bandits saw before they died, Hugh thought and swallowed as a cold chill of fear washed over him. Those cold, sunken eyes, those-…

‘I’m back,’ Sara said in a sing-song voice, placing half a dozen silver coins in Hugh’s hands. ‘Now, you’ve got to show me what all these say.’

Hugh tore his eyes away from the dark stare being shot in his direction by Sara’s father and glanced over the coins. ‘These will probably all say the same thing if they’re from the Southern Heartlands,’ he said. ‘The moneyers might be different, so we’ll have a look at those.’

Sara nodded her head eagerly. ‘Please, let’s begin.’

Hugh took a quick sip of his cider and turned the first coin over. ‘See here?’ he said, pointing to the edge of the coin. ‘T-H-E-N-N-W-I-N; Thennwin. See? And this part D-O-R-E-S-T-A-D-T; Dorestadt. Now, if we look at another coin, these letters will be different.’ Hugh reached out and picked up another coin. ‘E-M-P-E-R-O-R; this says “Emperor”.’

Sara nodded her head eagerly, taking the coin from Hugh’s hand. ‘I get it,’ she said. ‘I know a few letters – my mother taught me a couple years ago. Let me see if I can read what this one says on the other side.’

Hugh nodded, taking another quick sip of his cider. He was glad of the excuse to gaze at Sara’s face. For a few moments, her pretty, rosy features twisted as she struggled with the letters on the other side. ‘This looks like an “A”, and this one an “N”. Then perhaps an “O”? No, no – a “D”!’ she paused a moment and took the previous coin from Hugh’s hand, who barely noticed, for he was too busy staring into her eyes.

‘This was an “R” and an “E” on the coin from Dorestadt, and this last letter looks a little like a G? No – a “Y”!’ she looked up at Hugh, a wide smile on her face. ‘Does this say “Andrey?” It does! Andrey of Busnik, like you said this morning!’

Hugh started, dropping the coins he had held. ‘What?’ he said, suddenly shocked. He felt as if a lead-weight had just been dropped into his stomach. Eyes wide, he looked from Sara to the coin she held, then back at her. ‘It can’t do, let me see that coin, please.’

Hands shaking, Hugh held a palm out to Sara, who obediently placed the silver into his palm. ‘Was I right?’ Sara said, bending down and picking up the other coins from the floor. ‘It does say “Andrey of Busnik”, doesn’t it?’

It did. Wide-eyed and pale-faced, Hugh stared open-mouthed at the coin Andrey, Busnik. This coin is from the Western Imperial Heartlands – the lands my uncle took from my father! Hugh quickly closed his mouth and looked at Sara, doing what he could to keep his composure. ‘You are right indeed, well done, my dear.’

Sara’s face lit up. ‘I was right?’ she said, her rosy features lighting up in a wide grin, yet for the first time, it brought no joy to Hugh’s heart. ‘Can I try and read the rest of it?’

‘In a moment,’ Hugh said, closing his hand around the coin. ‘But let me just ask, where did you find this, Sara?’ he asked.

Sara frowned. ‘I think it’s one of the coins the fellow in the corner paid for his room with this morning.’

Hugh’s head whipped around and looked towards where the figure in the corner had been sitting. Now, there was nought but shadows and cobwebs in the nook where the figure had been. Cloak, sword, and bearded chin – all had vanished. He’s gone, Hugh thought, eyes wide with horror. Something is afoot here – I don’t like this one bit!

‘He gave Da a little coinpurse. Shall I see if he still has it? He might have more interesting coins.’ Sara said sweetly, putting he hand on Hugh’s knee to get his attention.

Hugh started again, caught suddenly off guard by Sara’s touch. ‘Why, yes,’ he said quickly, his voice trembling with sudden fear and betraying his nerves. ‘If he’s a traveller like you say, he may have given your father more coins.’ Hugh sorely hoped he had. A fellow who has been around will have silver from across the Empire – a man on the payroll of a lord will have only his coin to show for it.

‘Is everything alright, Hugh?’ she said, stroking his cheek with her soft fingertips. ‘You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.’

Hugh blushed at her touch. ‘I just-… No, I’m fine,’ he said and put on a brave smile. ‘Fetch this man’s coinpurse if your father still has it and doesn’t mind us looking through it.’

Moments later, after another dark glare from Sara’s father, Hugh sat before the hearth with the stranger’s coinpurse in his hands. Dark, smart leather with a simple knotted drawstring about its neck, there was nothing particularly special about the small, clinking pouch. This man paid well for the amenities here, Hugh thought, hope fading. How could he afford such expense if he were not being funded by a lord?

Sara was beside him, eagerly looking over his shoulder. She has no idea, Hugh thought as she felt Sara lean into him. He had lost all desire to tell her how he felt, and felt as if he were holding his future in his hands. If this is full of coin from the Western Heartlands, this man could be in my uncle’s pay – he could be looking for me.

‘Come on,’ Sara said with a smile, reaching out to tug on the small leather purse’s drawstring. ‘I want you to teach me some more.’

Hugh managed a small smile as the bag opened. ‘Let’s see what we have,’ he said in a weak voice, and reached into the pouch. Fingers trembling, he drew out a coin.

‘Another from Andrey of Busnik,’ Sara said. ‘I remember what you said this morning – he’s one of the moneyers in the Western Imperial Heartlands.’

Hugh nodded his head. ‘Very good,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s try another.’

The next was another coin minted by Andrey of Busnik, as was the one after, and the one after that. Soon, Hugh had been through the whole pouch. There were only twelve silvers within, but all were minted in the Western Imperial Heartlands, in the lands controlled by Hugh’s uncle, Earl Aesinger.

He’s looking for me, Hugh thought, wordlessly passing the pouch back to Sara. That must have been a spy, searching for me. He’s coming – he’ll know where I am now, and he’ll find me. What will he do when he does? Will he kill me like he did my parents, or shall he just leave me be? I am no threat, I am happy here, I want to remain here, I-…

‘Hugh, what’s troubling you?’ Sara said from behind him, placing one of her soft hands on his own.

In that moment, with the warm fire before them and the low rumble of conversation clouding all would-be eavesdroppers, Hugh could have told her everything. He wanted to open his heart to the woman beside him and confess all his lies, admit that he was in fact Sir Hugh Fortescue, son of Earl Jacob, yet he could not. As he gazed into her bright green eyes and the light of the fire gently shimmered upon her mahogany-red hair, he found himself a coward.

‘Sara…’ Hugh began, his eyes dropping to the floor. I can’t do this to her, he thought. If she finds out I’ve lied to her all my life, she’ll hate me.

She sat forwards, her eyes suddenly full of hope and life. ‘Yes, Hugh?’ she said. ‘What is it you want to say?’

But surely it’s wrong not to? Hugh thought. You’ll probably have to leave soon, never to see her again. Surely it’s best to tell her the truth and have it out? He sighed, thinking of the coins in the pouch. The evidence seemed so circumstantial, yet it was a risk he felt he could not ignore. What would my uncle do to the people of Kirkby-by-Hill if he found out they had sheltered me? Would he kill them to stop them from spreading the truth? Would he even be able to act here?

He took a deep breath. ‘There is something I must tell you,’ he said in little more than a whisper.

As he looked up, he saw her face shining with joy and happiness. ‘What is it, Hugh?’ she said.

How can I do this? he thought. How can I ruin this? He took a deep breath and took hold of one of Sara’s hands. The firelight danced upon their fingers and the room seemed to fall to a little hush as Hugh became lost in a world of fear, regret, and love. ‘Sara, I…’ he trailed off, his eyes falling to the rush-covered floor again.

He felt fingers on his cheek and his gaze was lifted by Sara’s gentle hand. Before he could say anything, she was kissing him. Her gentle lips brushed his for a few precious moments and Hugh felt as if his heart were about to burst. He was unsure if he kissed back or not, for his body was frozen in pure shock.

When she withdrew, her rosy face was flushed with colour and joy. ‘I feel it too,’ she said gently, squeezing his hand in hers. ‘I’ve wanted to say for months – years, even. I feared you did not feel the same way, so I said nothing for so long.’

Hugh let out a soft laugh. Oh, by the Empress, what has happened? he thought to himself. ‘No, Sara,’ he said gently, ‘I came here this evening to tell you just that, but-…’ he shook his head again. I can’t do this to her, he thought. I can’t ruin her happiness, not now, not tonight. I’ll tell her tomorrow or another day, but not tonight.

‘But what, Hugh?’ she said gently, leaning closer to him.

Her lips were close to his face again, and Hugh felt himself fighting the urge to keep kissing her. ‘But I-…’ Hugh began again, failing to find the words. Oh, damn it all, he thought, succumbing to cowardice once more. ‘I was embarrassed,’ he said eventually, resigning to fear. ‘I thought your father would, I don’t know, throw me out or something.’

Sara let out a sweet laugh and put her arm around Hugh’s waist. ‘Don’t be so silly,’ she said. ‘He’s not a monster!’

Hugh glanced past Sara and caught her father’s eyes again. Dark eyes glowered at him from behind the bar and he quickly looked away. ‘No, I’m sure he isn’t,’ Hugh said, uncertainty.

With another shy smile on her face, Sara kissed Hugh again. He surrendered himself to his feelings, giving into the warmth of the night and Sara’s infectious happiness. He closed his eyes and accepted his fate, telling himself that he would inform her of his true self on the morrow. She has a right to know now, he thought, and I know I can trust her. But even as he kissed her, and he felt the warmth of her arm around his waist, he could not completely rid his mind of the clinking silver coins from the Western Heartlands, nor of the shadowy figure who had mysteriously disappeared into the night as if he had never been there.

*

Hugh’s humble life faded back to normality over the next few days, yet still he could not find the strength nor courage to tell Sara the truth of his past. Poisonous thoughts of steel and silver were washed from his mind by new memories with Sara – kissing under the big oak outside the village, rolling in the snow together, talking about words and letters by the brook a few miles from the village. When no shadowy figures reappeared in the village and all of the coins from the Western Heartlands were spent or traded away, Hugh found himself almost forgetting about the strange evening in The Grotto, where his life had taken such an unexpected turn.

Several weeks passed in warmth and bliss despite the hard winter. Whilst the farmers worried over their crops and their herds, Hugh found himself lost in a haze of love and happiness. Days were spent in the butchers with Felyr, being goaded and taunted about his feelings for Sara and her love of him. Evenings were spent with her, locked in an embrace or whispering to one-another and laughing. This is it, Hugh thought time and again as he gazed into her perfect light green eyes, this is how I wish to spend the rest of my life; here, with good and honest folk, humble people who speak the languages of truth and love like the nobility never could.

As the snow continued to fall throughout the winter days, a large bonfire was lit in the centre of the village, close to the well, to provide both light and warmth to those who needed it. Some evenings were spent in revelry around the fire, drinking and eating hearty food whilst the snow continued to fall. He would dance with Sara, in amongst the others of the village. They would spin in the winter shadows and the glow of the firelight, hot and heady. They would laugh and embrace, kissing in the winter’s gloom, happy and in love. Every time, though, Hugh found his eyes guided to the well, where the sword was hidden. Would I be able to hold it now? he always asked himself as he was led by the hand into another dance, or to sit on one of the low stools that were pulled up. It had been so long since he had fought, and even longer since he had been taught a proper lesson in swordplay.

Sometimes he watched the small unit of soldiers that were posted at Kirkby-by-Hill run their drills and practices just beyond the edge of the village. Black specks against a hill white with snow, he would gaze through the open shutters of Felyr’s butcher-barn whilst crudely hacking and chopping away at dead meat. The soldiers struck with such haste and precision, using their shields and blades to protect one-another and advance in well-organised formations. Hugh wondered if he would ever be called upon to fight in the military, though he doubted it. Bastards were not often welcomed, and his name was a branding of just that. Furthermore, the Vidorian Legion was reluctant to accept anyone with so much as a dash of poor medical health, and Hugh’s lies about memory loss stood him out there.

So his days were spent as they always were. He would rise early, say his goodbyes to Olfden and Lynna, and then head off to Felyr’s. He would spend a precious few moments sitting outside the barn with Sara before being called in to begin. Hours would pass in a haze of fat and flesh, blood and bone, as he exchanged banter and wisdom with the older man. He was a crude and bitter fellow, dark in humour and tone, but Hugh found his fondness of the butcher ever-growing.

Yet with every passing day, he never found the moment to tell Sara the truth. To her, he was still the man grown from an amnesic ten-year-old. She loved him for it, and Hugh found himself worried that their relationship was built solely on a foundation of lies. Yet we are both happy, Hugh always told himself, and in truth, is that such a bad thing? Is that so awful?

One day in the heart of winter, Hugh found himself pondering that very question in The Grotto. He sat where he always did, gazing into the huge, roaring fire. The tavern was packed that night, swarmed with people from Kirkby-by-Hill and a few of the farms and hamlets beyond. Dozens of people were crammed onto the benches and stools, and there was not room for one soul more in the crowded place. Hugh could hear Sara running from person to person, serving drinks and sharing a quick laugh with the folk. Never was she harassed by the patrons, for all knew she was Burr Longfield’s daughter, and to mess with him was to go the same way as the bandits that had troubled him many years before – strung up and begging for mercy.

As he sat and gazed into the fire, sipping a small wooden cupful of mead and kneading the troubling thoughts in his head, he found himself suddenly nervous. It was as if a foul wind had just blown through the tavern – a wind only he could feel. He lifted his head and looked around, pulling his threadbare cloak tighter around his shoulders. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the room: dozens of people sharing laughter and drinks. The place was awash with smiles and merriment, so why was he feeling so uneasy.

Hugh glanced around the room one last time, unsure what it was that had made him so suddenly nervous. These are good, honest people, Hugh thought as he peered around the long, well-lit room. The roaring fire before him illuminated most of the benches, tables and stools that were around him, and the smattering of candles placed around the rest of the long, low chamber chased away much of the remaining darkness. The light touched everything, and the shadows hid nothing. Wait…

It was as if he had slipped back in time to a place he had desperately tried to forget. The room seemed to quieten as Hugh made contact with a pair of eyes hidden by a low, shadowy hood. A long, thin pipe placed between weathered lips and a scruff of stubble upon a pale jaw below. The cloak about the figure hid all but the hilt of the sword at his hip, and the stranger sat in the very same spot as he had done weeks ago. Hugh could almost feel the stranger’s silver in his fingers, emblazoned with the name: Andrey of Busnik. Suddenly, Hugh was afraid. Not this again, he thought as a chill washed over him, not now.

He was about to climb to his feet and confront the stranger when he felt hands on his body. ‘Alright, my sweetheart?’ Sara’s gentle voice whispered into his ear, accompanied by a kiss on his cheek. ‘I’ll be over to sit with you soon, I promise. There’s just a quick errand I must run.’

Hugh barely heard what Sara said. Quickly returning the kiss, he glanced over his shoulder again to the shadowy spot in the corner. The stranger had vanished, like before. ‘Did you see him? Hugh cried, leaping to his feet, pointing to the gloom-shrouded corner. ‘Did you see? It was him again, the fellow from a few weeks ago who paid with Western Heartlands’ silver!’

‘Really?’ Sara said with a frown, standing up beside Hugh to look. ‘I didn’t see him come in. How did you know it what that fellow?’

‘He wore the same leathers and cloak!’ Hugh said. ‘I would wager my life that it was the same fellow.’

Sara gasped, her rosy face twisting in horror and revulsion. ‘Don’t say such things,’ she said in a low hiss. ‘Make no such wagers, you never know who may be listening!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Hugh said quickly, ‘but I’m certain it was him. I must go and see, he may still be outside!’

Sara nodded her head slowly. ‘Do what you will,’ she said gently, ‘just be careful.’

Hugh managed a small smile and quickly kissed Sara on her sweet lips. ‘I shall,’ he said. ‘You needn’t worry about me.’

‘I always shall,’ Sara called after him as he made his way towards the tavern door, ‘from now ‘til the day I die I shall worry for you, Hugh.’

He shot Sara one last somewhat nervous smile before pushing his way between the tables thronging with patrons and through the door of The Grotto. Soon, he was outside in the cold, dark streets that ran through Kirkby-by-Hill. The snow had stopped falling a few hours before and the skies had cleared. The full moon in the sky above lit the landscape below silver-white. The snow-laden thatch of the houses in the village glowed, though the streets had been cleared. A few of the small contingent of imperial soldiers that patrolled the village were visible against the large, roaring bonfire at the village centre. It was too cold for revelry this night, and all those who could be inside were.

The stranger had vanished. Hugh looked up and down the snow-cleared streets but could see no-one other than the few soldiers in their black armour, dark against the snowy landscape that surrounded them. Damn it all, he thought, kicking the cobbles at his feet. Now I may never know who he is or what he wants.

But just as he was about to turn and walk back into the warmth of the tavern, something caught his eye. On top of the eastern hill, high on the great cleft of white snow, was a twinkling light. Small and orange, it could have been a star for it looked so distant. Yet it illuminated a little of the white hillside, turning it a ghostly orange. A figure? Hugh thought as he tried to make out the odd shape highlighted beneath the orange light.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Hugh realised that he was correct. There was, indeed, a figure beneath the flickering orange light on the hill. In fact, there were two. One was tall, the figure of a Human in a long cloak sitting atop a lithe horse. The other was much shorter yet very broad – he held the torch, a thick arm waving it aloft in the air. A signal? Hugh thought as he looked up at the undulating torchlight on the hill, waving slowly from one side to the other. A signal for what?

But then he saw more figures appear on the hill either side of the two already there. Two dozen, perhaps three. Some were mounted on horses, whilst others were standing with more torches held high. Suddenly, shouts broke out from the guards in the village. ‘On the hill!’ one was yelling, somewhere out of Hugh’s line of sight. ‘Bandits! Bandits on the hill! Prepare to defend!’

Bandits. Hugh’s blood went cold. With a cry, he turned and ran back into the tavern, arms waving. ‘Bandits!’ he cried at the top of his lungs, waving his arms from side to side and trying to catch everyone’s attention. It was no good, though, for the hubbub in the tavern was far too loud for him to shout over. ‘Bandits!’ he continued to yell. ‘There are bandits attacking the village, we must hide! Hide!’

Then he made eye contact with Sara. She was on the other side of the room, still sitting by the hearth where he had left her. She seemed to read his lips, for her eyes were wide and the rosiness that usually alighted her cheeks had drained to white. She opened her mouth, as if to scream, just as a burning firebrand was thrown through the open shutters.

It was a one-in-a-million shot. The firebrand bounced off a table and sailed across the room over the patron’s heads. Before anyone had so much as a chance to scream, the brand of flames landed beside a keg close to the bar and instantly set it alight. There was a whoosh of flame as the alcohol within the poorly-made keg flared and exploded, sending fire flying across the room, over the patrons, and into the thatch above.

Suddenly, everyone was running for the door and Hugh was in the way. He had no time to move before a tide of terror crashed into him. Knocked to the floor, he put his arms over his head as dozens of feet trampled him. His world became a blur of pain and screaming, and then of fire and terror. As soon as the last foot had fallen, he tried to lift himself to his feet but could not. He opened his eyes but everything was a haze of fire and shadow. His head span and the strength had gone from his arms – and there was something heavy lying on his legs.

As his head slowly stopped swimming, his surroundings became clearer. He had been knocked away from The Grotto’s door and to one side. A bench had been overturned onto him, and a huge section of the thatch ceiling had collapsed. Behind the bar, he could see a fierce fire burning as huge barrels of alcohol and spirit burned. The heat was staggering, and Hugh felt his whole body drenched in sweat. I’m going to die, he thought as he tried to push the bench off his legs. I’m going to die in here, alone and burning.

He could smell burning flesh on the air, and as he fought the blur from his vision dark shapes within the flames became familiar: figures he had seen that evening, sitting and drinking, now fuel for the flames beneath collapsed beams and immolated thatch. I’m going to die, he thought again as he pushed the heavy bench lying across his bench to no avail. I can’t move the damn bench! I’m going to die!

Frantically, he kicked and shoved with all his waning might. The strength-sapping heat and the daze that still clung to his body slowed his wits and made him weak, and as the fires crept every closer and the heat rose yet higher, Hugh gave up. I’m going to be burned to death by bandits, he thought bitterly, glaring at the flames before him as he began to panic.

Then, there were hands upon him. His arms were seize and he was hauled across the ground. ‘We’ve got him!’ someone was yelling as he was dragged onto the cobbles of the moon and fire-lit street outside. ‘He’s over here! Quickly!’

Thank goodness, Hugh thought as he felt his legs slide free of the heavy length of wood that was atop them. I would’ve burned to death in there…

‘What are you doing? Stick him!’ another voice yelled. ‘Throw his body into the fire before someone sees something! Stop wasting time!’

Hugh’s eyes grew wide and he looked up into the faces of two men he had never seen before. They were wearing rough leathers and wore belts of iron swords and knives around their bodies. Their faces were filthy and grizzled, covered in cuts and scratches with many teeth missing between them. Each held a bloody shortsword in his hand, and both had their eyes fixed upon him.

‘No!’ he cried, yanking his arms free and struggling to crawl his feet. ‘Get away from me, you wretches, get away or I’ll-…’

A huge shape barrelled from the shadows and into one of the two men. Hugh recognised the roaring voice that accompanied it as Olfden’s. The huge man tackled one of the men to the floor and set about him with a crude hammer, bludgeoning his head into bloody rubble. The second man made no attempt to help his friend, and instead lunged at Hugh with his shortsword.

Hugh cried out and stepped to one side. The sword whizzed past him and struck the wood of the burning tavern behind him. The heat at his back was incredible, but as the bandit lunged at him a second time, Hugh found himself leaping back towards it. His adversary’s face was lit by the orange flame, terrible and hideous, spectral in the firelight. Hugh felt only fear; yet as he did so, he felt furious. ‘Get away from here!’ he yelled and leapt forwards, driving a fist into the man’s jaw. There was a crunch as teeth and bone gave way and the man staggered backwards, clutching his face.

Seizing his chance, Hugh leapt forwards and drove another punch into the broken bone. His second blow was thrown with such force that the bandit was knocked clean off his feet. The man spun on the spot before falling hard, face-first into the cobbles. Without so much as a thought, Hugh then span to assist Olfden, the man who had become his father, with his foe.

Olfden was already on his feet, though, the other man dead in the road. His skull and brains had been spread in a wide and bloody arc across the icy cobbles in long, reddish-grey streamers. ‘Come on!’ he yelled, tossing Hugh one of the fallen men’s shortswords. ‘We have to help the others!’

‘Sara!’ Hugh cried over the roar of the burning building behind them. ‘She was inside, she-…’

‘She’s with her Da!’ Olfden yelled back. ‘We’ve got to get rid of these bandits! The soldier are outnumbered three to one!’

With a hard swallow and a sombre nod of his head, Hugh gripped the poorly-made and half-blunted iron shortsword in his hands. With a heavy heart, he looked at the sword in his hands. It was both foreign yet so familiar, as if he had been reunited with a limb he did not know he had lost – one from the past, emblazoned with history and long-fought memories.

Around him, most of the village was ablaze. Leather-clad riders charged through the streets, tossing burning firebrands onto the snow-covered thatch of houses or breaking down shutters and throwing them inside. The populace ran through the streets screaming, chased down by rabid men clutching weapons and gnashing their teeth ferociously. Not again, Hugh thought to himself as he followed the hammer-wielding Oldfen towards the middle of the village. Not this again, not more tragedy and loss. This can’t happen again – I won’t let it!

As he ran behind the big man he had come to love as family, he passed carnage. People he knew lay dead in the streets, burned to cinders or slashed to pieces by crude iron blades. There was little solace in the scattering of bandit bodies that lay amongst them, pierced by imperial steel, for they were nearly matched in the number of imperial dead. The guard has fallen, Hugh thought as he ran after Olfden, the streets lit by the roar of orange flame on either side as homes burned. We are on our own.

When they made it to the middle of the village, Hugh found the large bonfire still burning. The last few imperial soldiers that were alive – less than half a dozen in total – were making their stand there, backs to the roaring bonfire lit to stave off the chill. They were surrounded by dead bandits, their swords bloody and their phoenix-crested shields were scarred with the marks of many savage blows. The buildings adjacent were all ablaze, their timbers and thatch engulfed in golden-yellow fire and spewing dark smoke into the clear night sky above.

As they neared the line of men, Olfden turned to Hugh. ‘You’re a good lad,’ he said, his dark eyes grave. ‘You’re the closest thing to a son I’ve ever had, so don’t waste the life you have here. As soon as it’s clear, run.’

‘No!’ Hugh cried as the fires roared around them. ‘I shall not run from this – not again!’

‘Again?’ Olfden said, his brow quirked. ‘What do you mean?’

Hugh let out a sob, unable to hide it any longer. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I should have told you from the start, I-…’

‘Incoming!’

The two men span around. Two riders were flying down towards them, their horses in a frantic charge between the lines of burning buildings. The glow of the flames rippled upon their swords and the simple helmets they wore as they charged towards the guards in the middle of the village. Olfden clapped Hugh on the arm and turned away. ‘Later!’ he yelled, clutching his hammer in his fist and readying himself beside the soldiers.

Hugh was about to leap to defence with the other men when something caught his eye. To one side, down another passageway leading away from the centre of the village, he could see three leather-clad men locked in a vicious fight with another man. Steel and iron flashed in the flare of the fire, and as the men moved together, caught in a dance of death, Hugh saw a face he recognised. Felyr! Without so much as a thought, Hugh ran towards the fire-illuminated men.

Acrid smoke thick with the stench of dead flesh blew about him on the cold night wind as he charged forwards, tatty cloak caught in the wind. ‘Devils!’ he roared as he set about the three men with his sword. ‘Demons, devils and despicable things! May Vidoria burn your souls forevermore!’

The first of the three bandits did not even have a chance to turn before Hugh ran his blade through his stomach. The second let out a shout of warning, but had his throat opened wide by one of Felyr’s blood-soaked cleavers. The third man tried to run, but Hugh’s blade found his armpit and was driven through the bandit’s torso before he could react.

‘Where did you learn to fight like that?’ Felyr growled, arms and legs slick with blood. His grizzled, bald head was slathered yet more blood leaking from a cut across his forehead. ‘You’re a skilled fellow with a sword! No wonder you made a promising butcher!’

‘Where’s Sara?’ Hugh cried over the roar of screaming voices and howling flames. ‘I have not seen her!’

‘She was with her Da!’ Felyr yelled back. ‘You should run whilst-…’

‘No!’ Hugh cried. ‘I’ll not abandon you folk. You should run, Felyr, Don’t die here! Who will then make the best sausages in the Southern Heartlands?’

‘Southern Heartlands?’ Felyr yelled, his face creased with fury. ‘They’re the best sausages in the whole Empire, you idiotic swine!’ He let out a laugh and grabbed Hugh with a bloody hand. ‘I saw Sara and ol’ Burr leading a group southwards. Olfden’s Lynna was with them too, along with near a dozen others. I’ll head and see if they’re alright, offer what help I can!’

‘I shall be along soon!’ Hugh cried as Felyr turned and ran off through the smoke, disappearing behind a thick blanket of black fumes and roaring fire. I cannot leave these people now, he thought to himself. I’ve fled once, hid and cowered whilst my last family was slaughtered. Not today! Never today! He turned back towards the centre of the village and set off at a run towards where he had left Olfden and the imperial soldiers.

One of the riders was dead, along with one of the imperial soldiers. The other was still driving his horse around the bonfire, charging blindly at the remaining soldiers. As Hugh neared, he watched as Olfden swung his hammer with such force into one of the horse’s forelegs that the limb snapped. The beast fell and the rider went flying from the saddle, snapping his neck as he landed. The roaring firelight cast terrible shadows upon his twitching corpse, twisted into a stomach-turning angle in the melted snow and blood upon the cobbles.

‘Olfden!’ Hugh cried as he ran towards them. ‘Olfden, where are the others? What are we doing?’

‘Distract them!’ Olfden cried. ‘There are groups of us fleeing, if we can keep them here for a while they can get away! We may even rout these buggers!’

But no sooner had the words left Olfden’s mouth than a much larger group of leather and rag-clad bandits stepped into the firelight. They all wore simple leathers, bodies criss-crossed with weapon-holding belts, and holding nasty-looking iron blades in their hands. Hugh counted ten in all before they all charged at the handful of defenders around the bonfire.

Within seconds, Hugh found himself cut off from Olfden and the few remaining imperial soldiers. Beset by two thin but mean-looking men, he back-stepped and pirouetted as best as he could remember, wielding his battered iron sword with expertise as rusty as his blade. Despite never having fought in the last decade, Hugh found he outmatched the bandits’ savage hacking and slashing, and as one of his two adversaries put a foot wrong, he plunged his blade through his foe’s chest.

The second man took a step backwards and looked uncertain for a moment. As Hugh was about to step forwards, his enemy – a twisted-toothed man, shorter than he but with brawny arms and bandy legs – leapt forwards and kicked him backwards. Hugh staggered, falling onto the stone and his blade flying from his fingers. He could feel the bonfire roaring inches from his head and quickly scrambled back, looking for his sword, but it was gone.

His foe stood over him and laughed. ‘Little man ain’t so tough!’ he shouted down at him. ‘Gonna make you squeal like a stuck piggy, boy!’

Hugh looked up into a thin, bony face and sunken eyes. His foe had hardly any teeth, but had the look of a man who had killed hundreds and enjoyed the bloody nightmares the guilt brought. There’s no escape, Hugh thought, scrambling away. Another two of the imperial soldiers lay dead, as did a swath of the bandits, but Olfden and the others were locked in vicious grapples with their foes – no help was coming for Hugh.

He continued to scramble away from his leering foe, the fires furious around him. Then, he struck something with his back. The well! Hugh looked around and tried to grab hold of the well’s wide lip and scramble to his feet, but as he did the bandit kicked him down. ‘No escape, piggy-boy!’ he yelled, laughing, leering.

The sword.

Hugh looked around and found the loose cobble he had looked at more times than he could count. Rolling to one side, he grabbed the loose rock – heavy and the size of his forearm – and hauled it from the ground. With a defiant cry, he tossed it at his foe, who staggered backwards to avoid the projectile. Whilst he was distracted, Hugh thrust his hand into the space beneath it. His hands felt steel they had not touched for a decade, yet felt familiar. There was the leather-wrapped grip, the wide hilt, the stag-engraved pommel; he could feel one of the antlers beneath his palm.

With a defiant cry, he whipped the long, perfectly-made blade from the ground and slashed it in a wide arc at his foe. Too long to be a longsword yet too short to be a greatsword, Captain Aethlar’s old bastard-sword felt so right. No-longer did it feel alien in Hugh’s hands, as it had ten years ago. It whistled through the air and cut wide the leather armour at his adversary’s stomach, flashing orange in the firelight.

There was a cascade of blood and guts and his foe fell screaming. Hugh leapt to his feet and made for the foe grappling with Olfden, but the moment the bandit saw another man approaching he let go and began to run, as did the other bandits with him. Hugh watched, sword suddenly heavy in hand, as the bandits fled through the village.

‘They’re routed!’ one of the soldiers shouted. ‘They’ve gone!’

‘Quickly!’ another yelled, ‘Run them down whilst we have the advantage!’

The soldiers set off at a careful advance down the road which the bandits had fled down, leaving Hugh alone with Olfden. ‘Is that it?’ he said, turning to the big man. ‘Have they gone?’

Olfden looked morose for a moment, his dark eyes turned towards the smoke-covered sky. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Listen; the screaming has stopped.’

Hugh fell silent and focused what energy he had left into his ears. Olfden was right – the screaming had stopped, as had the raucous yelling and sound of steel against iron. ‘We’ve driven them off,’ Hugh said in a breath. ‘Olfden, we’ve done it!’

Olfden smiled at Hugh. ‘You’ve made me proud, lad,’ he said with a weak smile. As Hugh watched, the big man stumbled, as if the energy had suddenly gone out of him.

Hugh let out a cry and dashed forwards, catching the big man and supporting him. ‘Olfden!’ he said, ‘What’s the matter? Are you hurt? Are you-…’ but as Hugh held the big man, he felt his hands grow wet and sticky with blood. He looked over Olfden’s shoulders and saw a huge wound in his lower back, leaking blood all over his shirt and trousers.

‘It’s nothing,’ Olfden said quietly, putting his arms weakly around Hugh’s frame. ‘Just set me down, son, set me down for a moment. I just need a rest.’

Hugh felt tears pouring from his eyes as he lowered the big man down against the well. When he took his arms away, they were sodden with the big man’s blood. ‘Talk to me, Olf,’ Hugh said, his voice shaking. ‘Keep talking, help will be here soon.’

‘You needn’t call me that,’ Olfden said with a small smile through his dark beard. ‘I’d say you are like a son to me, but you are well more than that, Hugh. Call me Pa.’

Hugh swallowed and tried to ignore the growing pool of blood spreading around Olfden. ‘Alright, Pa,’ he said with a weak, wobbly smile. ‘Alright, I’ll-…’

‘Don’t fear, Hugh,’ Olfden said, clutching Hugh’s hand with his own. ‘I just need to rest for a moment. Just…’

Hugh clenched his jaw and tried to fight back the tears, but could not hold them. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, breaking into a sob. ‘I’m so sorry, after everything you’ve done for me over the years, after all the help and care, after all the…all the…’ he trailed off.

‘Hey,’ Olfden said weakly, his voice almost lost to the roar of the fire. ‘Calm, lad, I’ll be alright.’

Hugh swallowed and nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said weakly. ‘I’ll just get the scabbard for the sword. I kept it here, you know, all these years.’ He reached across to the space beneath the cobbles and pulled out the leather case. Quickly, he began to buckle it across his chest. ‘I couldn’t bear to part with it, it’s the last reminder I had of who I am,’ he said as his fingers fumbled with the buckles. ‘I’m sorry, I lied,’ he said with another sob. ‘I’m Hugh Fortescue, son of Earl Jacob. I fled here after Earl Aesinger killed my family I-…’ he looked up into Olfden’s face and found it peaceful.

‘Pa?’ Hugh said, reaching out and touching the huge man’s bearded cheek. He made no response, his dark eyes continued to stare at Hugh, the flicker of a smile on his heavy but deathly pale features.

‘Pa? Are you-…? Pa?’ Hugh asked again, giving the big man a gentle shake. He made no response, his unblinking eyes continuing to stare into Hugh’s face.

            Hugh fell backwards onto his bottom, his body wracked with sobs. No, he thought as a terrible grief welled inside him. No, not again! Not again! I can’t lose another family, not like this, not like this! His thoughts became incoherent as rage and sorrow clouded his mind. For a few minutes he sat amongst the dead, the blood, and the fire and wept until he could weep no more.

            This can’t happen again, he thought, dragging himself to his feet. His body was heavy with fatigue and his mind weighted with sorrow. Felyr said they were going south. I have to make sure they’re alive, I have to go and help them! With one final splutter of sobs, Hugh gripped Captain Aethlar’s sword in his hand and set off at a run through the flame-engulfed village. I must find Lynna, and I must find Sara!

            He ran southward until smoke became snow and fire became ice. The blood remained, though, and it was marking Hugh’s passage southwards, down the small valley between the hills. He followed dozens of footsteps in the snow – erratic and oddly-spaced, splashed with droplets of blood or littered with cast-off possessions, deemed too heavy to carry. Dozens of people had run south, avoiding the hills immediately adjacent to the village in the hope of an easier flight.

As he ran, Hugh felt Captain Aethlar’s sword heavy in his hand, a reminder of what had happened and what was to come. Not Captain Aethlar’s sword – my sword. Resolute in purpose, his fury honed, Hugh continued to run. Captain Aethlar saved me, and so I shall use the blade he gave me to save others. I must.

            The light from the burning village still lit the far-off horizon when Hugh found the first body, face-down and dying the snow about it red with blood. As he rolled it over, he realised he knew the face – This is one of the Stoneswright boys, he thought with a sigh. He could not tell which of the twins it was, for there was nothing left of the man’s head below the nose. Quickly, Hugh rose to his feet and continued on, running as fast as his legs would take him over the white hills and thick snow that coated them.

            The next body came shortly after – another face he knew, but not one he could put a name to. A middle-aged woman, speared from behind through the belly. The weapon had broken inside her, and a long wooden pole stuck from her back, snapped at the end and slathered in blood. After that, Hugh’s hopes began to fade as he came upon more and more bodies.

            Arms slathered in Olfden’s blood and face wet with tears, Hugh staggered onwards, the gory bastard-sword still in his hands. Not another soul, he allowed himself to try and hope after every body, but it was no use. When he found Lynna’s body, throat slashed wide, he was hardly even surprised. There were the corpses of two children beside her; a boy and a girl from the village. The way her arms were wrapped around them told Hugh she had died trying to defend them.

            He did not allow himself to give up, though the faint light of hope had long since died. He stood a moment, looking at the three corpses, and took a long breath. He had never been as close to Lynna as he had Olfden, but he had loved her all the same for what she had done for him. The endless bowls of stew and broth, the warm cloak on a rainy night, the smile and promise of a better day.

            Hugh staggered on a few paces, passing more and more bodies. Gradually, the number of footprints fleeing eastwards dwindled as more and more villagers were cut down and left in the snow, dark shapes leaking blood into the white carpet. Soon, there was only one pair of footprints remaining, criss-crossed with the tracks of several horses.

            The final body was Felyr’s. Hugh was not surprised the tough old fellow had managed to make it further than everyone else, but even he had been run down. There was still a cleaver still gripped tight in his mutilated hand, and his face was twisted into a fierce and warlike grimace. His dirty old shirt was soaked with blood, for he had been struck many times, but the cleaver in his hand was also soaked with gore, and beside him lay a bandit, face-down in a pool of blood. Everyone’s dead, Hugh thought, falling to his knees beside the body of the old butcher. They’ve killed everyone – they’ve killed Sara, they must have.

            As the final ember of hope died, Hugh fell backwards into the snow and lay amongst the blood and bodies. All hope left him, for everyone he had loved was dead again. This time, instead of watching the chaos unfold from the rafters of Westwarden Castle’s great hall, he had walked through the carnage. He had watched as burning bodies fell from doorways or leapt through shutters. He had soaked his hands in blood checking the fallen. He had tried to defend them, and he had failed.

            To his surprise, Hugh found his still had tears to shed. Slumped in the freezing snow he longed for the cold to claim him, to drag him slowly down into its pristine white bosom and suffocate him there. I have nothing again, he thought to himself as the faces of those he loved swam before him: his mother and father, Olfden, Lynna, Sara.

            Oh Sara, I’m so sorry.

            Just as the cold was beginning to numb his blood-soaked limbs, a wretched coughing sound stirred Hugh back to movement. At his feet, the bloody bandit whom he had assumed dead was locked in spasm and convulsing with each cough. Hugh dragged himself upright and seized the leather-clad figure, rolling him onto his back.

            The face that greeted him was just as wretched as the coughing: near-toothless, with a crushed nose and one eye missing, the sallow-faced bandit coughed blood all over his chin whilst his weak hands were clamped over a terrible gut-wound.

            ‘Who are you?’ Hugh hissed at the man, shaking him by the collar of his leather hauberk. ‘Tell me who you are and why you’re here!’

            ‘Kill you all,’ the man said between splutters of blood. ‘Just kill you all. Took a few.’

            ‘What?’ Hugh said, his eyes narrowing. ‘Who sent you? And who did you take? Tell me and I may hurry your passing!’

            The bandit coughed and spluttered again, more blood seeping over his cracked and split lips. ‘Paid,’ he said. ‘Dead-Knuckles.’

            ‘Who?’ Hugh snarled. ‘A name, man, give me a name!’

            ‘Dead-Knuckles Asser,’ the man said, coughing more and more as Hugh shook him. ‘Dead-Knuckles Asser. Paid. Silver.’

            ‘Who paid you?’ Hugh demanded as the man fell into a trembling fit of retches and gurgles. ‘Tell me! Answer me now, or may your soul forever be seared in Vidoria’s flames! Tell me!’

            As the bandit died, slumping back into the bloody snow, he extended a hand. Hugh watched as the man’s faintly-pointing fingers sank into the snow. Three sets of hoofprints led away from the scene of the massacre, veering north-eastwards up and the snow-covered slope. Eyes wide, Hugh’s heart hammered in his chest. What if they’ve taken Sara? he thought, blood colder than the snow around him. What will they do to her? Oh, Empress preserve her!

            Hugh leapt to his feet, but as he did he caught a pouch on the fallen bandit’s belt with his foot. It spun through the air, scattering a paltry pinch-load of coin across the snow. Hugh stooped and looked at them, turning them over. They’re all of the same type, he thought with trembling fingers. This is no coincidence – this cannot be coincidence. His fury rising, Hugh rose to his full height and clenched his fists around the hilt of his sword. You, he thought, glaring at the empty northern hill. There’s no other explanation. It’s you, again! Hugh let out a near-feral snarl before charging through the snow, moonlight dancing on his bloody sword.

            Behind him, the silver-white light of the dark glittered upon the blood and coins in the snow.  two names shone up from the silver pennies and through the great still tide of blood and snow: Emperor Lyshir III and Andrey of Busnik. The blood and silver all seemed to run back to the Western Imperial Heartlands, a stinking red river that seemed to puddle at the feet of Earl Aesinger.

*

By midday the next day, Hugh was spent. He had run into the chill night for as long as he could, following the hoof prints due north-east. When he could no-longer run, he walked with all the speed his aching limbs would allow. When that failed and he fell into the snow, he allowed himself only a few moments rest before hurrying on again.

            He was exhausted and sticky with drying blood. He looked as if someone had emptied a bucket of gore over him, for his clothes were soaked with drying ichor, as was his hair and face. He left bloody footprints in the thick snow with every step he took, yet every step brought him closer to his goal. Hungry and thirsty, his only sustenance was the snow around him. The trees and bushes that he passed as he made his way over frozen brooks and past skeletal copses had all long lost their fruits and blossoms, and their snow-laden branches held no nectar for Hugh to forage. The landscape was little more than a wizened and frost-emaciated memory of what it had been in high summer.

            As Hugh went, stumbling across snow-covered fields and over rolling white hills, his mind raced. I must find Sara, he thought. What if they’ve taken her somewhere ill? What if those monsters have hurt her? And what of the silver? Surely, it must have come from my uncle! Who else would have such an abundance of west-minted silver other than the earl of the Western Heartlands?

            But the evidence seemed too thin and circumstantial. Who had the shadowy figure in the cloak been, and had he even played a role in the massacre of Kirkby-by-Hill? Was he Dead-Knuckles Asser, the only name the dying bandit had given before breathing his last? And who was the short man who had appeared atop the hill, waving a burning torch from side to side? Was he even anyone?

            Hugh stopped for a moment and took a long breath, clutching his sword tightly. In the near distance he could see a thick, wide river before him, frozen solid some time during the night, for no snow had fallen atop it. An arm of the Koppar which flows north-south to the east of here, he thought as he looked towards it. Decked in leafless willow trees and bare oaks, the river was terrible and ghostly, yet the hoof prints he followed led him right to its snowy banks.

            Quite suddenly, as he neared the banks of the river, the hoof print trail he had been following for so long vanished. No! Hugh thought, pacing up and down the riverbank. No, it cannot simply disappear! Where has it gone? He looked around desperately – there was only one explanation: the horses had been ridden onto the frozen river and across to the other side.

This is madness, Hugh thought as he stood on the bank of the frozen river. Who is to say they crossed here and did not in fact veer back? As he peered at the glassy surface of the river, Hugh became more convinced that a horse could not have crossed it, let alone with a rider on its back. Rocks jutted through the surface of the frozen river, the cold grey teeth of a wide mouth that laughed at Hugh as he walked up and down the southern bank of the river, trying to figure out just where the riders he was pursuing had crossed.

            It did him no good, though. Their hoof prints disappeared along the bank on the river’s edge and, to Hugh’s eyes, did not emerge on the other side. They must have known someone was following them, he thought, cursing under his breath as cold reality dawned. They’ve used the river to cover their tracks – damn it all! I’ll have to try and cross…

            Hugh looked at the frozen river before him. It was at least thirty paces wide and uneven in places, sharp rocks and stones protruded from the glassy top layer. He had no way of telling how deep the river beneath him was, yet Hugh was certain if he fell in he would die – trapped under ice or slowly succumbing to hypothermia on the snow covered banks. On the other side, the skeletal trees beckoned with frost-forged fingers, taunting him. Gingerly, he stepped out onto the ice-covered river. As he slowly transferred his weight from his back foot to the one planted on the ice, he heard the glass-like layer of frozen water atop the river let out a long, low creak.

Gingerly, he continued, placing his second foot before his first and treading as lightly as he could until he was a few steps out onto the surface of the river. Taking long, slow breaths to try and calm his frantic nerves, he placed foot in front of foot, each slowly and as lightly as he possibly could, until he was just over half way across the surface of the frozen river.

Jagged fang-like rocks loomed from the glassy ice covering the water and seemed to point themselves at Hugh as he tried to make his way across the ice, whilst below him the depths of the river swirled. He could see the water beneath his feet still running, and as he peered down, a long crack began to zig-zag across the face of the ice.

Heart hammering, Hugh quickly redistributed his weight and took another step. As he did, a long, low, rumbling crack thundered from beneath his feet. Drenched in cold sweat, Hugh stood paralysed with fear for a few moments. It’s going to give way, he thought, taking a deep breath and holding it in his lungs. I’m going to fall in and drown, I’m going to-…

His thoughts were immediately cut off by a commotion on the opposite bank. Looking up, Hugh gasped as a stag leapt from the frost-etched trees and bushes beyond, letting out a long, low moan as it did so. Flanks and hide wet with blood, the creature stumbled and fell onto the river’s bank, antlers tinged with the gleam of ice, its ragged breath forming clouds upon the cold air.

Still once more, Hugh clutched his sword in his hands. The stag lay helplessly, flanks and hide torn in long bloody ribbons, its dark eyes staring at Hugh from the opposite side of the river. I do not like this, he thought, standing stock still in the middle of the frozen river. I do not like this one bit.

            Then there was a second raucous clatter from the far side of the bank. Hugh watched as two large, shaggy-grey wolves burst from the bushes. Their muzzles were slick with blood and their yellow eyes fixed on their already fallen prey. They set about the creature, grabbing hold of its throat and worrying until, with one last gurgling moan, the stag fell still. Its blood ran from its throat and out onto the ice, steaming and mixing there with the frost into strange sanguine spirals.

            Hugh stood frozen in fear, his eyes locked upon the two wolves. Empress preserve me, he thought as the two wild animals set about their kill with bloody fangs. Please, do not see me out here, Hugh thought as he watched the two wolves devour their kill. I can’t fight them here on the ice. The ice will definitely break and I’ll surely die. Soon their muzzles and faces were slathered with the blood of the stag, their grey fur slowly turning a dark, reddish brown.

            It was a few moments before the wolves noticed Hugh. When one lifted its head and fixed its yellow eyes on him, it let out a long, low snarl, barring its bloody teeth, demanding he back away. Its growled threat drew the attention of the other, and slowly they rose to their feet, eyes fixed on Hugh. Hunkered low on their paws, their hackles raised high, the two wolves silently slunk onto the frozen water, their paws making no sound as they glided across the ice towards where Hugh stood.

            ‘Vidoria, preserve me,’ Hugh whispered as the two beasts slid closer and closer to him, bloody grey fog upon the ice. Hugh gripped his sword tightly in his hands and took another long, slow breath. Gradually, as the cold wind began to rise about him, the two wolves split, one approaching Hugh on his left flank, the other on the right. Hugh took a careful step backwards, and as he did a long, low creak and a horrid, bone-snapping crack rose up from the ice behind him.

            It was at that moment the first wolf, the one approaching Hugh from the left, leapt at him. With a cry, Hugh found himself jumping backwards in panic, swinging his sword in an arc. It did him no good, though, and the wolf barrelled into him, its jaws aiming for his neck. Hugh dropped his sword as he fell down towards the ice, grabbing hold of the wolf’s head.

            With a terrible crash, Hugh and the wolf landed on the ice. There was another creaking snap as the ice beneath him weakened, but there was nothing Hugh could do. The other wolf was upon him now, its jaws locked around his arm, trying to pull Hugh off the other wolf. He cried out as teeth punctured his flesh and jolted, trying to hurl the wolf off him.

            As he did, he felt the ice under him shift. It’s breaking! he thought as a loud, shearing crunch rocked the frozen sheet beneath him. Hugh grabbed the throat of the first wolf with his fingers, digging them in with all the force he could whilst the second beast worried his arm. Damn it, damn you all! I’ll drag both you wild beasts into the icy waters of this river with me! he thought as he let out a cry of pain.

            Then, the ice gave way. With a sudden crash the ice beneath the wolf attacking Hugh’s arm gave way, a long, wide crack spreading across the river right beneath the floundering man. The wolf let out a screaming yelp as it fell into the freezing-cold waters, letting go of Hugh’s arm and splashing his battered body with deathly cold spray. Though agony was shooting through the limb, Hugh made a fist and drove a punch into the first wolf’s face with all his might. The beast let out a yelp and flew off Hugh, landing clumsily a few paces away.

            Hugh leapt to his feet and grabbed his sword. Whilst the other wolf was floundering in the freezing river water, desperately trying to drag itself out of the hole in the ice it had fallen through, Hugh span and attacked the other. His leading arm was weakened by the wolf’s bite, but the sword still struck true, for when the other beast lunged at him again, he thrust the blade through its mouth and out of the back of its head. It shuddered on the steel before falling still and sliding off the blade.

            Finally, exhausted and in pain, Hugh turned back to the other wolf. He slashed wildly down at the struggling beast, cutting its head and shoulders with his blade, until it fell still and slipped back into the reddening water. Hugh watched as the corpse of the second wolf was carried away by the current beneath the ice, becoming a blurred shape beneath the river’s frozen surface.

            Throwing caution to the wind, Hugh ran to the other side of the frozen river as fast as he could. Beneath him, the ice snapped and popped, cracking and lancing this way and that as it strained under his weight. How did horses ever cross this? he thought as he charged to the far side, slipping and sliding as he went. They couldn’t have – I’ve made a mistake, I’ve gone the wrong way. I must have!

            He hurled himself onto the snow-covered bank, slipping over and falling as he did, landing painfully beside the carcass of the stag. Hugh lay there for a few moments, clutching his arm. Blood seeped from between his fingers, for the wolf’s bite had been deep and savage. Damn the odds, Hugh thought, cursing under his breath. Ripping the filthy, blood-sodden sleeve from his ragged shirt, he wrapped it as firmly as he could around his forearm, pulling it tight with his teeth. Pain flared through his arm as he did, making him wince and grimace with every tug, but soon it was done. His crude bandage was already blood-soaked before he affixed it to his arm, but new blood began to soak it the moment he took his hand away. It’ll have to do, he thought.

            Hugh looked up and down the bank he was now on but could again see no signs of horse tracks. They’ve vanished! he though despondently as he looked up and down the bank from where he was slumped. He was about to clamber to his feet and set on with his hopeless search when the wind brought to his ears the sound of far-off voices. Hugh stood still for a few moments, holding his breath and straining his ears. No, they’re definitely coming, he thought. Could they be survivors? By the Empress, could it be Sara?

            But moments later, Hugh’s hopes were dashed. There were only two voices, both of them were deep and gruff, simple and harsh-toned. Hugh turned and dived into the bone-like, frost-fingered bushes from which the bloody stag and two wolves had burst. He crouched amongst them, peering out, waiting for the sources of the voices to appear.

            Then, on his side of the river, two men in leathers wearing ragged cloaks appeared. They walked along the very edge of the ice, where there was no snow to leave tracks and where the river was not deep enough to pose a threat should the ice break. They trod slowly and carefully, holding shortbows in their hands and with shortswords on their waists. ‘See ‘ere!’ the shorter of the two said. ‘I told you!’

            ‘You’re right,’ the second, taller man said. ‘Is that a stag? Dead-Knuckles was right to send us out this way after all. To think, he thought some chump from that pathetic little village might have followed us, hah! They’re all dead!’

            ‘Hah!’ the second laughed with the first. ‘Looks like the wolves ate their fill and left it – there’s still some good meat on that. We could take it back to the others, maybe get a bit more of that nice silver for it as a reward.’

            The two men crept closer and closer up the bank, their eyes fixed on the bloody stag carcass. They’re bandits, Hugh thought, gritting his teeth. I should kill them where they stand or toss them into the river to drown, trapped beneath the ice. But Hugh knew he was being rash. As the two men moved closer and closer to the stag, Hugh decided it would be best to follow them back to their destination.

            ‘Don’t be silly,’ the shorter man said. ‘Dead-Knuckles already gave out most of the coin. The rest he’ll keep for his-self, just you see.’

            ‘Hold on,’ the second, taller man said, placing his hand on the chest of the first, his eyes fixed on the river. ‘What’s happened to that wolf?’

            The two men stopped a few paces short of the stag and peered at the bloody wolf corpse on the icy river for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ the first said, ‘gored on an antler?’

            ‘That’s its head!’ the second bandit said, pointing. ‘No antler did that – that was a blade! And look, the ice is all scuffed there, someone’s killed the wolf!’

            Hugh’s eyes widened. Skulking in the bushes behind the two men, he held his breath, suddenly painfully aware of every tiny sound and movement he made. As the two bandits looked around, nocking arrows to their shortbows, they began to advance towards where he was hiding. By the Empress, he thought, clutching his sword, I’ve come so far, don’t let me be caught now.

            ‘Wait,’ the first, shorter bandit said, putting his hand on his comrade’s arms. He looked around, eyes suddenly wide and voice lowered. ‘What if there’s lots of them and they’re still around?’

            The taller bandit frowned, then nodded. ‘Could be a Legion scout,’ he said quietly. ‘We’d best leave before we get seen – there could be a detachment out looking for us. We’ll warn Asser and the others when we get back to the cave.’

            The cave? Hugh thought as he watched the two men very carefully turn around and creep away own the edge of the bank, leaving no traces upon the ice at the edge of the river. Hugh waited a few moments before quietly rising to his feet and creeping after them, bent low behind the frost-scourged bushes. The icy branches above him scratched at his arms and face as he crept through, leaving only footprints as he continued along the bank behind the two bandits.

            The men moved slowly and carefully along the very edge of the river. Of course, there the ice will be thickest, Hugh thought to himself as he walked as quietly as he could behind the bandits. And with the lack of snowfall over the past few hours, they leave no traces upon the surface – that must have been what the horses and their riders did! Why did I not think of that before?

            A tense quarter-hour passed as Hugh slunk through the snow-laden bushes, leaving only footprints and the odd speck of blood behind him. His body ached with cold, hunger and fatigue, and his arm ached awfully. Yet when the low cave entrance rose into view through the trees, he found his mind was focused and set upon his task. I shall do one good thing, he told himself as he slid through the snow, and that shall be to rescue who I can from the claws of these monsters and kill as many of them as possible!

            Set into the river-facing side of a low, tree-covered hill, the cave entrance was a lazy, half-open maw ringed with frosty stones and capped with snow. Partially obscured by bushes, Hugh only noticed the entrance when the two bandits he was following suddenly ducked into the trees directly ahead of him and began to crash through the bushes. At first, he thought he had been spotted and they were coming for him, but then he realised they were in fact heading through the mouth of the cave.

            Hugh waited for a few moments until the sound of the men’s footsteps had faded away, then leapt from the bushes and back onto the riverbank. The cave was now painfully plain to see, and Hugh wondered why he had not considered such a hideout earlier.

As he looked at the snow before the entrance, there were clear hoof tracks leading down into the cavern. This is where they went, he thought, looking across the river. They must have walked the horses along the very edge of the river to this point where the water is shallower, so it would not matter so much if the ice cracked under the pressure of the horses’ hooves.

            Hugh turned away from the frozen stretch of water and pushed through the bushes partially obscuring the cave’s entrance. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword, stepping onto the damp, dark cave. Shadows pursued his every step, and no matter how lightly he trod his footsteps echoed around the cave. The passageway spiralled downwards, and the further Hugh got from the mouth of the hollow the more the darkness crept upon him. Soon, he was alone with nothing more than the sound of his rattling breath, his slow footsteps, and the utter darkness around him.

            The rock beneath his feet was slippery with water, and twice he struck his head of a low stalactite as he made his way down and down, deeper into the darkness. Then, just as Hugh was about to give up and turn back, he saw a flicker of light ahead, reflected in the moisture covering the stone floor. Voices followed, and Hugh stopped to listen.

            ‘But ye left the stag?’ a low, hard voice said.

            ‘Aye, Dead,’ a somewhat familiar voice said. One of the bandits from earlier, Hugh thought.

            ‘Well, we’ll ‘ave to go back an’ see if we can get some o’ it,’ the hard voice said. ‘Perhaps we’ll wait fer the eve, then we’ll send a few lads out to get it, provided none o’ those wolves ‘ave come back.’

            ‘But the dead wolf, Knuck,’ another familiar voice said. The second bandit. ‘A blade had killed that wolf, gone straight through its head!’

            ‘Well,’ the gruff voice said again, ‘if ye were followed by the Imperial Legion, ye’ll no ‘ave to worry ‘bout ‘em killin’ ya, I’ll do it meself.’

Hugh edged closer towards the light until the passage he crept down widened and he came to a wide cavern, lit a ghostly yellow-orange by a number of torches and small campfires around which a few men were clustered. The cavern’s roof was held up by great natural pillars of rough rock, dripping with moisture and covered in greyish moulds.

‘Dead, what if the Legion finds us?’ another of the bandits called out.

From where Hugh crouched in the shadowy tunnel that had led down from the cave entrance, he could see a short, stocky figure walk into the firelight. ‘Then ye’ll all die down ‘ere alone,’ the figure said, gesturing wide with huge arms and a big beard – a Dwarf. ‘I’ll take yer cuts and be outta ‘ere before any o’ ye can say squat. Ye’ll ave Tod an’ Gerr to blame if the Legion show up anyway, so take yer anger out on ‘em, not me.’

As the Dwarf moved behind one of the natural stone pillars, Hugh lost sight of him. Like most of the men, he became flickering shadows, giant upon the cavern’s shadowy walls. Cursing under his breath, Hugh glanced round the tall, wide chamber. I can’t see enough from here, Hugh thought where he squatted into the shadows. I can’t even tell if there are any prisoners from the village being kept here!

            As quickly and quietly as he could, Hugh slipped from the dark passageway and into the tall, dark, bandit-filled chamber. Crouching low and shuffling through the shadows that pressed into the edges and cracks of the chamber, he slunk between the stalagmites and natural pillars of rock. As he went, he tried to count the number of bandits in the room, but the dancing light and choking shadows continually deceived him. Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? I’ve no idea. Just how big was this Dead-Knuckles Asser’s band of scum before the attack on Kirkby-by-Hill?

            ‘Besides,’ the Dwarf said, ‘we’ve gotta hang ‘ere a little longer yet. The Duskguard ‘as yet to deliver the final payment.’

            ‘When will that be, Dead?’ one of the shadow-clad bandits said. ‘Sitting in this cave is giving me the aches.’

            ‘Soon, ‘ave no fear,’ the Dwarf said. ‘If he don’t come, I’ll find ‘im an’ show ‘im why I’m called Dead Knuckles Asser.’

            Asser is the Dwarf? Hugh thought as he ducked behind a fat stalagmite. How dare he leave his mountains and come here to wreak havoc? He has no right to come here and no right to do such a thing! Anger rising inside him, Hugh kneaded the leather grip of his sword with his palms, trying to cool his already tattered nerves. How dare he come to my home and do this? How dare he? How dare-…

            Quite suddenly, the rattle of hooves filled the air. Hugh watched from his new hiding place in the shadows behind a cluster of stalagmites as a dozen armoured men on horses rode through the very stone tunnel Hugh had entered through just moments before. Dead Knuckles Asser got to his feet, as did most of the bandits in the room, and stood to greet their guests.

            ‘Was wonderin’ when ye’d show, Duskguard,’ the Dwarf said, swaggering towards the lead horseman. ‘I suppose we still ain’t on a first-name basis wit’ ye though, are we?’

As Hugh looked on, he saw the horseman was, of course, the shadowy stranger from Kirkby-by-Hill’s tavern. His face was still covered, and all Hugh could make out was a bearded jaw and pale, gaunt cheeks beneath the dark hood. Now Hugh could see him bodily, he was surprisingly thin. Too thin to be lithe, yet not so skinny as to look ill, the Duskguard’s narrow body was offset by his pale, greyish face. He looks almost ill, Hugh thought as the firelight danced over the shadowy figure’s features.

            ‘Some of us have pseudonyms because we need them,’ the Duskguard said coldly in a surprisingly weak tone, ‘whereas others give themselves nicknames because they have inflated self-esteems. Guess which each of us are.’

            Hugh saw the Dwarf’s face for the first time in the firelight: mottled, scarred, lined and bald-headed. A huge grey beard hung from his wonky jaw, and the light flashed on sharpened iron knuckledusters wrapped around his hands. Dead Knuckles Asser’s bulbous nose was glistening with sweat, whilst his deep-set eyes were fixed on the thin-looking Duskguard. ‘Ye’re a fine one,’ he said, spitting into the nearest campfire. ‘We did yer dirty work for ya.’

            ‘Do you have proof that they’re all dead?’ the Duskguard said coldly.

            ‘Proof?’ Asser snapped. ‘Ye never wanted proof! Wha’ would’ve sufficed? The ‘eads of every sod in that bedamned village? Nae – they’re all dead, aside from a couple o’ guards-…’

            ‘A couple of guards?’ the Duskguard hissed, waving a leather-gauntleted hand at Asser. He raised the same hand and the dozen cloaked men at his back slid from their horses and arrayed themselves behind him. ‘You let a couple of people get away?’

            ‘Wha’s the deal?’ Asser snarled. ‘Ye asked fer all the peasants to be killed, so we killed all the peasants!’

            ‘I wanted everybody killed!’ the hooded and cloaked Duskguard yelled, his voice echoing around the cavern.

            Hugh watched as Asser stepped forwards, running his fingers over the spiked iron knuckledusters around his hands. ‘We killed everyone who ran,’ he said in a low growl, ‘aside from a few we kept at the back as prisoners for yerself – ye know, should ye be wantin’ them.’

            The Duskguard rubbed his shadow-hidden eyes with a thumb and forefinger. ‘Typical of bandits, I suppose,’ he said quietly. ‘You really don’t seem to understand what it means when I say “everyone”. But, go on, amuse me. Show me these prisoners of yours.’

            Hugh mirrored the steps that the Duskguard and Asser made as the Dwarf led the hooded and cloaked men across the room. He skirted through the shadows, keeping as quiet as he could all the while. Taking slow, shallow breaths, Hugh’s whole figure trembled as he turned around a dark corner in the cave he had not previously seen. As he did so, he came face to face with four figures he recognised.

            They were all young women, forced to their knees with their hands, legs, and mouths bound. Three of them were lasses he knew married, but the fourth was Sara, her face tear-streaked and wracked with fear. He felt his figure beginning to tremble as he saw her, his heart leaping with hope and terror.

Still she was beautiful, covered in blood and dirt and her features fraught with distress, and as Hugh looked at her he was reminded of just how much he loved her. Oh, Empress, what do I do? he thought as he watched Asser gesture to the four women with a sweep of his arms. How do I save her? How do I get her out of here?

            ‘What do you expect me to do with these?’ the Duskguard said, his dozen armed, armoured and cloaked men still behind him. ‘I’m not a savage, not like you and your idiotic band of hooligans. I come from better origins than you scum.’

            Asser gritted his teeth. ‘Very well,’ he said, visibly angry. ‘Ye promised me more coin anyway, so jus’ cough up an’ be gone. Where is it?’

            ‘You must’ve misheard me,’ the Duskguard said, turning his back on the Dwarf and pushing his hands under the heavy, dark cloak he wore. ‘I promised you more silvery metal.’

            The Dwarf let out an angry growl. ‘Wha’s the difference?’ he yelled. ‘Pay me an’ get out me cave!’

            Wordlessly, the Duskguard span on the balls of his feet and whipped from under his cloak a long, steely knife. It flashed in the firelight as he turned, slashing wide Dead Knuckles Asser’s throat. The Dwarf had no chance to cry out, only to gurgle and slump, clawing at his neck with his fingers as blood bubbled from the wound. The Duskguard himself issued no orders, but his men behind him all drew their swords and advanced upon the bandits in the cavern, but Hugh saw none of them. There was something in the way the Duskguard moved that seemed familiar, though he could not place it. Who are you? he thought as he stared from the shadows.

            As Asser slumped to the floor and coughed up his last breath, the Duskguard knelt over his body. ‘No loose ends, I’m afraid,’ he said before getting to his feet and sheathing the weapon. ‘Kill them all!’ he yelled as he made for his horse, marching through the battle now raging in the middle of the cavern. ‘Then kill those prisoners they kept. As I said – there can be no loose ends. Earl Aesinger wants every last one of his coins that you find back, too!’

            Frantically, Hugh looked from the Duskguard to his soldiers, who were setting about the bandits with the trained precision of imperial soldiers, and then to the four prisoners, hands and mouths bound. For the moment, there was nothing he could do. He knew that if he ran to the prisoners now, he would end up caught in the battle, mistaken for a bandit. Instead, though his heart cried out for him to rush to Sara, he stayed put, hiding in the shadows.

            He watched as the bandits that had slaughtered the folk of Kirkby-by-Hill were themselves massacred, cut down by men with four times the skill and ten times the advantage. Flashes of steel and cries of agony filled the cavern as one by one the bandits were themselves killed, adding their own blood to that of their already dead Dwarven leader.

            It was over in moments. The battle-weary and travel-fatigued vagabonds were cut to pieces by the steel of the cloaked warriors. As soon as the last bandit fell, one of the cloaked men pointed to two of the others. ‘You and you, kill the prisoners. We’ll meet you at the usual rally point. Be quick.’

            ‘Aye, Sir,’ the two men said in unison.

            Heart in his mouth, Hugh watched as ten of the cloaked warriors re-mounted their horses and sped away from the cavern, their fine steeds trotting quickly back up the passageway and into the gloom. The two men they left behind nodded to one-another, their faces hidden by their hooded cloaks, and advanced on the four village girls.

            Hugh watched as they rocked in terror, trying to wriggle free of their bonds and get away from the two advancing men. There was nothing he could yet do, though, for the last few cloaked warriors were still at the bottom of the cavern, not yet departed. If I go now, they’ll simply overpower me and I’ll be killed, along with Sara! Oh Empress, hurry them along! With each passing second, Hugh watched the two men tasked with killing the girls slid closer and closer bloody swords already in their hands.

            Then, with one final clatter, the last horseman departed the cavern and vanished into the shadows. Hugh span around where he crouched in the darkness at the edge of the large cavern and found he had been left alone with only two of the cloaked killers standing between him and Sara. This is my moment!  ‘Sara!’ he cried, unable to stop himself for another moment. He leapt from the shadows, sword still in his hands.

            She looked up, her teary eyes wide, full of hope and fear. She saw him and began to thrash frantically, waving her head from side to side and rocking on the spot. But as Hugh closed towards her, one of the soldiers spun around, striking a blow for Hugh’s head which he only narrowly dodged. He slipped on the damp stone floor and fell, jarring his injured arm as he went down and letting out a screech of pain.

            As the man who had attacked him raised his sword to strike a second time, the first guard cut the throat of the first peasant girl. Hugh could hear the muffled screams from the remaining three as he tried to lift his sword to block the incoming blow. It struck hard, sending pain reverberating through his wounded arm and causing him to cry out again. Over and over his foe struck down, and every time Hugh only just managed to position his sword to block the blow.

            Desperately, Hugh kicked out wildly with his right foot. He caught the attacking man on the inside of his knee and caused him to stagger, and whilst he was recovering Hugh leapt to his feet. His sword spun, but this time it was the warrior’s turn to block. Hugh’s sword scraped across the man’s chest armour, cutting the tie of the attacker’s cloak as it did. The garment fell onto the shadowy floor, revealing the man’s torso in full.

            Black-coated steel glittered in the firelight that bounced around the dark cavern. Emblazoned upon the breastplate and painted yellow-gold was the crest of a phoenix – wings spread wide and its head uplifted as if crying to the cave’s dark ceiling. ‘Imperial armour?’ Hugh said, though he was hardly surprised.

            ‘Earl Aesinger wants all you peasants dead,’ the soldier said, gritting his teeth. He was a young man, a few years older than Hugh, with light hair and a scruff of beard upon his face. ‘He also wants to make sure no-one knows he had his fingers in the Southern Heartlands, so we’re gonna kill all you bandits now. Even sent that boy along with him to help us with the task!’

            ‘Boy?’ Hugh’s eyes widened in shock. He couldn’t possibly mean that worm Darry, could he? he thought, glaring into the eyes of his foe. ‘Aesinger’s own son is here?’ he breathed.

            He got no response. Instead, the soldier made a slash at his neck which Hugh blocked with his sword. A metallic clang reverberated around the cavern as the two men began their duel once more. Though Hugh had been well-trained as a boy, he was perilously rusty, and for what skill he had the other man matched in strength and precision. They stepped around each other, whirling away from the prisoners and the other soldiers as they fought – away from Sara.

            Then, just as Hugh’s arm was numbing with pain, he caught a break. His foe slipped on the moisture-greased floor and lost his footing for a moment. It was all Hugh needed to drive his sword through the man’s unarmoured armpit and into his body. The soldier let out a squawk of pain and fell to the floor, dead moments later as blood gushed from the ruptured artery in a shadowy red torrent.

            Hugh turned his eyes back to the prisoners and the other soldier. As he looked on, a dozen paces away from where three of the four women lay dead, he watched hopelessly as the final soldier held Sara’s rosy-red face in his left hand and his bloody sword in his right. ‘No!’ Hugh cried out, starting at a run towards her, his sword clenched in his fist and tears on his cheeks. His feet slipped and slid over the moisture-slicked stone of the cavern floor, made all the more treacherous by the flickering darkness sent reeling across it by the firelight.

            He rushed up behind the man holding Sara and drove his sword through his back with all his might. He felt flesh tear and bone crack as he struck, the weapon sliding in through a weak spot in the armour the man wore. He fell heavily backwards onto Hugh, knocking them both to the floor in a clatter of steel and stone, the blood-soaked sword he held falling from his fingers.

            Hugh left his blade sticking through the torso of the dying man and scrambled towards where Sara had been slumped. ‘Sara, my sweet, I’m here,’ he said, struggling to pull himself forwards. ‘I’m here, you’re safe, it is all going to be alright…’

            But as he lifted his gaze to her face, he saw her rosy cheeks held their pretty blush no longer. Her warm lips were parted, pale and quickly turning cold, and there was blood on her slightly bucked front teeth. ‘No,’ Hugh said as he hauled himself over to her. ‘No, it cannot be!’ he cried, choked with sobs and more tears as he placed his bloody hand on her pale cheek.

            She made no response, and her apple-green eyes stared straight through Hugh and off into the darkness. As Hugh gathered her up in his arms and let out a long, heartbroken moan, he slid his hand into her mahogany-red hair and found it sticky with blood – blood that had leaked from the wide slash-wound that had torn wide her throat.

            ‘I’ve failed you all again,’ Hugh cried to the apathetic shadows in the cave, his own haunting voice bouncing back at him with the mocking echo. ‘I don’t deserve to love, for everyone my love touches is torn from me! Sara, my sweet, I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!’ The final word echoed around the cavern, a ghostly hiss upon the still, damp air. It taunted Hugh as he slumped to the floor of the stone, clutching Sara’s corpse to himself and weeping, lost to grief.

*

It all comes down to coin, Hugh thought as he drove the flame-scarred shovel into the cold, hard ground. Silver flows through the Empire like blood. With an exhausted sigh, he pulled himself out of the shallow grave he had dug and sat on the edge of it for a moment, looking into the pit at his feet. ‘This will have to do, I’m afraid,’ he said to no-one. ‘I can’t dig any deeper, I’m too exhausted after burying everyone else.’

            He had run from the cave as soon as he had found the strength, tears streaking his face and his heart heavy with grief. ‘Darry!’ he had roared at the frozen world around him when he found it bereft of life, ‘Darry, come back here and face me, you coward!’ But no-one had come. Had Darry even been there? Hugh thought as he leaned heavily on the shovel for a moment as he caught his breath. Could Darry have been the Duskguard? He had been so sickly and ill when growing up, and the Duskguard looked more-or-less  fit and healthy.

            As he leaned on the shovel, Hugh shook his head and sighed. He had more questions than answers spinning in his mind, and no way of dealing with any of them quickly. Knowing Earl Aesinger was involved felt like some form of closure, though not enough to lift the weight of guilt and regret from Hugh’s shoulders. He was left to assume that Aesinger had sent the Duskguard – be he Darry or otherwise – to the Southern Heartlands to find Hugh, perhaps on a hunch, perhaps on evidence; it did not matter, for Hugh had no way of finding out.

He had worked out what had happened though – or he had a theory, at the very least. The Duskguard had found Hugh in Kirkby-by-Hill and paid off a local group of bandits to slaughter everyone before having the bandits killed to cover his own tracks. Devious, Hugh thought, standing straight and taking his hand from the shovel. Any earl or lord found acting in territory beyond his own is fit for trial before the senate. With blood on the bandits’ hands and them all dead in a cave, it looks as if they attacked the village and then fell out over the spoils. Such deceit. It reeks of my uncle’s doing.

            He turned to the final body, wrapped in what had once been his threadbare cloak. Sara’s figure was hidden beneath it; her wounds, her fear, her pain, all had left her beneath the cloak. When Hugh had closed her eyes, she had looked almost peaceful, as if she had simply slipped into an unending slumber.

            Hugh slid his arms under the cloak-covered form and picked Sara up. For a few moments he held her in his arms, tears on his cheeks. ‘I wish we could have spent more time together,’ he said as the cold winter wind began to blow about him. ‘I wish I could have seen you smile one last time, watched your pretty face light up in the sun of another summer evening. I wish I could have told you just how much you mean to me, and just how much I love you. But instead I give you to the cold, hard ground as I have everyone else.’

For a moment, words failed him and he descended into a torrent of tears. ‘I’m sorry, my sweet Sara,’ he managed to say a few moments later as he carefully stepped down into the grave he had dug for her, alongside that of her father. ‘This is all my fault. I should have told you all the truth from the start, I should never have been ashamed of who I was or tried to hide it.’ He took a long, slow steadying breath as he lay Sara’s broken body down on the cold hard soil. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again as he stood, ‘and I swear I’ll never forget you or any of the others. I’ll try and do better by you, to make this world a better place. There is so much evil and hatred here, perhaps I can try and take some of it out.’

With one final kiss upon her cloak-covered forehead, Hugh turned and pulled himself up out of the shallow grave he had dug for his lost love. Picking up the shovel once more, he began to fill in the grave with the firm dirt he had excavated, watching as Sara’s body disappeared under the dirt. May you awake in the embrace of the Divine Empress, free of all the woes of this worldly life.  

It had taken him days, but he had buried everyone in the village that he had the strength to: Sara, her father, Olfden, Lynna, Felyr, and many others. It had taken him hours on end – in fact, he was no-longer sure what day it was. Had it been dark when I started digging? he asked himself as he tossed the last of the dirt back into Sara’s grave. I have no idea how long I’ve been here for…

The last few hours – or days; however long he had been digging, wrapping bodies in what material he could find and burying them – had passed in a haze of grief. Every corpse had felt like a monument to his weakness, a mark of his failure and cowardice. ‘I shall never hide again,’ he said to Sara’s grave as he stood over it. ‘I am Sir Hugh Fortescue, son of Earl Jacob Fortescue and Lady Isabella Beshing. I should have told you a long time ago, but now I shall never hide it from anyone.’

As he tossed the last load of soil onto Sara’s grave, Hugh turned to the dark, brooding dawn sky above and glared up into the clouds as the first few flakes of new snow began to fall. ‘If you want me, uncle, you can come and find me! I am Sir Hugh, and one day I shall take vengeance upon you for all the wrongs you have done me and those I love!’

He drove the shovel into the ground and picked up his sword. It was Captain Aethlar’s, he thought as he belted it around his body, but now it is mine. It has saved my life many times, just as he did that fateful night in Westwarden Castle’s great hall. The weight of the weapon on Hugh’s back felt good: it was comforting, like a friendly hand assuring that all would be well and that there was someone at his back.

Hugh cast one last gaze over the crude graveyard he had dug just a few hundred paces to the north of the ruined village of Kirkby-by-Hill. Behind him, the burned-out buildings he had called home for a decade still smouldered in the cold of the new, crisp dawn. The sun had only just risen, and the dark sky hid its light from the white world below, where Hugh looked over his handiwork. Dozens of individual graves were marked with either sticks or stones at their heads. He had saved the largest rock he could find – the very stone that had hidden his sword by the well for so many years – for Sara, and had found a sprig of mistletoe to lay upon the top of her grave.

With a long, slow breath, Hugh turned his back on the graves.  Now, I begin anew, he told himself. His hand went to his chest, which was covered by a battered leather hauberk he had pillaged from a dead bandit. From within it he took a scrap of paper he had found amidst the wreckage of Kirkby-by-Hill. He held it in his hands for a few moments, eyeing the text. It was written in a quick, spidery hand. ‘Help wanted – poachers plague Sundale Farmstead, stealing livestock,’ Hugh read aloud to the cold morning wind. ‘West of Bandale. Rewarded in silver.’

With one last glance back over his shoulder at the ruins of his life, Earl Hugh said a silent farewell to those he had lost before turning his head back towards where he needed to go. Rewarded in silver, he thought to himself as he set off north-west towards Bandale. He had been there before several years ago and knew the way, it was simple enough.

By no means did the contract offer him any answers or vengeance against his uncle, nor did it directly bring him any closer to discovering if Darry was the Duskguard, but it did offer him coin. I cannot retake that which Earl Aesinger has stripped me of without help; It all comes down to money, Hugh thought as he kicked his way through the ankle-deep snow at his feet and looked up at the dark sky above him. Silver flows through the Empire like blood.