In a Land Distant and Unsullied

	The galloping of horse hooves made Irvin to look up from his fieldwork. Over the years, the sound of hooves moving at that speed meant only two things: either someone was running from another person, or someone had to deliver a message. In this case, it was probably the latter due to the clinking of platemail that could be heard from several miles away. As Irvin looked upwards towards the lone road and the overcast sky, the rider slowed down. Irvin’s heart started to race, mostly due to the sight of the person’s sword and armor. He wore the crest of Lord Orek, a brown leaf spread behind a red tree. Irvin knew that if the knight wished, he could cut him down for any such imagined offenses, and so in fear, he threw down his rake with which he was tilling the soil before and straightened his back. He then quickly kneeled before the knight as he dismounted his horse, his armor clinking as he strode towards Irvin’s farm.
	“You there! Is this the town of Potren?” He asked, his booming voice resounding across the silent farmland.
	Irvin stammered as he tried to deliver his answer. “Y-yes, m’lord. What is it you require?”
“Direct me to the town proper.”
“Of course m’lord. Just follow the road for about an hour and you will arrive there. If you don’t mind me asking, what does the message contain?”
He departed without a word. Anxious for what the message might contain, Irvin decided to finish his work quickly for the day and then head into town to see what the message was. As he tilled the soil against the gray skies, his mind wondered what sort of news a knight of Orek might hold. It might be another wanted notice, a sign that more and more people were stealing from Count Kron, and by extension, the kingdom as a whole. Or it might be an early tax collection by Orek, a frightening prospect considering that Irvin’s own crops weren’t growing as fast as he wanted them to. The winter winds were cold, fast, and unrelenting in the last couple months, something that he personally attributed to Lo’kor. Stories were always told by Joren the bard every year right around these months when his caravan came into town, telling stories of the great heroes and legends of the Days of Legends. For Irvin, the stories of the god Lo’kor and his brother Tolren had always fascinated him. Maybe it reminded him of his brother and his relationship, or maybe the eternal duals between heat and cold just kept him interested. Either one was just as possible for him. And although the tales of divine battles were entertaining to reminisce about for the moment, the more immediate worry of what the message from Lord Orek held still weighed heavily upon Irvin, mostly because of the possibility of having the little food he had stored taken away from him because he could not pay his tax.
After he finished tilling the soil, his back and hands were stiff, both from the cold and the physical labor required to execute the task itself. Taking a deep breath in and looking on the plants that would hopefully bear him some results soon, he started to walk down the road that would reveal to him the answers that the knight had held. The skies above refused to show him any signs of what time of day it was, but the darkness of the night had not set in yet so Irvin decided that he still had time to go into town and head back to his own home. That is, if his shack that contained the necessary living ingredients could be considered a home. Regardless, he set down the muddy and faded road, trampled by horse hooves and the innumerable feet that treaded its ways over the years. Soon he would find some good news. That’s what Irvin told himself.


When he finally arrived at the town center of Potren, the town of his birth, the darkness that he feared had somewhat set in to his right, causing some inns and shops to set up torches around their entrances to illuminate the area around the front. There was also light gathered around the center of the town, where the notice board was stationed. Irvin quickly rushed towards the board, eager to discover what the earlier knight had delivered to Potren. As he got closer, the shapes of his neighbors and fellow townsfolk started to become more distinct. To his left was the farmer Roden, to his right was the innkeeper Wren. Irvin tried to push his way through the front but the burly Kro blocked his path so he tried to move around the hulking mass of a man to see what the paper said. It was at that moment that he remembered that he was never taught letters so he asked Kro right next to him if he knew what they meant. As expected, he didn’t know either. Looking to his left and his right, Irvin tried to discern if anyone knew what the unknown letters meant. Frustrated now, he tried asking everyone in the crowd if they could read the notice. No one could. Right when he was about to give up and just walk back to his farm to try another day when the bard Joren yelled to make way.
“Move! Move!” He yelled at the crowd. “I said move, praise the winds! You peasantfolk have no manners I swear.” The second part he muttered under his breath so the massive Kro could not hear him, as well as the other more easily angered townsfolk. As the crowd cleared for the famous Joren, he approached the sign and read from the paper in a booming voice, radiating with a performer’s voice, a light against the darkness.
“Attention, Subjects of His Eminent Majesty, King Yoken XVI, Master of Titles and Arms, Commander of the Royal Armies of the Kingdom of Mordan, Ruler of the Lands North and South, and Grand Lord of Its Lands. Your great ruler calls upon its people to fight for the honor and glory of the Kingdom of Mordan, Greatest of Nations in the Northern Reach. Per orders of His Majesty, the Royal Crown calls for the deployment of all able-bodied men  in their respective lord’s army to aid in the Conquest of the rebel county of Count Brone to the east.  All soldiers are to depart as soon as possible to their local lord’s citadel at which point they will be equipped with arms and armor. Refusal to not depart from one’s town will be reported by the mayor and as such will be punished by death by the Knights of the Arm. Glory to the Kingdom of Mordan, the King of Its Lands, and House Yoken, Holders of the Silver Crown.”
“Or so it reads.” Said Joren, now lowering his voice to its normal volume. Irvin quickly turned to his left and right to see everyone scrambling to find a weapon, or at the very least a tool that might qualify as one. While one part of him was relieved not to be starving for the rest of the season, a much darker prospect awaited him: war. And while calls to arms had been issued to the town of Potren before, the last time one such proclamation had been a couple decades ago. Or at least that’s what Ervin’s father had told him. He was only about 4 years old at the time so he didn’t remember the time that well. And it wasn’t as if he could run away from the war, as Lord Orek was infamously strict towards towns that did not pay their dues to the crown. As a result, Rhom, the mayor of Irvin’s small hometown, operated under the belief that if they did something even slightly outside of the laws set down by Orek and the crown, they held the risk of extra taxes or worse. This fear was instilled in every soul in Potren, including Irvin himself. After the shock had set in, he too rushed to find some sort of weapon that would be suitable to fight with. His farm was too far away to grab any of his farming tools. Then he had an idea. He could just go away to his farm and then just not return for the march. Trying to lose himself in the crowd and mass of people, Irvin attempted to lose himself in the darkness and flee away from the order of war. Just when he was about to leave, he felt a strong grip on his right shoulder. His heart sunk as he slowly turned around to face the tall man that was the mayor of the village, Rhom.
	“Where are you going? I believe I heard you wanting to hear what the notice held, Irvin.” Said the giant man, his black eyes just visible in the little illumination that was available.
	“I-I was just going back to my house to grab a weapon…” Irvin replied, but he knew that his answer would not be good enough for the stern mayor.
	“You know that’s not true. Go over to Mane’s smithy to get a spear or something. I’m gathering everyone in a little bit to go in a little while, so make it quick.” Even after he finished his sentence, he just stood there, his eyes gazing into Irvin’s actions.
	Although Irvin had barely gone to the smithy to get some new tools for tending to the land, somehow he quickly remembered, something that was mostly likely related to Rhom’s death-gaze. The clank of iron meeting steel and the hot fires of the forge awaited Irvin as rushed into Mane’s workplace, causing the smith to look up from his work and wipe his forehead.
	“What’s all the commotion about, Irvin?” The burly man inquired. Although he had only met Mane a couple times, he addressed Irvin very casually. How he knew his name was a mystery to Irvin, considering how Mane looked just a couple years older than him. But Irvin tried to shake away such worries about casual address and such and asked,
	“War notice. I need a weapon, can you give me one?” At the mention of war, the smith’s eyebrows rose but he didn’t ask any questions. With a sigh he went over to his pile of produced tools, both warlike and utilitarian, and grabbed a simple spear. The spear had a wooden stick attached to a sharp end of iron that reached to just above Irvin’s head. After pausing for a second, Irvin asked a second question.
	“Why did you sigh?”
	“Always have to make a bunch of stuff for people right before and after a war. Making burial shovels are a pain.”
	The prospect of death just then came to Irvin. The idea that he might die in a far-away battlefield, miles away from his birthplace scared him, so he rushed out of the smithy, with Mane trying to working on his next project.

	As he stepped back out into the darkness, an overwhelming sense of dread crept into his bones. The oppressive blackness was closing in on him, he felt, and the only support he had was a small stick only slightly taller than himself. Looking for some place to go now that he had acquired a weapon, he squinted in the night and after a little bit of adjusting to the darkness, finally found where the able-bodied men were gathered. Although Irvin didn’t doubt that there were many people that were going out of fear or obligation, like himself, there were also some that were excited into an almost insane fervor. The prospect of honor, glory, and blood excited them. Or maybe it was the prospect of leaving their boring everyday lives of living under the constant worry of starvation and oppression. Irvin didn’t look forward to most likely dying on the battlefield. He had enough death, and didn’t really want much more. The prospect of leaving his town, the place of his birth, scared him even more than disgracing his family name. Not that he really had one to begin with though. He and his brother were the sons of peasants, not even craftsmen. Simple farmers whose land wasn’t even theirs. So the prospect of battle didn’t excite him. It scared him.
	As he slowly inched towards the large mass of men, the din of the many “soldiers” grew, until he was one amidst them. Which was exactly what he wanted. Irvin wasn’t particularly attached or close to any of the people in the town, since he lived so far away from Potren. Or maybe he didn’t want to be attached, not after his father Uren had died. He didn’t know. Regardless of Irvin thoughts however, Rhom cleared his voice at the front of the mass of people, causing their laughter and whispers to quiet.
	“Now I know there are a lot of mixed emotions right now,” he began. “Excitement. Fear. Joy. Despair. But I want you men to know that you fight not only with the entire kingdom supporting you, but also with us back home supporting you. Now go and do your duty.”
	Some kept quiet at what was supposed to be a motivational speech, but the majority of those gathered in the dim light yelled their agreement. Irvin too, kept silent and awaited for the long march. As Rhom left, the ones who were most excited for battle, which included people like Kro, decided that they would assume order of the troupe. With a yell, they set off, taking the northern road towards the citadel of Torm, castle from which Lord Orek commanded.
	As they set out, the clouds ahead started to let down their wet deposits onto the ground. There was a collective sigh amongst the around three dozen men as the squishing of boots and linen on mud began to sound across the muddy plains. The dark of night didn’t allow Irvin much vision, but from what he could see on either side of him, two men about the same height as him were slouched, their movements forced as they trudged through the mud. Irvin too, had trouble moving through the mud. It obstructed his movement, stopping his feet at every moment, as if to stop him from moving towards his goal. He wished that the mud would stop him entirely, to completely halt this folly that was a war march. Some in the war party thought they would die, some thought that they would live. Both were wrong. The entire act of them going to war would only end in suffering, an act worse than death. They would suffer on the battlefield, a place with no glory or honor held within it. Irvin had no doubts that his father’s words, his stories on the horrors of war, were real and without base. The only way to avoid the suffering and deathless destruction of the field of battle would be to run away from it. That’s what his father did. But there was no way now to run away from such a field. Irvin was stuck, trudging through this mud, trying to find a way out. And that way would never show itself to him.
	As the moon rose in the night sky, the stars remained hidden behind the dark clouds that haunted the plains of the land. With his spear as his only support, Irvin marched onwards, no words being spoke to those next to him. The darkness stretched onwards, its hands closing deeper and deeper on the entire war host. The terrain remained obscured by the night, but despite this, the leaders of the party stopped after some time and declared that they would make camp for the night. Irvin didn’t have time to pack anything for the trip, but it wasn’t like he had much to bring that would assist him in the first place. All that he had to aid him in his sleep would be his spear, a somewhat comforting presence against the tense darkness beyond. A fire could not be started due to the strong rain and winds, an occurrence that the more boisterous of the party attributed to the local spirits. Irvin was never much for the superstitions of spirits and ghosts, but for this time he was inclined to believe them. The infinite darkness that extended beyond his own sight had to be something conjured up by ethereal spirits.
	It was a mistake, he soon found, for them to make camp in the middle of the large farmland plains that stretched for miles upon miles. There was barely any dry ground so the land Irvin had to try and find some respite on was wet with mud and other sorts of grime. The land also gave off a putrid smell, most likely the manure-smell that would come from the various farms to the west. It was a combination of the wet mud, the disgusting smell, and the lack of any sort of protection against the wind and rain that made it not only hard for him to lose himself to his own inner darkness, but also for him to tune out the noises of the rest of the war host. They too, had trouble falling to sleep and took to getting close together and trying to lose themselves in talk until they eyes felt heavy. Irvin, on the edge of their gathering, tried to listen to their chatter until his eyes too felt heavy. During this time he wondered why they had stopped at that particular time, in the middle of a storm. While he doubted he would’ve made a better decision if he was in command of the party, he still couldn’t help but wonder if they could’ve arrived at a more suitable campsite if they had marched a little bit farther, a little bit longer. But then again, he didn’t wish to march anymore in that wretched wind and god-forsaken rain. Both options were wrought with misfortune. Maybe that was why the head of the host had decided to rest for the night. That being said, falling asleep wasn’t the easiest thing to do either. As time in the endless night dragged on, Irvin drifted in and out of sleep, his consciousness being dragged upon like the tide of an ocean coast. He doubted he would get much sleep that night.
	When he finally woke the next day, the sun revealed itself to Irvin once more, a blessing after a night of misfortune. It seemed as if he was one of the last people to wake up, and he counted himself lucky that he was not awoken by a boot to the side like others that he saw being awoken by the actual “warriors” of the party. Irvin didn’t expect there to be any food when he woke up, he saw that some of the more prepared people had packed some food for the trip and were taking bites of bread or small pieces of meat from their packs. A luxury that Irvin, nor many others of the host could afford. After a small break as everyone got adjusted to the blinding light of a new day, they set off again, on the small dirt trail and onwards towards the castle of their lord and ruler.

	Fortunately for Irvin and everyone else, the sun did not shine with much radiance that would cause intense heat. Still, the war party’s legs hurt with every step. Even the more talkative people in the front of the marchers ceased their talk and concentrated solely on their movements, the rhythmic movement of their feet as the small group of several dozen eventually set into a steady beat of feet. Right, left. One, two. Such was their thoughts, as they consisted solely of the journey ahead and of the rhythm that had to be maintained. Irvin for one, was thankful for such organization. As a farmer by trade, he had always admired organization and a somewhat rhythmic, steady cycle. This type of march, unmarred by idle talk or dark weather, was something that ever so slightly raised his spirits. After an entire night of having his head lowered the previous day, he raised it, facing the light sun and the blue skies ahead. Even as he tried to find thoughts within his head, he could find none. He was operating solely on his own instincts to move forward towards the never-ending horizon.
	Despite the sunny skies however, time was a concept lost to him in the endless expanse of farmland and the occasional tree. As the sun past throughout the sky however, a person at the front of their party began to him, started to hum, his low and rough voice filling the silence of the fields. As more and more people started to join in with the hum, Irvin couldn’t help but join in as well. As that escapable essence of time pressed forward, the hum slowly turned into a song, and that song then turned into a chant. Irvin couldn’t remember the exact words of the chant, such was his status of exhaustion and reliance on his pure instincts, but the sound of his fellow villagers singing along with him gave him a sense that they were together, not separate as was his impression when they first set off from Potren. They were put in a trance, connected together by their bonds as travelers and as soldiers as well. And so they marched onwards.
	When night unfortunately came that night, the party this time sat under the shade of a single tree, with the entirety of them encircling the tree. The night was softer this time, not like the oppressing darkness the night before. This night, the stars could be seen, a sight that was common for Irvin, but one that he nonetheless appreciated. Up in the night sky he could see the sign of Morth, the Restless Sentinel, Uren, the Endless Bird, Vroth, the Craven Traveler. All had their own stories and tales, much like people. That was what Irvin’s father had told him during his childhood.
	“The people in this world are as countless as stars.” He had told him. “Never forget the stories of the signs, for they hold the secrets of others within them.”
	He didn’t doubt his father’s words now, not after these last couple days. He had been content to live the remainder of his life on the farm, tending to the crops and eking out a meager existence. Maybe not so much now. He still didn’t feel that much connection to the villagers of Potren, but he did understand that they had their own stories, much like himself. Not that he wanted to know those stories. But they did exist within everyone. That was enough for him for now. As he leaned up against the hard bark of the tree that night, he was filled with a sense of contentment that almost overshadowed his dread that he would soon die in the coming month in a minor battle against an unknown enemy in a land far from his place of birth. Although he had spent much time going over the fact, it still came as a shock to him and scared Irvin to his very core. Death was never easy for his father to accept, and the acceptance of that fact; that Irvin and his Virl’s father was dead, was a topic of much argument between them. Virl refused to accept that their father was dead, that he was still alive somewhere. It was that belief that had drove Virl to join the clergy as a man of the cloth. It was with these memories coursing through his mind that Irvin fell asleep, the final moments of his brother in their household haunting him as he fell into the realm of dreams.


	The next few days past without much event. In fact, the days blended together without much event, mixing actions of chanting and marching as the plain landscape slowly past by them. Irvin tried not to pay attention to the amount of times he had to sleep on the hard ground or the wet mud. After immeasurable time, they finally arrived at the castle of Lord Orek, Castle Torm.

	The castle had first appeared as a tiny grey speck in the distance, a spot of stone admist the grass and endless expanse they had been traveling through for the past several days. As they drew closer and closer on the road they were traveling, the path that they followed slowly grew more and more distinct. The old dirt road turned into a stone one, with stone walls on each side to separate the farmland from the travelers’ road. The castle grew larger and larger as the days past, each one enlarging the citadel and causing more small farming villages to be seen in the distance. The closer they drew to the castle, the more people they saw on the road, refuges and warriors alike. While no major war hosts were seen, small parties of both trained mercenaries and unprepared peasants like Irvin were sometimes spotted going in the opposite direction of them. After a few days, they finally arrived at the castle. The outlying town that made up border of Torm itself was about three times the size of Potren, a bustling center of trade and people, flowing with goods and food. There was no gate or guards at the front of the town, and so their small party felt no resistance in the entry to the town. It amazed Irvin how a party such as theirs, who had consisted of almost more than half of his small village, was dwarfed in comparison to the large masses of the town of Torm. As they passed through the town towards the large stone walls that were raised above the rest of the town.
	The townspeople tried to avert their gazes from the party Irvin was a part of, despite them being equipped with only simply-made weapons such as spears. He guessed it might be because of the passing war hosts. Such occurrences were not uncommon according to his father’s tales. Irvin softly chuckled to himself. Despite all his warnings about war and its atrocities, right now Irvin was marching off to war. As he marched forward, his feet numb after so many days of marching, he realized that the host’s leaders probably did not know where to go in the castle. While it certainly might have been easier to stop at a tavern and demand housing for the night while they rested, Irvin was certain those at the front of the host were more concerned with their honor than their personal needs. It was often said in Potren that one’s life was meaningless in the face of a king’s orders. Irvin had always thought such a saying was very pessimistic, but others more devoted to the crown had always taken those words to heart. And such people now commanded, if not in word at least in action, the movements of their party.
	They pushed through the town, moving their feet in synchronized movements. After an hour or so, they finally reached the massive wooden gate that blocked the northern end of the town from the inner grounds of Torm. Several guards blocked their path, wearing chainmail and holding long spears, of much better make and condition than Irvin’s own.
	“You people come because of the notice?”
While there was no discernable response from the front of the party, Irvin guessed that one of the front leaders had made some sort of nod to show his affirmation of the guard’s words. The guard who was most likely the captain then waved to the other guards and the gate was soon after opened to let them inside.

	Shortly after they had arrived at the castle grounds, they were greeted with the grandiose sight of great columns of soldiers, both untrained and professional. The ones who, like Irvin, were there on orders by the higher power of the crown, were easily seen by their plain cloth tunics and worn-out spears and axes. They were mostly lined up in the back or middle, with the more professional soldiers and mercenaries towards the front and the knights who served Lord Orek at the very front of the army. As they entered through the gate, the eyes of the various people aligned in the army did not waver from the view of the general and other commanders at the front, who looked at them from their horses up above. Their party’s leaders wasted no time in finding space at the end of the columns, where they one by one lined up behind the person in front of them. Before long, it was Irvin’s turn to line up, and he quickly went behind another person who was in their war host.
	After they had lined up, a couple more groups of several dozen peasants arrived before the general at the front told some of the remaining guards not a part of the army that they were heading out and that any future forces were to head for Fort Bervon. Irvin had never heard of a fort, or even a region, by that name so he didn’t know how many more days venturing in the wilderness he would have to go before he would sleep silently in a bed again. He sighed as the wooden gates opened once more, a screeching sound that grated against his very skin and soul. He gripped his spear tighter as the column advanced, the clink and crunch of armor meeting ground as well as the synchronized movement of hundreds of feet as they marched forward. It seemed slightly ironic to Irvin that they had marched this far only to march again. It was at times like this that he felt that some companionship would go a long way to relieve his troubles. But then his father’s words echoed through his head.
	“When you go to war, never get to know someone. For when they die, and they will, you will feel pain unlike anything you can experience on the battlefield.” His father had said. So he had held himself back on the road towards Torm. Now he was not so sure. Maybe the pain and torture of silence on the road might be worse than the pain suffered by one losing someone they cared about. So he decided he would at least try to make idle talk with some people when they pitched camp that night. Whatever the consequence, it would be much better than enduring silence and loneliness on the road to death.
	As they started the march out of the city, the large columns of soldiers had to narrow themselves down to accommodate the smaller roads of the main street that led to the castle gates. At first, the marching speed took a little while for Irvin to get used to, given the change in speed and pace from his old war host’s speed. Because of that change in pace, he stumbled a little bit as they started moving, but soon after his feet started to get accustomed to the new speed. He was fairly fit and strong for his age, but not nearly the monster of strength like others in Potren, like Kro. So while his legs still hurt, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t shrug off and bear for the time being. As he adjusted to the marching speed of the rest of the army, he noticed that the flags of Orek were flying, held by the polesmen near the front, with the emblem of the brown leaf in front of the red tree. The thought occurred to Irvin that maybe that same red tree might be stained with the blood of the lord’s soldiers in due time.
	As the army neared the town’s limits, a group of townspeople had gathered to observe the mass of several hundred people marching away, most likely off to their deaths. Several people cheered and there were many cries of “Long live the Crown!” or “Death to the Brone-scum!” but besides that the majority of the people were silent. While Irvin liked to think they were silently praying for their safe return to their respective towns and families, he doubted it was that. It was more likely that they were hoping they would not return at all, so that the scrutiny of other lords would not turn towards them. If a battle went badly because of their army, then the poor townspeople might face punishment by Lord Orek due to their imagined incompetence. It was this paranoia that kept many towns like Irvin’s hometown of Potren in line. That didn’t stop some regions like the county of Count Brone from rebelling against royal authority though. The same thinking had applied to Potren too though. Before Virl had left their house about seven years ago, there had been several bands of soldiers that had passed through Potren in some war that Irvin didn’t know much about at the time. Their father had always told them to keep inside and not work while a war was going on, so that day Irvin and Virl didn’t do much except play cards and clean the house. That was probably why that war in particular stood out to him. In any case, he remembered looking out the window as the companies of the kingdom passed by, the flags of Orek and the king trailing behind them. Now Irvin understood why his father had told him to keep inside when soldiers outside. First, soldiers were prone to stealing from others to get supplies that they were denied as a result of a long march, a urge that he now understood very well after all those long days on the road. And second, because he didn’t want them to see the masses of people marching off to their own death, another fact that he now understood. With those two revelations in his mind, Irvin marched once more, forward past past the town of Torm and into a future of death.

	After departing from the village, they marched for several hours before taking a fork in the road that Irvin had noticed on his journey to Torm. He might’ve just missed that turn in the road because he was so tired from marching day in and day out though. Regardless, once they took the fork in the road, the scenery quickly changed from the simple plains of southern Mordan to a more hilly landscape. The ground quickly changed into small rolling mounds that occasionally obstructed the view of the land beyond, something that he was not used to. After several more hours of travel through this unfamiliar landscape, the sun started to set, bathing the area in almost orange light. The knights and generals at the front of the company then abruptly stopped, causing the rest of the columns to abort their march. Before anyone else could wonder why they had stopped, a messenger from the front of the army went down the columns proclaiming that they would make camp for the night here, behind a hill that the messenger pointed out. At least in this larger force, the people in charge had to say why and where they were going to be making camp for the night.
	While some of the other more well-equipped people in the army, such as the knights, professional soldiers, and mercenaries, had brought their own camping gear, other less fortunate people like Irvin had to deal with the elements on their own. He had chosen a spot to rest near the beginning of the hill they were encamped behind. Towards the center of the camp was a small fire, which the knights and commander were encircled around as if to discourage any peasants to get close. It was very clear what the order of power was in the camp. The commander was the most important, followed by his knights, then the royal guard and professional soldiers employed by Orek, then the mercenaries hired by the coin of the crown, and finally the peasants that were seated on the outer edge of the camp.
	Although there wasn’t enough light to see beyond their circle of several hundred people, Irvin could still see those seated near him. He stretched and yawned as if to start some idle talk, something to save him from the insanity of silence. No one talked. He heard murmurs from the soldiers near the middle so he knew people talked on these types of marches, that there wasn’t some unspoken rule that his father hadn’t told him about. After several painful minutes of silence, he pushed himself upright and asked the man across from him, curled up on the grass as if to preserve heat,
	“Hey, where are you from?”
	To Irvin’s surprise, the man quickly replied “To the west of here. A town called Ernst. And yourself.”
	“Potren. To the southwest of here.”
	“Both from the backwoods are we then?”
	“I would think that most people on the outer ring are.”
	“Outer ring?”
	“You know, farmers like you and me who have to sleep on the outside.”
	“I’m no farmer.”
	“I apologize for assuming. What is your trade then?”
	“I’m a tanner. Don’t know why they want a tanner for a war though…”
	“They don’t choose you based on what you do you know.”
	“Yeah I know, just is confusing. Maybe if the Crown thought things through we wouldn’t have rebel Counts and Dukes all the time.”
	That got a chuckle out of Irvin. “Don’t let the knights hear you.”
	“You shouldn’t be laughing as well.”
	“You’re right. My name is Irvin. And yours?”
	“Kostein. I’m going to get some sleep now, Irvin. I wouldn’t put it past Joren to make us start marching at dawn.”
	“Joren?”
	“Lord Joren, the commander of this force. He’s Orek’s Captain of the Guard and fought at the Battle of Koltren Bridge. You really haven’t heard of him?”
	Irvin shook his head. He had never really bought into the “glory of war” that Rhom and others in the village preached. It was one of the reasons why his father had tried to separate himself from the village and also why Virl had left the house.
	“I should really tell you about him later. Anyways, goodnight Irvin.” Shortly after Kostein closed his eyes and could be seen sleeping with his rising and falling chest, Irvin looked around in the darkness of night to find that most other people in the outer edge had fallen asleep as well, likely exhausted by the pain of marching for hours on end. Realizing his own exhaustion, Irvin fell asleep easily that night, comforted by the fact he at least had one companion on this journey to his death.

	Over the next several days, Irvin got to know Kostein more and their interactions slowly become one of the few things that energized him after a day of marching. The dejected and worried faces of those he had to walk next to were something that inspired despair in him, despair that he had wanted to forget in the coming days towards his death. Over the course of those days, he learned that Kostein’s town was much like Irvin’s, its people afraid of Lord Orek and their leader subservient to the noble that ruled over them with an iron fist. Kostein was also a somewhat abrasive person, who would try and argue with Irvin over things such as his philosophy on life and such. He was always asking Irvin about what he thought about things and why he thought such things. He was inquisitive, but also not understanding of others, the kind of person who would try to prove you wrong even when you explained your reasoning behind your actions to him. And although he too wasn’t fighting in the war for glory or honor, he wanted to find his reason for living or something along those lines. He always was talking about big ideologies and philosophies, something that interested Irvin. Having no central idea of what he wanted to be himself, it was intriguing to him what someone thought their place in the world was. Irvin had always done what his father had required of him, and although he was afraid of death and tried to flee from it, he had no real aversion to doing what the crown required of him. Although that was mostly a lie though, considering that he had tried to flee from the war.
Regardless, as they talked over the next couple days, Irvin felt himself feeling better and better about this march. It was foolish of him to think so however, for he knew that he would die in a battle soon. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid anymore though, because he knew that if he was going to die, it was most likely be because not of his own inability, but because he wasn’t in the right place at the right time. He was a causality of time. That’s what he told himself. It made him feel a little bit better, but nothing could erase the feeling of dread he felt somewhere in his heart, the unescapable darkness that plagued a corner in his every thought. Still, the thought of dying with someone that he was connected with on a personal level comforted him even the slightest bit. And for that reason the days went by without him noticing. And their march went on and on, as the overcast skies of fall went and gone and the clear skies of summer became a reality. It wasn’t that they were marching for months, more so that they were at the end of the seasons. Such moments used to be fiercely awaited moments for Irvin, but outside of his farm on the edge of civilization and beyond his village, such times mattered not. So he simply marched during the day and chatted with Kostein and night, repeating such actions several times over. He would get bored of it several times, and other times he would wake up in the middle of the night, worried that they would arrive nowhere. But he calmed and trusted that the commanders of the army would see them to the fort soon enough. And they did. One day, the enormous sight of Fort Bervon was observed in the distance and a cry came out from everyone, the mercenaries, knights, and peasants alike.
	As they neared Bervon, the din of what could only a massive army was caught by the wind and carried towards them. At night they could see flames in the distance and as they drew closer the yells of the soldiers in the camp filled the night when it was quiet. Everyone in their company was holding their breath to find out what the fortress held in store for them. It was impossible to know if they would be welcome in the camp that had been erected around the fort itself. And while the soldiers and knights didn’t have to worry about anything such as housing or food, the peasants, Irvin and Kostein included, were anxious as to see if they would get proper housing and nourishment after nonstop marching for a dozen or so days. There was the nagging thought in Irvin’s mind that they would not, but he tried to avoid it in his conversations with Kostein. He had noticed over the final days leading up to their arrival at Bervon, Kostein did not talk to him every night. He was usually a talkative person, the kind of person that one thought would never run out of topics to discuss and talk about. But he was uncharacteristically silent in those days. It wasn’t worry that Irvin, but more so uneasiness. While he had learned to try and ignore his fear of the unknown these past couple weeks, it was still something that made him uneasy if anything. So during those next few days, he was alone again, occupied only by the weight of his spear and the sound of his own thoughts during the day. He noticed also that he had gotten slightly stronger physically. And while he wasn’t the hulking masses of muscle that some of the others in the army were, he was able to withstand more pain and had more stamina than he had the day he set out. Long marches still were painful and hurt, but it took him longer before he got tired.
	On the day they arrived at Bervon, the stone walls and iron gates of the fortress glared back at them with the flags of the baron and the crown arrayed on the front. One thing that surprised most of the army though, was the display of several dozen decapitated heads on the battlements, some carrying a heavy smell of rot and death. What was shocking not was the arrayment of skulls and heads, but instead was their placement considering the location of Fort Bervon. The County of Rolia, which Count Kron ruled, was to the far south of the kingdom, hundreds of miles away from the rebel County of Iothia. Why the lord of the fort would display such a hideous sight was beyond Irvin, and as usual he tried to dispel any more curiosity he had on the matter. His father had taught him to do that. But this time the feeling would not go away. He felt the uneasiness sink back into him and deep in his body he felt that there was something distinctly wrong with this place. But he would useless to worry and wonder about it so he tried to push the thoughts aside and look away from the disheveled heads.
	The camp itself, however, wasn’t in the same shape as the heads on the ramparts, rotten and disgusting. However, it was pretty close. Most of the people held in the main fortress were laying on the dirt clearing that was in the middle of the fortress, with the main battlement citadel on the north side of the wall. Some were gathered around fires in the fading light, while others were merely huddled in the darkness, trying to find warmth in the last hours of heat in the day. As Irvin and the rest of the company marched through the clearing and towards the large stone citadel, people slowly started to enter small tents that were erected in the middle of the clearing. Some were smaller and could only fit around five people, while others were larger tents, capable of housing a dozen or so people. Both types held individuals just like Irvin, peasants called upon by the kingdom to fight in a war hundreds of miles away from home. And while just the sight of rest made his legs feel weak from the constant marching, he clenched his teeth and tried to just bear with the plain. He looked down at his feet and focused just on the action of putting one foot in front of the other. But each action was filled with endless pain as the joints of his legs burned and ached with every movement, hindering his movement and sending a sharp sign to him that he was in agony. He tried to push through it though, moving all the harder so that he would not get left behind.
	When they arrived at the gate, the massive iron doors of the citadel loomed in front of them. Several guards stood sentry at the front, and Irvin could see glimpses of even more in the archer windows on the upper floors of the castle. A few words were heard to be exchanged between the commander of their army and the guards, but the exact words were lost in the sound that came from the camp clearing. After a short delay though, the doors opened and the commander and his knights moved forward, leaving the rest of them behind. It was a sign to both Irvin and the remaining peasants and soldiers that they could rest. There was a collective cheer from everyone, both the soldiers of Orek and from the peasants sent off to war. Before he knew it, Irvin was cheering too, hugging back a stranger that had embraced him shortly after the gate closed. And while he didn’t know the man, and despite his stench and exhausted arms and legs, he still embraced the stranger back. He was merely excited to have to chance to rest after weeks of endless march and travel.

	As they left the gates, Irvin suddenly was saddened to remember that barely anyone had brought camping tents like the rest of the camp. So the peasants split up, creating several groups of a dozen or so people that Irvin assumed were people from their respective villages, people that they were familiar with. Irvin had no such person in from his own group and so he tried to search for Kostein. When he finally found him after some time of searching, he was already with his own group of people from his hometown. Not wanting to feel out of place with other strangers, Irvin decided he would roam the grounds and wait until everyone was asleep before letting himself slip into sleep himself. As he left the darkness of the middle of the clearing and wandered towards the more brightly-lit portions of the castle along the walls. Most people he saw were wearing ragged tunics and pants, sometimes ripped or just plain stained with dirt and other sorts of stains. Some people’s clothes were ripped or cut in certain places, no doubt because of many years of use. Finally, he reached a small shack, constructed of rotten wooden planks and cloth, a dim light illuminating its insides. Blocking the entrance was a sheet of fabric, brown with dirt stains. Curious about what might be inside, Irvin pushed the sheet aside and stepped inside, only to be greeted with the chanting of a priest. While the priest’s face and body was covered by a long hood and cloak, the rest of the room was filled with worshippers who were bowing on the floor, their heads lowered in reverence for the man of faith. His words were incomprehensible to Irvin, nor did he want to understand for the word of the faith never ceased to remind him of his brother. Still, he stood in the entrance, entranced by the chanting and humming of the priest as he raised his hands slowly towards the low ceiling. And while his words weren’t understandable, there was an undeniable attraction Irvin felt towards them, something that drew him closer to the words that the priest spoke behind his ragged white robes. Such was the power of his voice and mysteriousness that emanated from his presence. As the man ended his chanting with his voice growing fainter and fainter, Irvin found himself straining his ears to listen to his unknown words. As the priest finally stopped speaking, the people in the make-shift church stood up, bowed to the priest and shook his hand, then left. Irvin was left at the right of the entrance, still staring at priest as he stretched. The priest then took off his hood to reveal the face of Irvin’s brother, Virl.
	“Good evening, Irvin. What brings you all the way out east?”



Chapter 2

	The face of his brother looked back at him with soft eyes, the dim light of the humble shack reflecting in his pupils.
	“Virl!” Irvin exclaimed as he rushed in to give his brother a strong hug. As he embraced him, he felt the frail frame of his priest brother and then realized how much stronger physically he had gotten and quickly released him.
	“I never expected to see you here.” Irvin continued, “What brings a priest like you all the way to a fort like this?”
	“Why don’t you answer my question first?” Virl replied.
“Sorry. The crown has called for war to the eastern rebel barony as I assume you know. So several dozen people and I have been called from the village to fight in the war. And yourself?”
“Same as yourself. The crown is always in need of priests to inspire the commonfolk to fight for the kingdom and my master thought it would be a good experience to explore the world outside the church for once.”
“You have a master?”
“Yes, my tutor in the faith back up north. Every clergyman has one until we become full-fledged priests.”
“Still it’s great to see you after all these years. Have you been in this disgusting place long?”
Virl shook his head. “Thankfully. I arrived a week or so ago. The High Road is surprisingly free of trouble. I suppose the war scared all the unsavory types off.”
	Irvin was still a bit taken aback from the reveal that his very own brother and he had been reunited after seven years. But still, Virl’s eyes looked very distant and his voice sounded without emotion. It was this fact that unnerved Irvin. And despite the entrancing chants that Virl had just completed to those sitting in on the service, Irvin was tired from the long day. The dismembered heads, the long march, and the reunion of him and his brother all weighed upon him and both his mind and body ached for release.
	“I’m a bit tired. We’ll talk more tomorrow right, Virl?” He asked the priest.
	He nodded. “Of course, Irvin.”
	Those words brought a smile to Irvin’s face as he exited the shack and went to where the peasants of his company were slouched over, most of them asleep. Some were still awake, their eyes open no doubt due to the worries of marching to their death. Regardless of the reminders of the death that awaited him, Irvin was kept up that night thinking of his brother. He had said that he was still studying under his master, a priest-in-training. Irvin had never paid that much attention to the teachings of the church, even in the seven years following his brother’s departure to the northern headquarters of the clergy. If the incomprehensible chants were to prove anything, it would be that Virl had been taught a new language and manner of speaking. But what disturbed Irvin the most in the back of his mind was the detached nature of Virl. He had spoken little of his time in the north, and even less of his master and the church’s teachings there. Irvin decided to inquire tomorrow about the teachings and beliefs of the church during his and Virl’s conversation. Hopefully it would be some time before the war march would begin again.

	The next morning came quick, much to Irvin’s surprise. He was awoken by Kostein, who told him that they were serving breakfast in the citadel. Irvin quickly woke up, realizing that if he wasn’t fast enough, the rest of the soldiers would eat the remainder of the morning rations. Despite having to wait in a long line in the large dining hall of the castle, and having to eat a few stale pieces of bread along with a tiny bowl of terrible porridge, Irvin quickly got his fill before realizing that he had left his spear at the place he had woken up. Worried that it might be stolen by another person who wanted a weapon, he rushed to finish his breakfast and deposit the bowl near where the castle soldiers were handing out food before running out of the gates and into the large courtyard. To his relief, his spear was still there, and Irvin resolved to hold it with him at all times within the confines of Fort Bervon.
	Irvin sighed as he sat down, tired from not only having to wake up and hurriedly eat his breakfast, but also from the worries and memories of last night. After several moments of rest, he heaved himself up and decided to look for Virl in the crowd of people, soldier or otherwise. It seemed as if there were still more companies marching into the fort and so there would be nothing to do for several more days, a perfect opportunity to talk with his brother about a variety of things. However, as Irvin started to wander around the camp, he found it hard to locate the same hut that he had found Virl in last night. Irvin tried repeating the same path he had gone through last time, to no avail. He tried pacing the clearing’s circumference as well and met the same results. After repeating both of these tactics several times over, he got tired of trying to find something that wasn’t there so he tried to meet up with Kostein. He discovered him in the dining hall, talking with what Irvin assumed were some of his old friends from his hometown. Irvin tapped Kostein on his shoulder, causing the man to turn around and greet him with a slight smile.
	“Oi, Irvin! Haven’t seen you since we set up camp last night. What happened?”
	“Mind if I take a seat?” Replied Irvin, motioning to the empty chair across from the long table Kostein and his friends were sitting at.
	“Sure go again. Oh and while I’m at it, here are some people from the village right next to mine. We’ve known each other for a long time. Anyways, what happened with you last night?”
“Met my brother.”
“That’s great! So what was it like, catching up and all that?”
“Not all it’s coughed up to be. Have you seen him by the way? Long white robes, might be holding a book or something, short black hair?”
	Kostein shook his head.
“Well I’ll keep looking. Didn’t mean to disrupt you.”
“It’s alright. I hear it will be another week to week and a half before we set off for the Joran Duchy to the east. So feel free to come over whenever you feel like it.”
	Irvin nodded. “Will do.” He said.

	Irvin felt out of place. He had nowhere to go, no one to talk to, and his one hope of finding a person with which he could share his troubles had disappeared. So he decided to go back to where he had spent the night and think things over in the courtyard. Of course when he arrived it was filled with other peasants talking amongst themselves as well as readying themselves for the coming battles. The grinding of whetstones on steel as well as the hammering of hammer on anvil came from the upper reaches of the citadel itself, the forges of the great castle resounding throughout the vast clearing. Irvin tried to lose himself in thought and try to make sense of what had happened the past couple months, from his departure of his hometown to the march to Lord Orek’s town to his meeting with Kostein and finally to his arrival at Fort Bervon. The one question that still lingered in Irvin’s mind, however, was the nature of the war he would be fighting and dying for. It seemed as if everyone knew it was Count Brone that was rebelling against the crown, but for what reason? His father had told Irvin and Virl that a common saying he heard in the army was, “Victory lies in the hands of he who knows the true nature of his enemy.” And while he knew he would die in the war, he still wanted to understand more about the reasons behind the war. Possibly that was Kostein’s influence on him.
	As if in answer to Irvin’s thoughts though, a loud horn echoed throughout the camp. People looked up first, and then around. The courtyard was deadly silent, waiting for some sign that hopefully the horn meant something good after all the suffering they had to endure. Peasants and mercenaries alike waited, and held their breath for what would come next. A second horn was sounded, it’s sound louder and even more impressive than the first. As Irvin looked around for some sign of what was to come next, spear clenched in his right hand, he spotted what he only guessed was the general of the army on the top ramparts of the citadel. In the following silence after the second horn, the general could be heard from the top, yelling a mere two words: “Enemy assault!”
	“But the count’s forces are at least a month and a half’s march away…” Thought Irvin, caught unawares. There was a pause in the camp, after which all hell broke loose. The peasants screamed and yelled, some stood straight with shock while others tried to hide in the few tents there were. Others quickly grabbed their weapons and readied for battle, but these were mostly the mercenaries or the trained soldiers. After a couple moments, Irvin took his spear and tried to see if there were any place he could go to hide. But a little voice in the back of his head said that he shouldn’t do that. That his father would want him to not run away and face this battle. Right as he stopped to face the incoming army marching on Bervon, the clank of armor and the creaking of iron signaled the coming of the main force of the army as they marched out of the barracks from within the citadel itself. They were armed with longswords and spears, with iron more finely made than Irvin’s own weapon and steel armor that shone in the midday sun. The commanders of the separate companies that were sallying forth were yelling orders to their subordinates as they started to position themselves at the gates of the castle. As a soft silence then settled over the entire camp, the faint screams of those outside and the subsequent banging they made against the wooden gates of Fort Bervon could barely be heard by Irvin. He clenched his weapon tighter as the archer companies went up the ladders and stairs that led to the battlements of the fortress itself and readied their arrows. Irvin winced as he heard the screams of the villagers outside silenced by the soft arrows of the soldiers above. A knight-commander, carrying the banner of Baron Revek, the crossed tree branches, rode out on horseback and yelled in the middle of the silence and whispers of the camp,
	“All those who carry bows, head to the battlements! The enemy will be approaching soon. Everyone else, follow me and the main force out. We’ll be meeting the rebels on the fields!” And with that he raised his hand and the massive gates in front of everyone in the courtyard slowly opened their old hands, serving as the signal for the rest of the army to march forward, with the majority of the mercenaries and peasants in tow, Irvin included.
	And Irvin was scared. He had come to terms with the fact that he would die during the time of this war, but he didn’t know exactly when. Whether he would die during this battle or during one in the far-away County of Rolia he didn’t know. And so he was scared. Scared of the unknown future and also of what awaited his brother and Kostein’s fate. What surprised him the most however, was the fact that there was an attack this far south. The count was supposed to be holed up in his own rebellious county to the east, or at least that’s what everyone seemed to believe. While it was quite possible a local lord or baron might’ve taken the side of Brone, Irvin found it hard to believe that a person of nobility would betray the crown when the capital was so close to these lands. And even if that noble was able to announce their loyalty to Brone, why would they attack a garrison in Fort Bervon instead of marching for Rolia. The entire situation was a mystery to Irvin but he tried instead to focus on the task ahead, to survive the coming battle and the chaos that would inevitably follow.

	The tall gates of Bervon opened up to reveal a scene of blood and death. The stench of the freshly-slain loomed in the air like an unforgiving specter, causing Irvin to quickly avert his eyes from the sight.
	“Why would they kill the villagers?” he wondered, now noticing the movement on the horizon that was unmistakably an army led by a combination of knights and professional soldiers. Fear struck itself into Irvin as he clenched his spear once more. The front of the army, after pausing for a second after the gates of Fort Bervon closed behind the several thousand soldiers, conscripted or not, marched forward towards the looming enemy force. After a couple minutes, the soft sound of thundering hooves and clinking armor as the war march of the enemy came into hearing range. Irvin nervously looked to his side to find unknown people, strangers that reminded him just how far away he was from what he had known all his life. He took a breath, trying to calm himself via breathing like his father had told him. It didn’t work. He was still scared.
	“It’s ok if you’re scared.” He told himself, “Just focus on what’s before you.” And so he inhaled, exhaled, and looked forward, towards the messy black hair of the person in front of him. He could feel the sweat of his palms and armpits dripping down his skin in the hot afternoon sun, the anxiety of what would happen next making his stomach turn with discomfort. He waited for what felt like hours, with naught but the growing sound of hooves and armor and feet in the distance to keep him company. It was the type of company he didn’t want to keep. Finally however, there was a command from the front of the armor, which called out,
	“Conscripts, to the front!” Irvin looked to his sides for some reassurance of what to do. And while the majority of the peasants that he stood behind stepped forward to the front of the company, some tried to flee and ran to the back, banging on the closed gate for entry.
	“Let me back!” One yelled, “I want out!” Cried another.
	“Archers!” The commander directed in return, and the soft sound of arrows were loosed on the peasants, piercing their bodies and killing them within a couple minutes. Other deserters tried to flee to the enemy force and the commander of the army gave the order to his knights to run them down. The majority were speared by the knights’ bright lances, while others were cut down by the sharp blades of the knights. Fear struck true within Irvin as he witnessed the sight, and that fear, the fear of death, replaced his worries of where to go. He rushed to his other conscripts so that he would avoid the fate of the deserters, pushing himself to the middle ranks of the force, where he hoped to find safety in the numbers of his compatriots.
	The mounting tension that he felt in his belly was one that soon seeped towards his entire body. His arms, legs, even his fingers and barely-feeling toes all felt that same tension as he entire body tensed up for the coming attack. He was several rows behind the very front of the vanguard, his allies fixated on the horizon and the approaching army. A command was issued from the general behind them.
	“Lower spears! Advance!” Seeing no other choice that left him alive, Irvin marched forward, trying to match his own pace with that of the people at his sides. The rhythmic movement that he had encountered on his march to Lord Orek’s castle happened again, the pattern of hard feet connecting with the ground resounding throughout the trampled grass and open hills in front of them. Irvin kept his eyes trained on the enemy army as their figure became clearer and clearer. The vanguard, much like their own army, was comprised mostly of scared recruits, peasants far away from their homes. And again like Irvin, they wielded flimsy spears and axes, tools for simple protection rather than for war. And the enemy stopped, the sound of feet marching silenced. Irvin knew what would happen next. He didn’t need to recall his father’s stories, nor did he need to think about it. His instincts told him the archers would fire their first deadly volley of iron onto the vanguard and their unprotected bodies. Another command came from the knights in the middle of the army.
	“Charge!”
	There was a short pause before the front line rushed forward, bellowing a scream of terror and bravery, a scream that would soon be their last. Irvin and the rest of the rows followed suit soon after, their war cries echoing throughout their chests. And the arrows were loosed, their deadly package released into the air with its target being the bodies of the vanguard.

	Irvin’s entire body felt numb as he charged. He had no time to look to his sides now. When he first started running for the hills were the enemy was attacking from, he had heard the screams of his fellow conscripts. Now he only heard soft yells as he tried to reach the attackers. His feet didn’t feel heavy anymore, rather there was no more feeling in them. His eyes were focused on the enemy in front of him as they rapidly grew closer. The blur of gray and green color finally clashed after an immeasurable amount of time and was then tinted with a dark red from the blood of the enemy. The immediate ranks of the opponent were taken by the vanguard, leaving the inner rows to those left standing with Irvin. Irvin stared one soldier down and yelled, lowering his spear to impale the man as a soft scream erupted from the enemy’s lips. Irvin felt no remorse, no fear in this moment, for his entire movement was based on the primal and instinctual nature of survival. The conscript tried to run but was taken from the back by Irvin. He then bleed out, collapsing under his loss of blood. Putting his foot on the red back of the man, Irvin pulled his spear out from the enemy and searched around for another, his instincts fully taking over his nature. Another man charged him from the side and Irvin twisted his wooden shaft, causing the enemy’s axe to be caught in it. He quickly pulled it out and swung from above, this time aiming to slice at Irvin’s chest. In a jerk reaction, Irvin tried to sidestep the blow but tripped. The attacker then went for another strike but only met the ground as Irvin rolled out of the way. He tried to kick the man’s leg but met only hard muscle. The axe-wielder then took the opportunity to bring the weapon down on him but at that same moment Irvin thrust his spear for the man’s neck. With a scream from both of them, a deadly moment of certain death for one occurred. But that moment of death did not occur for Irvin. He pierced the man’s throat, and the enemy stumbled back, clutching his bleeding neck as he fell to the floor, shocked and losing consciousness. Irvin looked around to only find blood, suffering, and worst of all, death on all sides. The clash of steel and bodies surrounded him, and there was no end to it. No end to the suffering, nor to the destruction that was happening. He clenched his spear tighter and pushed forward for the next path to survival.
	Irvin ran. Towards what he didn’t know. He only followed his one instinct forward, either fleeing or repelling any assailant that might aim for his life. He rushed forward, his arms and legs numb as he fled from both friend and foe. A rush of red and gray and green was all he saw, his eyes darting from one corner of his field of vision to the other. After a while of running, his breath caught up with him, causing him to stop running and forcing sharp intakes of air from his lungs. He leaned upon his battered spear, with its bloody tip and splintered shaft, for support as he attempted to make sense of his situation. Around him a combination of mercenary and professional forces were engaged in a tense melee with the enemy, blade and spear and shield intertwining and dancing in a furious duet of blood and death. Pushing himself up, Irvin looked for a place that he could escape the fighting. Hopefully he could find a clearing where he could rest and find a way to meet up with the main force. Fleeing was the last thing that was on his mind, for if he fled he knew he would regret it for the rest of his life. He would be fleeing on Virl and Kostein.
	Just when Irvin was ready about to set off, he heard the dreaded sound of steel and platemail clinking together. The source of the sound was closing on his position. Taking his spear in both hands, Irvin spun around to see a knight, clad in full platemail and armed with a longsword, its deadly edges glistening with the promise of death. Irvin’s eyes widened as fear gripped him once more. The knight raised his blade and charged at Irvin. Irvin’s mind blanked, an empty void encompassing all of his thoughts. His hands shook, unable to act. The giant mass of muscle and steel charged at him, disregarding the helpless nature of Irvin. As the knight grew closer and closer, Irvin slowly regained his thoughts, instinctually trying to force his limbs to move, either to dodge or to retaliate. He did not move. Whether it was because of fear or because of shock, he simply could not move his legs nor his arms. He told his arms and legs to move many times over, but they would not respond. He remained frozen where he stood, his fingers slick with sweat and his arms and legs shaking from the presence of the knight. In the few seconds leading up to the moment when the sharp steel would connect with Irvin and rip through flesh and bone, pure will and instinct took over his body. The void of his mind still remained and it all happened in a matter of a couple seconds. He stepped back and raised his spear, it’s wooden shaft rising to face the monster that was the glorious blade of the swordsman in front of him. When the wood of his spear and the metal of the knight met, it was his spear that lost. The wood shattered, the knight’s blade breaking it in half. Irvin stumbled backwards, landing straight on his bottom. He dropped the broken weapon and gazed at his to-be killer as the faceless metal knight stood over him. In Irvin’s moment of weakness, the knight paused for a second, his blade raised, and took off his helm. The face of his killer would be that of a tan-skinned bearded man, with short black hair and focused brown eyes. To Irvin’s surprise, he did not take his life. Instead he spoke.
	“You fought well in the face of such power. Before I kill you, what is your name, serf?” He asked.
Irvin tried to speak but no words came out. After several failed attempts to speak the knight raised his sword again.
	“Too scared to speak? Perhaps I was asking too much of a lowborn man.” He said. Right before the swordsman was about to swing down his weapon of death, Irvin spoke.
	“M-my name is Irvin. Irvin of Potren.”
	“So you can speak Irvin? Well then, say your last words and pray to your gods.” And he prepared to slay Irvin once more.
	In that moment Irvin acted on instinct once more. He grabbed the splintered piece of his spear by his hand, and with all his might, leaped for the man easily a feet or so taller than him. As the blade of steel whizzed by his ear, he drove the sharpened wooden splinter into the knight’s neck, slightly puncturing the man’s neck. He cried out in pain, staggering backwards but still unfortunately holding onto his sword. In retaliation the knight swung for Irvin, this time the steel connecting, creating a cut on his left shoulder. Wincing from the pain as the blood began to spread across his shirt, Irvin swept down to the ground and grabbed the other fragment of his weapon. Raising himself and outstretching his left hand, which held the portion of the shaft which still had the metal part of the spear, he thrust forward his arm, his eyes closed. He prayed that he would eliminate the enemy in front of him, that he wouldn’t die. And he didn’t. The spear pierced the knight’s exposed neck, sending blood down the man’s body and his once-stainless chest plate. The warrior dropped his weapon as he too dropped to the floor, his life exhausted.

	Irvin too dropped to the ground, blood dripping from his face and palms, splintered with the broken wood of his own spear, the two halves of it stabbed in the dead knight’s corpse. Irvin’s eyes felt heavy but he shook his head, gripped the grass that was stained red and threw it to the side. He then used his arm to push himself up and take a grasp on his surroundings. While there was still only small skirmishes several hundred feet from himself, it looked as if the main battle was occurring behind him, the sound of clashing steel and voices only a fading sound as his ears still rang with the blood pounding throughout his entire body. He focused on his body, trying to stay awake despite all the signs from his body telling him to rest. The ground near the knight’s corpse was still red, the blood drying now. By the knight’s side was his sword. Without a second thought, Irvin took the blade and scabbard, prying the former from the soldier’s dead grip. With his mind blank, he then spied a small forest several miles away on the top of a slight mound. Putting his first foot forward, he tried to leave the sounds of war and battle behind him. But they would not. Although the physical battle was starting to fade into the distance, the mental image of it remained with Irvin.


Chapter 3

	After an hour or so, Irvin reached the edge of the forest and collapsed, his legs collapsed and his vision faded, his consciousness fading into darkness. Fortunately though, his hand gripped the sword. Irvin was unsure whether he should call the blade his now or not. While it was certainly true he had stolen it from whatever family the knight had belonged to, his father had told him that in war, whatever you have on you can be stolen by your killer. It had been a while though, that Irvin had thought about his inventible death. And although he had escaped from the army for now, he figured some company would come for him in time. But he had to meet back up with the rest of the main force. Although currently he was leaning up against one of the many trees in the softly-lit forest, when he told his legs to move, they would not respond. In fact, neither would his arms. Both were numb and refused to respond to his orders. Soon, quick pain was delivered to him, pain from his legs and hands and arms and from all over his body. He soon after fell to the forest floor, his head hitting the ground with a light bounce. His body would still not respond. His eyes grew heavier and heavier, and sleep became more and more of a good idea. He tried again and again, repeating and trying all that he could to stand up. To go back to the fight. If he didn’t go back, who knows what might happen to Kostein, or worse, Virl. He didn’t want to lose either of them. And he tried, his loss of consciousness growing by the second. The corners of his eyes dimmed and his strength failed him. Until at last he fell to the fatigue, abandoning himself to rest.

	Irvin was woken by a jolt, a kick to the rips by a hard, leather book. His limbs were still weak and he could barely move them. But at least he could feel them. And they hurt. More pain than he had ever felt in all his life combined. A hard hand pulled his body upwards fast, a sharp jerk. He heard a voice.
	“This guy’s just lying on the ground, captain. Think he’s one of the crown’s?”
The voice was commanding and respectful, the kind that is subservient to a single person but could take command if the situation called for it.
	“Might be. He has a sword though. Looks nicely made too. Hand it off to one of our boys. Tie his hands and wake him up. No way a backwoods like him wandered her on accident. Impossible he’s on Brone’s side either, his skin’s too dark to be from the east. Doubt he would be worth selling either. We could always sell him off at a city or something.” Said another voice
This voice was obviously the person in charge, for his voice was filled with confidence. The other voice had called this one “captain” as well. It sounded like this was some sort of mercenary band. Worse, then had mentioned selling him off to slavers. Irvin tried to move his fingers but was struck with massive pain. His sword wasn’t there. Which wasn’t surprising considering how the captain was talking about the blade. Still, it just worsened the situation. Without the sword, he had little to no chance of fighting back. Well, it’s not like he could fight in this condition anyways. A hand slapped his face. It stung but he still couldn’t open his eyes.
“You awake in there?” The first voice asked.
Despite not being able to open his eyes, Irvin shook his head slowly.
	“Good. Where are you from?”
Irvin’s throat was very dry so he couldn’t talk that fast and it pained him to speak but he tried his best.
	“S-south. I’m from the south.” He said.
	“What town? What baron do you owe allegiance to?”
Irvin coughed.
	“Baron Revek.”
There was a pause.
	“He’s not one of Brone’s!” The captain shouted, presumably back to the rest of his men.
	“Ok, uh….what’s your name?” He asked.
	“Irvin of Potren.”
	“Ok Irvin. We’re taking you with us.”
A sense of dread washed over Irvin as he felt his powerless body being lifted up. Shortly after he fell asleep, his little energy exhausted.

	When Irvin awoke next, he was on a small wagon, the bumps in the small and undefined road jolting the vehicle with every impact. Although he was able to open his eyes with some difficulty, Irvin found it almost impossible to his neck or limbs in any meaningful way. By his position and way his body was orientated, Irvin guessed that he was sitting upright amongst some other supplies, as was evidenced by the feeling he felt as the wagon jerked every so often. In front of him was fairly large cases and bags, and beyond that the seemingly endless expanse of the southern farmlands. One of the mercenaries plopped down next to Irvin and said,
	“Oh, you’re awake?”
Although Irvin couldn’t nod, he did respond.
	“Yes. How long have I been sleeping?” He asked.
	“Uh…about a day or so. Captain says we’re about just several days away from the city.”
	“Which city?”
	“I think it was Hrom or something. No, maybe it was Relevia…Ah whatever. I don’t think it matters.”
	“It matters to me. What city are we going towards? Where are we?”
	“I don’t have to answer your damn questions.”
There was an audible disgust in the mercenary’s voice. Irvin still had so many questions. But above all else, he was afraid. If he was sold off to slavers, he might be taken to the northern swamps to work in the murky waters were it was rumored evil water gnomes lived, waited for the moment to take their victims down to their underwater lairs. He would be abused and tortured. It was also possible these mercenaries would sell him under the assumption that he was one of Brone’s men, something that slavers would believe. It would also make others unlikely to believe his story, a tale even more unbelievable since he was found in position of a knight’s blade. For now though, all he could was wait and try to get his strength back. In the meantime, maybe he could convince the mercenaries he would be a worthy addition to their band.
	As the warrior stood up, Irvin stopped him not with his actions, but with his words.
	“Wait.” He said.
	“What is it?” The man asked.
	“What does it take for someone to join your band?”
A moment of silence.
	“Beat the captain in combat. Don’t tell me you were thinkin’ of joining us?”
	“No way could I beat anyone in this condition. Why sell me off though? In times like these the crown would be looking all over the kingdom for groups like your own.” Irvin said, trying to feign innocence.
	The man laughed. “You really don’t know anything do you? We are a band of about seven men or so. No way would the crown hire us when they could instead hire the Silver Horde or Many Reds. Selling people like you is one of the only ways we can make coin.”
	Irvin made a mental note that this man was one of the looser lipped, and by extension dumber people in the mercenary troupe. Not that he could see his face though. He felt the man stand up though.
	“Anyways, nice talking to you Irvin. Take a good rest. We won’t get a good price off ya if you aren’t in good shape when arrive at the city.”
	Irvin tried to get some rest on the bumpy road as soon as the mercenary left. And thankfully the embrace of sleep and darkness accepted him.

	When he awoke next, the stars in the sky lit up the curtain of the night. And while his limbs still hurt whenever moved them, at least he was able to push himself off his feet and limp over to where the mercenaries were camped. A small and humble fire had been lit as one of them roasted a small quail over it, slowly turning the spit in order to get the meat tender and editable. Although chances were slim that he would get any sizeable portion of the meat, Irvin’s mouth still watered from the sight and smell of the animal. He was tired of having only berries and stale stew and bread for the last couple months. But if he were to choose, Irvin would choose the marching of the army over the traveling in a wagon to his inevitable introduction into slavery.
	As he limped over to the small light and the even smaller group gathered around its flame, one of the mercenaries greeted him.
	“Oi, look who it is! Come, take a seat Irvin.” Said one of them, who Irvin now recognized as the man who had talked to him some time ago on the wagon.
	“You’re an awfully friendly mercenary. Especially to the slave you’re about to sell.” Irvin said as he pained himself to sit down.
	The mercenary laughed.
	“Don’t see any reason why we need to be strangers.” He said. Right as he was about to open his mouth again, an armored mercenary seated next to him elbowed his arm and said,
	“Shuddup Kevan. How many times have I told you to not talk to the slave?”
	The man, Kevan, sighed and cracked his knuckles before asking the man turning the spit,
	“Is the quail ready yet?”
	“Maybe if you waited enough it’ll be done yet.” The cook replied.
	Irvin found himself chuckling at the bickering of the mercenaries, something that came to hard to him these days. Especially after the battle. It was at times like these that the days of his simple farming days seemed like a distant memory, something that happened decades ago instead of just a few short months ago. Kevan glanced over at Irvin and saw him chuckling before whispering to him,
	“I’ll try and sneak you some food later.”
Irvin nervously nodded his thanks before returning to gazing into the blazing fire. As the rest of the people seated around the fire fell to silence, time past in silent darkness. After some time, the cook finally remarked,
	“It’s finished!”
	To which Kevan quickly stood up and asked for his portion. The armored mercenary however (who Irvin assumed was the captain), held up his hand as a signal for everyone to stop and looked into Kevan’s eyes. Kevan sighed and said,
	“Do we really have to do this every time?”
	The captain nodded, put his hands together into a praying position and said,
	“And so we give thanks to the All-Father and Light-bearer, High Lord of the Nine Divine Lands and Conqueror of All That is Evil. We thank him for his blessings and eternal protection upon our own lives. Praise be Il’dren.” And the rest of the mercenaries repeated: “Praise be Il’dren” before allowing the cook to slice up their portions.
	“What a strange band.” Irvin though. “A mercenary group of seven that isn’t in the war and prays before they eat.”

	The next morning started with Irvin hearing the sound of water splashing on the dying flame of the fire that they ate around last night. It turned out that the captain was ok with Kevan giving him some food, his reasoning being that he had to be well fed if they were get a good price for him in the city. Irvin slowly opened his eyes, and the aching in his limbs had lessened from the day before. While he still limped as he walked, trying to shake off the dirty from his clothes, his arms and elbows no longer pained him when he tried to move them. Which was good news because it meant he might be able to wield his sword. If he could get a hold of it before they arrived at the city. After his conversation with Kevan the previous day about admission into the group, he was nervous about what might happen if he challenged the captain to a duel. Irvin decided he would use that solution as a last resort. He would rather die than serve as a slave for the rest of his life. At least there was some chance of returning back to his farm and searching for Kostein and Virl if he joined up with this band of mercenaries. His best bet would be to try and sneak away though. Hopefully he might be able to do so this night.
	After a short breakfast of oranges and bread, a strange combination by Irvin’s standards, they set out once more on the dusty road, the horses that hauled wagon and its supplies creating clouds as it moved forward. Irvin had his arms tied behind his back and it only took a few hours before the tight rope started to dig into his skin and his arms grew numb. The strangulation of his wrists was something that pained him so he tried to take his mind off of the matter by humming to himself one of the tunes his late mother had taught him and Virl. If Irvin remembered correctly, it came from the story of the old hero Roth and the king Peth. Roth was commonborn, a smith who quickly rose in the ranks and eventually became the court smith for the king. The king wanted to know how he was able to forge such beautiful works and when Roth would not tell him, Peth had him exiled. The rest of the story Irvin did not remember, but he was sure it had something to do with him going on a journey to the kingdom of the gods, Hron. Or something to like that. As Irvin reminisced about the old tales of his childhood, he remembered the religious actions of the mercenaries last night before they were to eat. While it wasn’t unusual to praise the gods before one ate in the bigger cities where the clergy had a bigger presence, it was unusual for commonfolk, especially mercenaries, to carry those practices with them. Regardless, the problem still remained for Irvin: either challenge the captain and win, escape under cover of darkness, or the worst of them, allow himself to be introduced into slavedom.
	As he thought more and more about his current situation, more and more did Irvin despair that there was no way he was going to be able to return home safely in time for the harvest. While he had no preconceptions when he left several months ago that he would be able to return in a timely manner, there was still a small hope left within Irvin that somehow the war would end before the harvest season. The harvest was an important part of the year, a crucial time that decided whether he would have to sell off more of his family’s belongings and land or if he would be able to just barely pay his dues for the year. Either way, he had to escape the captivity of the mercenaries in order to avoid slavery. In order to accomplish a martial feat such as defeating the captain of the band, he had to both make sure his body was in prime condition, and also somehow achieve the victory itself. If he was given no weapon, that would make the problem even harder. He only stood somewhat of a chance if he was given the optimal conditions, something that the least chance of happening, given his status as a prisoner. Maybe if he had faced the captain on his own terms, wielding the knight’s sword, then just maybe he would be able to win. It didn’t look like the rest of the mercenaries were trained or had seen that many battles, so if those same conditions applied to the captain, he might be able to achieve victory. That was only if he would be able to fight in optimal condition though. That perfect situation would never happen in his current status. Those words kept on repeating in Irvin’s mind. He wouldn’t succeed. He would lose. Still, death was something that he had accepted long ago. Death was something that came natural to a person of his status, an axiom that his father had told him. So he was prepared to die. What he wasn’t prepared for was to lose Kostein and Virl.
	As the sun set, Irvin’s worries deepened. The trial was something that had to occur in order for him to escape, that much was sure. When the wagon finally stopped to set up camp for the night amongst the plains laid bare against the rough winds of the southern fields, one of the mercenaries picked him up by the taut ropes that bound his arms. The man carried him to a tree with little leaves and set him down amongst the circle of several others. As the captain stroke his flint against steel and blew as the sparks started to appear, a slight warmth began to spread over the entirety over the circle. Before long, dinner was started. This night it was a pale stew that seemed to be made up of corn, sliced chicken, carrots, and a slight spice from basil, sage, and ginger. As the captain stirred the stew, the air around the circle of mercenaries was tense. It stood in stark contrast to the light and boisterous mood that Irvin had encountered just yesterday. After a couple minutes of this, the captain looked around and asked,
“What’s the problem?”
	There was no response. Gulping and swallowing his fear for once, Irvin stood up. The captain’s eyebrow rose and Irvin spoke.
	“I-I was t-told I would be able to j-join your band if I was able to beat you in combat. I wish to invoke that challenge.”
	The captain sighed and looked around.
	“Ok,” he said, “which one of you numbskulls told the slave about this?”
	Kevan raised his hand while seated on the soft grass. The captain rubbed his eyebrows together and turned back to Irvin.
	“There is no such tradition. You were mistaken, slave.”
	Irvin felt weak and tried to voice his opposition to the issue, but the words would not escape his lips. They were trapped within an iron cage, unable to release themselves to the outside world. There he was, right on the edge of freedom, on the very turning point of his future, and he couldn’t object to the notion that he could challenge his own fate. His hands and body shook, and with a wavering slowness, he sat back down, his face red-hot and his eyes looking at the dark grass in the night. No one else spoke during dinner or for the rest of the night. Irvin somewhat heard the captain yelling at Kevan in whispers in the late of night.

	They resumed their march early next morning, packing up the supplies onto the wagon and on the road towards the city. By midday a gray and brown mass of buildings was visible in the distance and by noon the gates and walls of the city could be seen by Irvin and the mercenary group. He had not spoken to any of them since last night.
	After finishing lunch, which included a few vegetables and bread, the journey began once more. Irvin was strangely calm and had no thoughts on the future. Instead, all that occupied his mind was the pain the bindings that restricted his hands brought up as well as the bumps along the road as the wagon was rocked by every disturbance in the road. He gazed downward at his leather boots, worn from the fighting and traveling that he had had to endure these past couple months. He thought nothing, and his only emotion was pain, the pain the restrictions on his wrists brought him. Maybe he didn’t want to think of anything else, or maybe he was just incapable of it at this point. Irvin didn’t know.
	By the late afternoon, they had arrived at the stone walls of the city, with its wooden doors and a pair of guards watching over the entrance to the settlement. Both were wearing simple leather armor with a steel chestplate emblazed with the symbol of the kingdom on top of it. At their hips were blades in leather sheaths and in their hands were spears. When the band of mercenaries approached, the guard on the right said,
	“Ten crowns.”
	The captain silently gave the man his fee from his pocket. He then quickly shook the guard’s hand and the gates creaked open, revealing the busy streets and markets of the inside city. It was at this moment that it struck Irvin that he still did not know how far away he was from his hometown or even what the name of this city was. He dared not speak though, partly out of embarrassment last night and also because he figured he would have plenty of time to talk to his new master about his location. As the wagon was pulled through the busy market, people parted for the armored warriors and their prisoner. As they neared the town center, one of the mercenaries whispered to the captain, just loud enough for Irvin to hear,
	“Oi, captain. Are we really going to go through with this? I had no qualms about being a sellsword when I signed up, but being a slaver is a little…”
	“We do what we have to do to earn a living.” The captain replied. “Quit if you want, but it’s not like the Crown will take nicely to sellswords like yourself.”
	As they drew nearer and nearer to the town center, the yells of prices grew more boisterous. It was obvious to Irvin that they were drawing closer to the slave quarter. It was at this time Kevan voiced his opinion as well.
	“I agree with Yustano, captain. I didn’t join up to be a slaver.”
	“Calm down, Kevan. It’s just this one time.” The captain hastily replied.
	“That’s what it always is with things like this. First it’s one time, then it’s a second, then before you know it you’re doing it for a living. That’s how it was for all of us.”
	The captain bit his lip. “Fine.” He turned around to everyone else and spoke in a louder voice, loud enough for everyone else to listen.
	“Who else thinks we shouldn’t sell the slave?”
	Two raised their hands. The rest didn’t.
	“There.” Said the captain. “It’s settled. Now swallow your damn pride and let’s get our pay.” And they set off again.
	Irvin had to swallow his despair as they entered the city square, the hustle and bustle of the merchants and townsfolk surging about them as the captain stopped the band near a city guard and asked in a lowered voice where the slave market was. In return, the guard gave some quick directions and pointed past the city square to the northwest. Although Irvin knew that there was little to know chance of him getting out of this situation, it was at this point that he almost completely lost hope. And although his father had told him time and time again to accept his fate when his time came, there was another part to that very maxim: “Give up when your time has come” he had told Irvin, “but still keep that sliver of hope. Who knows, it may end up saving your life.” And so Irvin tried to hold on to that very small piece of hope in the attempt that maybe some divine intervention would save him. And although he was no holy man like his brother or a staunch believer of the church’s teachings like the captain, he prayed. His hands were still tied but he closed his eyes and muttered a phrase that Virl had taught him before he had left to become a clergyman: “O Divine Lord above in your golden throne, surrounded by your two daughters and six sons in the ultimate land of Er’torath, lend unto me your fortunate as I go forth towards darkness. May the Light of your great and holy shine unto me as I pray for your greatest protection. Protect me from darkness and misfortune as I stride unto the darkness.” He repeated this prayer three times for good luck and opened his eyes. Their troupe stood in front of the slave market, a raised wooden platform in front of them.
	As Irvin strained his neck to look at his surroundings, he saw a collection of types of people. Well off nobles looking for more house servants, landlords surveying the market for more able hands for their farms, and a couple former slaves looking to buy others out of slaver. But of the last type there were few. Irvin felt his heart drop, his prayer to the god of life meaningless against the undeniable fate that stood in front of him. On the platform there were around seven or so slaves that were sale, their hands and legs bound by chains and in front of them stood the slave seller, his booming voice echoing beyond the murmurs of the city beyond them.
	“Five hundred crowns!” He bellowed, “Five hundred crowns for this man! From the western Erik viscounty! Strong legs and pretty eyes! Perfect for both housework and field work! Starting at five hundred crowns!”
	One man raised his hand and spoke up, “I’ll take him!”
	The seller pointed at the man. “We got one! Anyone willing to challenge this good man?”
	Another person raised their hand. “I will!” He said. “Six hundred crowns!”
	The first man yelled back, “Seven hundred crowns!”
	“Anyone else willing to compete with this man’s offer?” Said the slave seller. No one raised their hand.
	“Sold!” Said the seller. And the slave was carried off the platform and his chains handed over to the man before was walked away, the heavy chains dragging on the floor. Irvin didn’t get a good look at neither the man nor the slave’s face before they disappeared into the city crowd.
	Right after the seller was done with the purchase of the slave, the captain raised his voice in a way only a mercenary could do. “We propose this man for sell on this market!” He yelled. Eyes turned towards us, their piercing gaze and dull clothing directing their attention at us. The slave seller tensed up and clenched his fist, his annoyance at disrupting the orderly sale clearly visible through his pale blue eyes.
	“From what province?” The slaver yelled across the sea of people that separated the captain and his platform.
	“The Tokrob county!” Replied the captain.
	“How old? In what condition? Starting price?”
	“22 years old! In working condition, he is a farmer able to both do field work from dawn till dusk as well as serve your every need in the house! The starting price will be three hundred crowns!”
	“Two hundred crowns!”
	“Two hundred and seventy five crowns!”
	“Two hundred crowns!”
	“Two hundred and fifty crowns! I will go now lower!”
	There was a pause between the exchange of the captain and the slave-seller.
	“Accepted!” Declared the slaver, and two of the guards that stood on the perimeter of the trading market roughly took Irvin from his position next to the band of mercenaries and dragged him through the mass of people. He looked to his sides at the guards, garbed in leather armor and wielding spears in their arms and short swords at their waists. Their faces were ice-cold, just like the eyes of the seller at the front of the market. As the guards pushed their way through the potential buyers and towards the wooden stage where the remainder of the slaves were positioned. Irvin arched his head upwards, towards both the bright sunlight and the olive-colored skin, matted brown hair, and pale eyes of the slaver. He was pushed to the ground by the guards, the stone paving of the ground meeting his bare hands and legs, before being taken by the scruff of his tattered cloth tunic by the slave seller. As he was grabbed and lifted onto a platform. It took a couple seconds for Irvin’s eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness as he looked directly into the sun, positioned slightly above the group that was gathered below. The seller grabbed his face, feeling his muscles across his body and getting a feel for his features, both aesthetic and physical.
	“Starting at two hundred and fifty crowns!” Said the slaver, his voice ringing in Irvin’s ears.
	A man from the vast sea of people below the stage spoke up. “Two hundred and fifty crowns!”
	Another spoke up. “Two hundred and seventy five crowns!”
	And then another. “Three hundred crowns!”
	Irvin felt strange having his very livelihood and life bartered away to strangers, as if the often talked about thread of fate was being toyed with.
	“Three hundred and fifty crowns!” Yelled another. And this time there was a short silence before another spoke up again.
	“Four hundred and seventy crowns!” And the slave-seller held up his right hand, counting down from five to one.
	Before long, all of his fingers had disappeared into his fist, the count reduced to zero.
	“Sold!” Declared the slaver, as he motioned for the guards to take Irvin away. They dragged him off the wooden stage and into the mass of people, where his new owner awaited on the sidelines to claim his new prize.

Chapter 4

	Irvin was taken by a somewhat tall and thin man, his face spotted with freckles, his hair a light blonde, and his skin a dark tan. The guards attached new chains on Irvin, the iron manacles linking his arms and legs together. The guards handed the key to his new owner. He had to look upwards to his master’s head, the buyer’s green eyes staring back at him. There were no words spoken between them as he grabbed the chains and dragged Irvin through the stone paving, beyond the crowded square and leaving the mercenaries behind.
	Irvin tried to keep his head, his heart sinking as he trailed behind his owner. As they exited the slave market and entered into the busy city streets, his new master placed his hand on Irvin’s shoulder.
	“Face me.” He commanded with a stern voice. Irvin obeyed his command and faced his master, trembling in his heart as he did so.
	“My name is Hrokal, first son of House Rhost. From this day forward, you will serve as my servant. I presume I don’t have to say this, but let me just remind you. You are no longer a man of the Kingdom. You are a tool to serve me. You will obey my orders without question. Keep in mind that if your performance diseases me in any way, I can have you sold or killed. Am I clear?” He said, tightening his grip on Irvin’s shoulder.
	Irvin nodded in return, his eyes focusing on Hrokal’s face. His face portrayed no emotions, his eyes returning his own fearful gaze back at Irvin.
	“Good.” Said Hrokal. “Now follow.” And Irvin obeyed.

	Irvin was led by Hrokal through the busy mass of people in the city, the stone blocks and bustle and noise of the settlement guiding Hrokal’s movements as he weaved his way through the labyrinth of bustling people. Irvin tried to make a habit of looking down at his own heavy iron chains, his legs binded by the weight that connected him to his owner. While he tried to keep his mind empty of thoughts in order to not let fear over take his body mind, it was at during this walk that he realized that he had received no advice from his father on how to deal with the situation he found himself in. Nothing on imprisonment or enslavement. It was one of the few times, if not the only time, that he was without his father’s guidance. He felt alone, and for this reason he despaired. It was not fear that overtook him this time, like it had in the past. But utter disappointment. His father’s teachings had failed him.
	What sort of actions did I take to deserve this? He thought. I have lived a simple life. I farmed the land and respected the gods. I have done nothing wrong. And yet here I am, less than human, a tool for some lordling, sold away to put some coin in a mercenary band’s pocket. Damn it all.
	He tried to keep a straight face, for fear of punishment by Hrokal but he was angry more than anything else. Angry at the fate he had to endure. He worried no longer about the fate of his brother and Kostein or even some of the acquaintances he had held in the mercenary band. In that moment, he was only angry that he, someone who had done nothing wrong, had to endure punishment and torture at the hand of the world’s cruel hand. But he moved forward at a standard pace, keeping up with owner, trailing his feet behind him and keeping his hand ensnared by the chains that bound his hands together. Irvin’s thoughts were filed with nothing, only the focus on moving forward for fear of punishment.
	After some time of traveling through the masses of the city, they arrived at a carriage parked on the side that was attended by a couple guards and an unarmed attendant. They all bowed, the guards more deeply than the attendant, before one of the guards opened the door to the carriage.
	“I take it the sale went well, m’lord?” Asked the servant, who was dressed in nicely-fit and colorful clothes, Irvin saw.
	Hrokal nodded. “Indeed. Thank you for your concern Forsten. We shall depart soon I assume?”
	Another bow from the servant. Hrokal handed Irvin’s chains to Forsten and entered the carriage, closing the door behind him with a soft thunk. The servant didn’t look at or even acknowledge Irvin but took his bonds, leading him to the back of the carriage where he tied him to the iron polls at the back which up the standards of what Irvin assumed was his master’s house seal. It was a green fish surrounded by a box on top of several interlacing circles. Irvin didn’t dare look up for too long, even with Hrokal within the carriage and Forsten ignoring him. The fear and dispair had overtaken him, replacing the anger he had held before. He just sat there, his eyes focused on the chains that attached his hands and feet to the transport. There was a short pause before Irvin heard the familiar whip of a horse rider as the guards at the front of the carriage commanded the horses to move forward. And slowly Irvin moved along with Hrokal, Forsten, and the guards to his new home.

	They soon left the city limits, the stone walls of the settlement fading into the blue sky as the carriage tumbled along the roughly-paved road to the north. With the staring at him from the right, Irvin sighed and looked down at his worn hands. They had seen much work over the past couple years, between tending to the fields of his farm and cooking meals for himself. And now recently they had held his first weapon and slain his first enemy. And even more recently they were now encased by iron chains, the links clinking together as he felt every bump in the road. The hills stretched on as they always had, with no signs of the flat farmland of his home revealing itself to Irvin. He thought not about his home nor his farm but rather the hills held bad memories for him. Thoughts of endless marching, of the battle, of Kostein and his brother. They all returned to Irvin. He tried to push the bloody memories away but they brought him only pain. His father’s words spoke back to him. “Make comrades and they will come back to hurt your mind as long as you live.” He had told him. He was right. The memories did hurt him. And they did not fade.
	It soon faded to sunset and the old despair returned to Irvin. He tried to close his eyes and get some much needed rest after the stressful days and nights of traveling with the mercenaries but the uneven roads stopped that. Everytime he felt as if he was about to doze off to sleep, abandoning his body to the embrace of sleep, he was jolted awake once more by the rocks and debris that the road carried with it. Still it was faster than marching on foot like he had done all those months ago. But at least he was marching with people then instead of reduced to less than human and forced to ride with strangers. Even then he was somewhat happy to be with others. And even though Irvin was with others now, he didn’t want to keep company with Hrokal and Forsten and the guards. But he was now Hrokal’s property. That simple fact was evident in the iron chains that bound him to the carriage.
	With the night came the despair that had faded with the time he had alone. Of course he was still angry at his situation, but Irvin’s despair and hopelessness had sunk to the deep recesses of his mind as the light of the day waned. But now it came back, the savage reminder that he was sold by strangers into a life of servitude and deemed worthless. There was no escaping the situation he had found himself embroiled in, a statement that still seemed foreign to him. His father had always told Irvin that there was always an escape, always a way out. And even though he might be able to take the ultimate escape through death, such an end was not one that he imagined. Irvin was not a holy man, nor was he one to buy into the clergy’s beliefs, but he imagined Virl would look down on him if he killed himself. Such acts were deemed treason in the eyes of Il’dren. And so Irvin pushed such cowardous thoughts from his mind. Which seemed strange to him, considering how much of a craven he was. At least he admitted it.
	After a couple hours the carriage pulled to a halt and the horses neighed. There was the clinking of metal and the squeaking of wood as the door to the carriage opened and Hrokal and Forsten stepped out. The two guards quickly followed suit, untying Irvin from the posts at the end of the carriage and following just behind Forsten and Hrokal as they chose a spot to set up camp for the night. The guards were then commanded by Irvin’s master to set up the tent in which Hrokal would sleep in that night. As they brought out the necessary materials to set up camp, Irvin shambled over to their small encampment, stumbling through the dim night before finally being set down at the ground next to the tent, his chains tied to the metal stakes that held Hrokal’s tent down. Not trusting him with the preparation of food, Forsten then lit a fire and starting cooking a meal of stew of vegetables, made from carrots, onions, tomatoes, and potatoes. As the broth boiled, Hrokal strode into his tent and disappeared behind the soft red colors of his temporary home. The two guards sat beside the warmth of the fire, a familiar sight for Irvin. But he sat near the back of the tent, away from the majority of the people. As dusk faded to darkness, the only light that illuminated their encampment was the soft blaze of the campfire. Irvin remembered the times that he camped out with his townspeople all those months ago, silent under the starry sky with only the long journey ahead awaiting them. Those days were the days that he wanted back. Not the accursed future that awaited him. He clenched his fists in the darkness, hoping no one would see him nor hear him. And in that darkness Irvin wept, his tears falling softly and his cries deafened by the boisterous laughter of the guards. When he finished, Irvin looked up to see Forsten sitting around the campfire, silently drinking the stew he had cooked.
	After a couple minutes of looking into the bright fire, Irvin’s heart cold with darkness, he saw Forsten rise up, place the wooden bowl from which he was eating, and walk over to where Irvin was. Irvin tensed up, his chains clinking as he flinched from the movement of another human towards him. He was afraid punishment might await him. His life meant nothing to Hrokal, and even less to Forsten. As the servant sat down next to Irvin.
	“What are you feeling right now?” He said.
	Irvin didn’t dare respond.
	“You can reply you know.” Questioned the attendant, his face hidden behind the darkness and Irvin’s wet eyes.
	“I feel willing to serve the Lord Hrokal, sir.” Irvin replied.
	“Don’t lie.”
	“Yes sir. I feel scared and afraid.”
	“Good. Hold onto that feeling.” The words echoed the words of Irvin’s father. Irvin turned his head from downwards to Forsten next to him.
	“What….what is my name?”
	“You are you. At least to me and you. But to everyone else you are no one. Make sense?”
	Irvin nodded.
	“So. What is your name?”
	“Irvin.”
	Forsten nodded.
	“May I ask a question, Forsten?” Irvin asked, trembling.
	“What is it, Irvin?” The attendant replied, a slight smile on his face.
	“Where are we going?”
	“North, to Lord Hrokal’s family estate.”
	“Do you mind telling me more about this estate?”
	Forsten chuckled softly. “You can drop the respect when it’s just us two. The estate is within the Yur’den, the great swamps just a few days north of the capital.”
	Irvin perked up. “We’ll be able to see the capital.”
	Another chuckle. “Yes. I guess a farmer-boy like yourself hasn’t seen it yet. But we’ll only be traveling around it. The fees to get inside aren’t something to be trifled with. Anyways.” And with a push he stood up. “I’ll see you in the morning.” And he went to his sleeping blanket that was right beside Hrokal’s tent.
	Irvin lay back down, the waving grass pressing against his arms every so often as the western winds pressed against them, the fire flickering in the night. The rhythms of the winds along with the fire were what soon sent Irvin into a deep sleep, the pain on his wrists and ankles balanced out by the pleasant feeling he felt in his gut after his conversation with Forsten. Irvin still dreamt nightmares though, nightmares of the people he had killed and the uncertain fate that awaited him.

	The next day, Hrokal’s tent was packed up quickly and Irvin promptly removed from the iron stake near the back of the tent. The guard’s escorted him to the back of carriage and tied him up again before returning to their posts as the controllers of the horses at the front of the transport. Forsten and Hrokal entered the main chamber of the vehicle and after a couple minutes they set off again, their campsite bearing no signs that they were ever there. And then once again the features of the land blurred, the speed of the horses causing the hills and grasslands of the landscape to speed by. The orange sun rose to the right of Irvin and he tried to avert his eyes from its illumination as it spread its hands over the green hills and flats of the land.
	As the day dragged on, Irvin felt awake. More awake than he had ever been in the past week. Thinking over the events of the past couple days, Irvin realized he had either been in a state of constant pain or worry, something that stretched back to his days of working on the far. It was always an alternative between his hurting muscles or his worries over the confiscation of his land by Lord Orek. Even when his muscles had gotten used to farm work and the near-constant care that must be paid to the crops and land, sometimes a bad winter or early summer would set his schedule back. It was hard work, but work that his father had entrusted to him. Work that Virl had ran away from. Or maybe he had maybe just accepted the “higher calling” that he spoke so highly of. Irvin didn’t know. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t know a lot of things. About the war, about Hrokal, about the mercenaries. Even though they sold him away into slavery and indenture for the rest of his life, he wished he could’ve had some more time with them.
	The carriage traveled along the road, and soon enough Irvin spied the grand walls of the capital in the distance. As he craned his neck to peer around the edge of the back of the carriage to see the massive walls on the top of a small hill. As they drew closer and closer, it’s features became clearly to Irvin. The imposing iron gates, the archer slits, even the patterns engraved on the worn stone and metal that became seeable as they drew closer gave off a sense of age and permanence. It truly was the grand jewel of the kingdom, the seat of the King’s power and the place from which he ruled the entire realm. A single city that empowered the realm and demanded authority from all those who entered. Authority to the law and authority to the holder of the Silver Crown personally. As they drew near the gates, Irvin felt the eyes of hundreds turn towards them, the arrows of those who manned the walls trained on their heads. A guard peeked his head from behind the embattlements, garbed in shining chainmail.
	“Who seeks entrance?” He said, his voice booming down from the walls and towards the hills to the south. Forsten stepped out of the carriage onto the dry ground and spoke back.
	“We seek no entrance.” The vassal replied. “We are simply traveling towards the Yur’den and shall be traveling the circumference of the capital.”
	There was an audible sigh from the guard as he disappeared behind the walls. Forsten nodded at the guards steering the carriage and returned inside the carriage. They then continued on their journey, leaving the massive walls and gates of the capital behind them. As they followed the road north, the rolling hills started to flatten, their grass becoming greener and greener. Irvin’s stomach started hurting as the sun rose into high noon, a response to the lack of food or drink he had received in the last couple days. The meat that he had had a couple days ago around the fire with the mercenaries was something that he desperately wished for at this moment, the memories of juicy fats of the quail making him slightly salivate. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the memories of meat and food and sustenance. The time of day reminded him of lunch, of the meager meals that he used to make for himself from the crops he grew. As the rhythmic sound of horse hooves faded into the background of Irvin’s ears, the sound of flowing water and the view of rivers. In the distance a view of dark green revealed to Irvin the surface of the Yur’den, the swamp that Forsten had mentioned. The road became more and more overgrown with weeds and grass as they neared the swamp, the wheels of the carriage trampling over the vegetation of the ground. As some of the wet ground gave way to mud and weeds, their progress slowed to a crawl. Irvin looked around and beyond the edge of the box of the carriage he saw a gray mass of people moving from the north. As they drew closer and closer to the trail of people, the carriage slowed down even more before they came to a halt, the horses neighing and snorting in the wet dirt road. The door of the carriage opened and Hrokal stepped out, his cloak trailing behind him. Standing up, Irvin turned his head, hearing the slow march of feet and the squish of boot against mud. He was also able to pick out the clinking of metal against metal, telling him that it some in the refugee group were soldiers. Irvin heard Horkal speak.
	“Where have you come from, common-folk?” He said.
	The sound of marching trailed to a stop and a man within their ranks spoke up. “m’lord. We have come from the battlefield of the Rol’kan Fields, some three days march east from here.”
	“Answer me this, man. How fares the war in the southeast?”
	“I regrettably must report to your lordship that I know not much of the southeastern front. Me and my comrades flee from the defeat of the loyalist forces to the east. As far as I know, Fort Bervon was lost a week or so ago. I—“
	“And what of the northern front?”
	“Again, I do not know much, but I am aware that the citadels of Castle Urien and Bolford have been retaken by Archduke Eroth.
	“I see. You may go.”
	“May the Light of Il’dren be ever at your back, m’lord.”
	“And you as well.”
	Irvin was shocked at the news. He shook in his place at the back of the carriage, the iron chains clinking against each other as they started to move once more into the distant swamp of  the Yur’den. His eyes widened, and he blinked, his eyes trying to wipe away the disbelief that Kostein and Virl might be dead. Although his father’s words of encouragement rang true within his mind, he now doubted the possibility that they lived. But to imagine that they were dead. Irvin gripped his chains tightly, hoping to stop the tears that had appeared last night in the darkness. He stared at his feet in disbelief, the gravity of the situation washing over him. He was powerless in that moment. Powerless to find the truth of whether or not Kostein or Virl, his only family, were still alive. Powerless to escape the chains of slavery that bound him to the carriage and go to the southeast. But most of all he was afraid. Afraid of being alone once more. That fear was enough for him to grit his teeth and close his eyes tightly, wishing for the nightmare to be gone. But there was no nightmare, only reality. And then the carriage moved forward, carrying Hrokal towards his home and Irvin towards his prison.

	When nightfall came, the surroundings were dark. Only the sound of hoove resounding with mud and the slow trickle of water surrounded Irvin as he tried to look around but encountered only darkness. He heard the slight murmurs of the guards at the front of the carriage, whispering amongst themselves.
	“How much further, you reckon?” Said one.
	“Koran-Tel be damned if I know. A couple more hours maybe?” Said the other.
	“I just don’t want to be stuck out here during the night. You know what they say about  the Yur’den at night…”
	“You actually believe those old stories? About the death-spirits?”
	“Don’t you?”
	“Why would I? Only children believe in that crap.”
	The other guard scoffed. “Don’t blame me when you end up serving Wel Toram.”
	“Better than being a coward for my whole life. Now shut up, the lord wouldn’t want us speaking this way.”
	“Those are true words.”
	And there was silence again, the pale moon shining down on them as a soft mist descended upon their trail. The trail behind them soon disappeared and all that Irvin could see was the vegetation and mud some ten feet behind the carriage. A sense of uneasiness lay itself upon him, a product of the mist. Irvin remembered the tales that used to be told by his father, of the times that he and his company had to march to the north east to fight off the legions of the Tekia to the north. As they were marching along the Silver Road, on the edge of the Yur’den and the Yucten Forests just north of the capital, he said that he heard soft wails and screams emanating from the east, and that night a deep fog set in. It was a fog just like the one Irvin was experiencing now, one that sent shivers down his father’s spine. As they huddled around the fire, a chill set in despite it being the middle of spring. Gusts of wind would blow in every so often and whispers would come in from the east, despite no one in the camp speaking a word. That night, Irvin’s father got no rest and he was glad to be gone from the nightmarish environment of the Yur’den. But that same swamp was the place Irvin was heading deeper and deeper inside, it’s insidious influence creeping ever more into his very being.
	As the hours dragged on a soft rain appeared, the slow drizzle eventually turning into a massive downpour of water. Cursing what little luck he had left, Irvin sat at the back of the carriage, the rain wetting his thin clothing in the darkness of night. The moment reminded Irvin of the first day that he set out from Potren, the mud at his feet and silence between him and his fellow townsmen. He felt sleepy, but the constant rain that poured on his shoulders and rattling of the carriages wheels prevented him from doing so. He gazed into the distance, worrying about whether or not Kostein and Virl were still alive. After a while, he was lulled to sleep, his exhaustion giving way to rest.
	He was awoken with a kick by one of the guards, who pushed him down onto the muddy ground.
	“Stand.” He said, his face obscured by the deep night and his own steel helm.
	Struggling to his feet, still dozy from sleep, Irvin pushed himself up and looked around. The other guard held a torch, its light piercing the useable fog and darkness. It seemed as if the rain had stopped but the moisture in the ground still remained. As Irvin struggled to put one foot in front of the other, he noticed in the distance, some thirty feet ahead, a large mansion. It had black wood and stone that blended in amongst the darkness, its imposing figure visible even within the fog and rain. As they neared the entrance, the large columns supporting the patio at the front came into view, moss and vines climbing up their sides. Large wooden doors awaited them, inscriptions of fish engraved on the large slabs of bark that were roughly carved into the doors. As Hrokal arrived at the front of his house, Forsten shortly behind him, he quickly rapped on the door, his knock quiet against the pouring rain. Despite this however, the door opened quickly, a royally dressed figure appearing at the entrance. They were slightly smaller than Hrokal, with a petite build and long blond hair. The skin tone was slightly lighter and after adjusting his eyes from the darkness a little bit, Irvin noticed that the person was a woman, her slender arms and calm eyes characteristic of that of her sex. However, her piercing green eyes identified her of that of Hrokal’s own blood.
	“Father, you have returned! Mother and everyone else has been awaiting you.” She said, an obvious glimmer in her eyes.
	Hrokal nodded and smiled slightly, breaking the impenetrable mask he had held. “I have. How are you Aetric? Let us step inside, it is soaking out here.”
	“But of course Father. I see you have brought home another one.” She said, glancing at Irvin.
	“Yes.” He said, “Now let us inside.”
	“Yes.” And she stepped aside, letting Hrokal, Forsten, the guards, and lastly Irvin inside the home. She then took Hrokal’s cloak before stepping aside. The mansion was lit by soft lights generated by the candles around the room, soft brown color of the flooring creeking with every step as they followed behind Hrokal. On the walls there were paintings, some of various mythical scenes and others of portraits of some of the members of the family. Irvin recognized some of the paintings. The death of the Goddess of the Earth, Reltoria by Wel Toram, god of death’s hand. The construction of the nine heavenly rhentei by Il’dren’s eight children. The promised End of Days when Wel Toram assaults the divine realm of Er’torath with his death-souls. Even more heretical stories were hung upon the walls, stories of the Old Faith. The duel between the god-king Astiel and his son Jorath. The seduction of Norathia by the disguised god of storms, Ul’ren. Even a painting of the War of White Flames was hung on the wall. Most of the myths Irvin knew, some told to him by his father as a child, others gained by word of mouth within the village.
	As they continued through the main hall, large stairs awaited them at the end. The flickering of the guard’s torch and the soft reminder of the wild winds outside were the only sounds that resonated throughout the dim room as they ascended to the second floor of the mansion. Irvin dared not look around him for fear of punishment. As his chains jingled as a consequence of his feet moving, they soon reached another set of double doors. Taking a set of keys out of her pocket, Aetric unlocked the doors and they stepped into the living room. In the center was a large dining table, with the rest of the family already seated. At the front of the table was what looked to be Hrokal’s wife, a woman with braided hair and glasses, the rest of her body covered by heavy clothing. On either side of the table were two men and three women who Irvin assumed were the remainder of Hrokal’s family. They looked silently at their father. Horkal’s wife nodded at him, a slight smile on her lips.
	“Leave us, guards.” Hrokal said, with a flick of the wrist. “Forsten, if you would, show my property to its holding quarters.”
	Forsten bowed. “At once, m’lord. Have a nice meal.”
	“I will.”
	And Forsten took Irvin’s chains, leading him towards the western wall. Past the elaborate tapestries that decorated the dining room there was a door made of mahogany with a copper door handle. With a twist and a push, Forsten led Irvin out of the dining room and into a corridor that was lit by candles. There were no paintings or tapestries in this room, only the dark brown wood that covered the entire mansion. After following Forsten down the hall for some time, they turned to the right and he opened a door. A darkness, much like the night that permeated the world outside, occupied the space beyond the door. Down what seemed to be stairs, Forsten led Irvin to what he guessed to be the basement of the mansion. Eventually, they finally reached their destination. With another turning of a doorknob, Forsten opened a door.
	What awaited Irvin was a dirty and dark place, spotted with moss and wet flooring. What few candles there were illuminated a place with a couple benches and dirty blankets. Forsten banged on the wooden wall, moist and old as it was, rustling several figures from the ground. They were the other slaves of Hrokal’s house, Irvin realized. Forsten turned to them, his face stern.
	“Here’s another one. His name is Irvin. You will address him as such amongst each other. You will not call him this in front of m’lord. Understood?”
	“Yes!” Came a sheepish response from the rest of them. But it wasn’t lazy, merely obedient.
	Forsten then left, leaving Irvin alone with his five new comrades. The rest of them then sat down again, resting their bodies against the walls of the room. Irvin too sat down on the right side of the door, reasoning that it would be useless to sit in the middle of the room. There was a dim light within the room, but barely enough for Irvin to focus on his surroundings. He looked around before meeting eyes with someone that was sitting just a few feet away from him. After Irvin then averted his eyes, staring at his feet again, the person scooted over to Irvin’s spot, his own chains jingling in response to his movements. After a couple seconds, they were sitting right next to each other. It was hard for Irvin to make out the other person’s face in the darkness but he heard the other slave’s voice.
	“Hey Irvin. My name’s Olter.” The person said. Irvin recognized it as a woman’s voice.
	Irvin tried to keep quiet but the silence was unbearable for him. “Nice to meet you Olter. You from around these parts.”
	There was a soft chuckle from Olter’s side. “Sorta. From a village in the eastern Yur’den. And you?”
	“To the southwest. In the hills.”
	“That’s a long way to come. How’d you end up here?”
	“Long story.”
	“One that I would be curious to hear.”
	“Well we have lots of time.”
	“True words, Irvin.”
	“Either way, I’m tired. Any way to sleep here?”
	“Not really. I just stare at the wall until I sleep. Others have their own ways.”
	“I see. Either way, good night Olter.”
	“Kelia safeguard your mind.”
	Irvin did not respond, but merely leaned his head against the wall, focusing on a spot of moss that was growing in the corner across from him. His eyes grew heavy once more, and although he was constantly awoken throughout the night by the howls of wolves and other creatures in the swamp, he got some more rest that night.

	The next day began with a slap across Irvin’s cheek, a sharp pain that echoed across his face. He pushed himself up quickly, opening his eyelids and looking around the room. In front of him was Olter, her features now clearly discernable. She had ragged and short black hair, obviously cut by her own hands. Her brown eyes were drowsy, some sleep still on the corners of her eyes. They exchanged no words and Irvin pushed himself up again, his hands numb from the moist cold of the room. Shortly after he woke up and pushed himself up, brushing the dirt from his bottom, there was a loud knock on the wooden door. Forsten then opened the door, wearing a white shirt over a clean blue cloak. He observed the room, some of the slaves still laying against the wall.
	“Wake up!” He said, his voice rebounding across the room.
	In response to his command, everyone else woke up and shortly stood up, their dull eyes directed at Forsten.
	“Follow me.” Said the servant, exiting the room with his cloak trailing behind him. The rest of the slaves followed suit.
	Irvin fell in line with his fellow slaves, trailing behind Olter. As they ascended the dark stairs, Irvin felt his legs tire at the mere act of climbing stairs. He was worried for what might happen if he underperformed but he steeled his body and told himself that if he didn’t perform his duty, it was his own fault. When they finally exited the stairs and entered the corridor that Irvin had been led down yesterday, they all assembled in a line at the wall, all six of them. It was then that Forsten addressed them formally.
	“You will be put to work today. Our new one,” He said, his eyes directed at Irvin, “will be working gathering duty along with Yulther, Olter, and Breth. I have a meat dinner planned for lunch today to celebrate Lord Hrokal’s return so I expect you to bring back sizeable game to feed the house. The rest of you will be on house duty for the rest of the day, so do your jobs. Those of you on gathering duty, come with me, I will show you to the tool closet.” The other two slaves then left in their own direction, obviously knowing where they needed to be. Forsten then took the lead, the rest of them shuffling their feet behind him. As they headed down the dark hallway, their lone footsteps echoing in the long corridor, Forsten then turned to the right, heading down another hallway before opening a door on the right wall and heading down another set of stairs. However, unlike the stairway that led to Irvin and the other slaves’ holding chamber, this stairway was lit fairly well, devoid of the slight dripping of water and the moist moss. It had a higher quality wood and even had a handrail to help the elderly descend and ascend its depths. However, at the bottom of the stairs, there was no door, only an opening that led into a brightly room. This was mainly because of the large windows on all ends of the room, illuminating the tools that lined the very organized room. After they all entered the room, Forsten turned around to face them.
	“Take a basket each and a spear.” He commanded before turning to Yulther, the tallest of the four slaves with tied back brown hair and a long scar that ran across his forehead. “Yulther. Take the bow and arrow.” Forsten then turned back and addressed the rest of them. “Remember. You are to collect some eatables from the surrounding wilderness for our food reserves. Olter and Yulther know what is editable and what isn’t so if you don’t know ask them. After you have that done, you are to get some game to bring back for tonight’s lunch. Don’t disappoint me.”
	They nodded sluggishly before taking the tools and heading out the double doors to the left, opening up to the outside wilderness of the Yur’den.

	The chirping of frogs and birds filtered through the sunlit swamp as they exited the doors. Irvin looked behind him and saw the dark brown mansion. It seemed to him that they were at the left side of the building. He gripped his spear and slung his large basket over his back as he saw the rest of the group do the same. He turned to Olter as she ran her hand through her hair.
	“So, where do we go from here?” He asked.
	“Follow Yulther. He knows the path to the gathering areas.” She responded, blinking a couple times.
	Irvin nodded slowly and started to tail behind Yulther. After a couple minutes of walking through the moss-covered trees and their gnarled roots. Judging it a good time as any to engage in some conversation with Olter, he turned to her again.
	“I have a couple questions.” He began in a whisper.
	“Go ahead.” She replied, her eyes shifting from side to side.
	“How long has Yulther been here?”
	“Longer than me at the very least.”
	“And you?”
	“Lost track. Maybe about four years or so.”
	“What about Breth?” Irvin asked, his gaze slightly drifting towards the person in question in front of them.
	“About five at the least.”
	“Then why didn’t Forsten ask him to tell us which stuff was…” Irvin struggled to remember the word Forsten had used. “Eatable?”
	“Breth is mute.”
	“They bought him that way?”
	“No way. He got his tongue cut off.”
	Irvin’s eyes widened. “How’d you find that out?”
	“Yulther told me.”
	“He doesn’t seem exactly like the talking kind of person.”
	“He is. More than you would imagine.” She chuckled.
	There was then silence as they trekked forward. After some more time, they finally arrived at a small outcropping of forested brush and trees. Yulther stopped them by holding up his hand and they set to work. Irvin picked out every type of berry and fruit he could before showing them to Olter for inspection. He was afraid of talking Yulther and didn’t feel like talking to him yet. As the day stretched on, Irvin got a nostalgic feeling in his stomach. Times like this reminded him of the days on the farm in his younger days when his father was still alive. When he told Irvin of what times were good to pick the crops, when to water them, when to replant, and when to harvest. It was good days, even without Virl. He would sometimes listen to his father’s old war stories, even if he had heard some of them several times over. The only difference between these times and those was that now he worked in a swamp as a slave, to the far north of his home. It was both surreal and scary to Irvin how much had changed in these past months compared to the last five years of his life.
	As Irvin continued to collect berries, he heard a cry to his right, in the direction that Yulther had went. Placing his handful of what Olter had him were wel trei berries into the basket, he grabbed his spear and rushed over in the direction of the scream. It wasn’t the same as the ones he had heard on the battlefield, nor were they the same he had heard in the city. It was surprise, nothing more, nothing less. Irvin turned the corner around the tree to find him, along with Olter, Yulther, and Breth within spitting distance of an absurdly large bear. Irvin had heard stories within his hometown of large animals to the north, ones that gorged on the meat of people, but never had he encountered one before. The rest of the group had already had their spears lowered, with Yulther having his bow raised, arrows ready to loose onto the bear’s brown fur. They all focused on the animal as it roared, saliva blasting in all directions.
	“Damn it.” Irvin heard Yulther whisper.
	“What do we do?” Olter asked, her question obviously directed at Yulther.
	“Hell if I know!” He replied, his facial expression twisting his scar.
	Irvin kept silent, his hands shaking in the face of danger once more. He hadn’t had his life directly threatened since that battle at Fort Bervon all those days ago. Instinctively he twisted his feet, trying to dig into the ground where he stood. He looked to his left to see Yulther trembling in the face of the titanic beast, it’s eyes wildly reading it’s opponents. Irvin saw Yulther wavering and finally after an eternity of silence he loosed the first arrow, sending the animal into a frenzy. It charged to Yulther. Thankfully, the slave rolled out of the way. But the bear was swift and it turned mid-charge and changed direction. His blood rushing to his head, Irvin screamed and ran his spear into the enemy. He ran into pure muscle and raging blood as he tried to pull out his spear. It wasn’t well made but then again Irvin was used to fighting with poor weapons. He fell on his bottom as he pulled the spear out. Struggling to push himself up, he saw to his right Breth silently jumping and following Irvin’s example, stabbing the beast in it’s side. Olter was stuck, frozen in her position. The animal swung it’s head around, looking for the source of the pain that was inflicted upon it. As it observed it’s surroundings, Yulther drew another arrow and loosed it at the beast, piercing it’s neck. It then charged again. There was a blur of motion as Breth ran into the path of the bear, taking the full brunt of it’s impact and catching himself in its saws. Blood spurted from the wound as it flung the bleeding body of Breth into a tree with a crash. With a cry, Yulther drew another arrow and fired it, this time hitting the bear between it’s eyes. With a charge, it hit the slave, hitting him into the trunk of a tree. Yulther slumped over, knocked unconscious. Scrambling away, Irvin threw his weapon at the beast. As the spear was thrown, it sped through the air before imbedding itself in the enemy’s back. Irvin was now gasping for breath, barely thinking. Turning his feet, he sprinted over to Breth’s body and grabbed his weapon and threw it again. Looking over to his left and seeing Olter still stuck in place, he yelled “Wake up!” to her just as the weapon landed on the bear’s back. It then turned and ran for him. Irvin was terrified, as it drew closer and closer, he became more and more aware of the fact he now had no weapon. It slammed him into the tree, knocking the breath out of him. Irvin’s vision started to fade. He clenched his teeth and started hitting his fists on the bear’s face. It roared at him and bit him, its teeth digging into his forearm’s skin. Irvin screamed, an action that seemed to break Olter out from her stasis. Yelling and screaming, tears running down her face, she jumped on the back of the bear, spear in hand. She took her weapon and both hands and ran it down the monstrosity’s skull. Even as the deed was done and the roaring of the enemy done, she was still screaming, still yelling. She climbed down and cried. Irvin pushed the enemy’s corpse off of him and grabbed what he could before limping off in the direction they had come, now two people short.

	As Irvin trudged back through the swamp, filled with moss, vines, and the chirps of birds and insects, he felt the weight of the past events weight down upon him. The fact that himself and Olter were the only ones alive after all that had transpired weighed heavily upon him. He stumbled through the Yur’den, his feet crunching brushes under his leather boots and squishing through the thick mud of the swamp. He winced at every movement, his arm still bleeding and pain oozing from the points where the bear had bitten him. Irvin cursed under his breath as he focused, clenching his teeth as he struggled to keep Olter in one arm. His vision was somewhat blurry, and he focused only on the sole task of reaching the safety of the manor. It was just like the battle of Fort Bervon, his mind blank and his thoughts null. He thought of nothing else besides the survival of himself and Olter. He pained all over but he moved forward, driven by little other than the innate instinct he had to trudge onwards.
	When they finally reached the safety of the mansion by late morning, Irvin approached the side of the building where they had exited that morning and lay Olter down, her hair caked with dried blood. He knocked on the locked double doors and shortly afterwards Forsten appeared, nicely dressed and obviously ready for the lunch that would occur in about an hour or so. His eyes widened.
	“What in Il’dren’s name happened?” He asked.
	Irvin struggled to find words. “We...attacked…bear…Yulther and Breth dead. Olter…unconscious. Bleeding…” His vision faded and he felt weak. He fell to his knees and Forsten caught him.
	“I’ll take Olter. Stay right here.” And he rushed outside before taking Olter back inside.
	Irvin struggled to stand back up before he hobbled over to the wall beside the open door inside and slumped against it. Clutching his injured arm, his eyes betrayed him, fading in and out. He cursed again, this time more loudly. His consciousness faded in and out, until it finally left him, the pain caused by the wound forcing him unconscious.

	Irvin was awoken by a sharp kick to his ribs. The pain rippled throughout his body, jerking him awake. He coughed and rolled to his side, grasping his ribs. He looked around and recognized that he was in the main hall, where he had first entered the manor last night. His assailant was Hrokal. Irvin kept silent.
	“Finally you’re awake.” Said the lord, sighing. “I was getting kinda tired of waiting to be honest.”
	Irvin waited to catch his breath. “How have I displeased mi’lord?” He ask instinctively, but then instantly regretted it. Another blow from Hrokal was delivered from his leg, this time onto Irvin’s face. He was sent rolling a few feet across the hall. He spit some of the blood out of his mouth.
	“Did I give you permission to speak?” Hrokal screamed, his voice filled with anger and rage.
	“May I please-” Began Irvin but he was then cut off by another attack to his chest. Hrokal stood over him, his boot pressing down on Irvin’s hand. Pain arched through him and he screamed, unable to suppress his reaction.
	“Did I give you permission to speak?” Irvin’s owner repeated.
	Irvin shook his head, afraid of another attack. Hrokal sighed.
	“Now. Stand up.” He commanded.
	Gasping for air, Irvin pushed himself up with all his might. But it was not fast enough for Hrokal, who grabbed Irvin by his throat and lifted him up. The master’s grip was strong and Irvin could not escape. When he let go, Irvin instinctively grabbed his throat.
	“Now we can finally begin. Slave, in response for your cowardly, moronic, and disrespectful actions today, you will undergo your punishment here. You have disgraced me in front of my family on my first day of return back to my abode as well as killed off two of my loyal property. Not only have you caused social damage onto my person, but you have also caused monetary damage to my entire house. Such a grave offense cannot be forgiven or go unpunished.” He said.
	Irvin kept his eyes focused on Hrokal, afraid that any distractions might incur the wrath of his owner. As his eyes shifted in and out of focus due to the beating he had just underwent, he was caught by surprise when Hrokal punched him across his face, beating him to the ground. As he lay on the ground, assault after assault was given to him, the strength of Hrokal’s limbs inflicting wound after wound onto him. Pain was given to Irvin. Pain unlike the pain he encountered at the battle of Fort Bervon or the attrition he suffered on the journey across the southern farmlands. After a while, the pain still hurt, but Irvin started to black out more and more, numbing it somewhat. He hoped for it to end soon but it did not. It continued. And he felt fear. It was strange to Irvin, since he had long since convinced himself that he no longer feared death. But he truly believed in that moment he would die. He feared the angry face of Hrokal as more bruses were inflicted upon him. Eventually, Irvin succumbed to the darkness once more, his exhaustion manifesting itself in the embrace of the dark.

	When Irvin woke up, he was laying against the wall in the slave room, right next to Olter. He tried to arch his neck and even though it pained him some, he was able to face her. Pain still struck him, but it was easier this time to stem the tide of it for some reason.
	“How…are…y-y-you?” He stammered, his voice hard to manifest.
	In the darkness he could see her slight smile as she chuckled. “The same as you. Only difference is I’m used to it.”
	“H-how so?”
	“We get this every time we do something the lord doesn’t like. Painful isn’t it?”
	Speaking got easier for Irvin. “Yeah. Very. I can’t believe what happened…”
	“Don’t let it get you down. Happens all the time.” Olter scoffed. Irvin looked hard at her eyes in the dark.
	“But those guys were pretty old weren’t they?”
	“Yeah. They were my friends too. Doesn’t change the facts. That’s how life is out here in the Yur’den.”
	“You come from around here?”
	“Sorta. To the north-western area of the swamp.”
	Irvin’s eyes widened. “There’s cities here?”
	“Heh. I wish.” She chuckled. “I’m from a small fishing town. What about you?”
	“I already told you.”
	“Oh that’s right. Sorry about that.”
	“So how was life up north?” Said Irvin, wanting a distraction from the pain.
	“Peaceful I guess. Me and my mom and dad. We fished, cut the stuff and sold it.”
	“Then how’d you end up here.”
	“Some crap by the kingdom about the possession of ‘heretical artifacts’. Bunch of base lies if you ask me. So the 3rd Inquisition Army attacked the village, burnt it to the ground, and sold the rest of us. And you?”
	“Had to serve in the war. Went to a fort down south and we got attacked by rebels. Fought and passed out. When I came to I was imprisoned by some sellswords. They took me to a city or something and there he bought me.”
	“That’s some story. So is it really true what they say about the south? That you can eat all day and never grow hungry.”
	Irvin chuckled. “I wish. You can grow all the food and crops you want sure, but it all more or less goes to the local lord. They get to eat all they want but you? You’re stuck eating the leftovers.”
	“Oh…” There was a defeated look on Olter’s face. “Hey Irvin.” She said, looking towards him, “Have you ever been to the capital?”
	“No.” He said, shaking his head.
	“You have to go there sometime. Once, I was taken by the lord down there and let was just amazing! All the people and smells and buildings…You can see the Grand Temple of Rel’kithal from any place in the city!”
	“I should go sometime.”
	“Yeah we should…”
	“Listen, I’m going to go to bed now. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
	“You bet. Good night Olter.”
	“And you too Irvin.”
	Irvin was kept up with fears that he might lose another person to the claws of death again. He was afraid more than anything. More so than punishment by Hrokal or by slavery itself. That kind of pain he could endure, he could clench his teeth and find a way through it. But the pain of losing someone like he had Kostein and Virl. That kind of pain he could not endure. He still couldn’t endure it. It troubled him, haunted his every movement and moment of his waking hours. So it was then that Irvin decided that he would protect the life of Olter, to safeguard her well-being in any way he could. He wasn’t afraid of death. He knew he was going to die from the moment he had set out from his home, from his farm. That much he had been sure of. But it was better for him to die for another, for someone that he had told himself to protect, than to die for nothing or to run away from death. Those were even worse fates than the one he currently found himself in. And with those thoughts in mind, he let his weary eyes rest, the sight of Yulther and Breth’s bloody bodies haunting his dreams.

	The next couple weeks passed with the same pattern. Irvin would wake up, either clean the mansion or go gathering in the wilderness, then come back for punishment for some slight against Hrokal—and by extension, his family. Sometimes the reasons for the physical punishment were real, sometimes they were imagined. Sometimes they were major, other times they were minor. Irvin eventually lost track of how many times he had been beaten, both in body and spirit. The punishments became a daily occurrence, something that could be counted on happening. It was painful to be sure, but after a certain point he started caring about the pain. The pain was always there, ever present in every waking and sleeping moment of Irvin’s life. The pain, and the punishments as well, were a part of life as a slave. He soon accepted that. At the very least, he had Olter to confide in.
	One night, as they were eating the old melons and moldy bread that had become staples of their meals.
	“Say, Irvin.” Said Olter sudden.
	Irvin turned his head over to her, his face and neck still somewhat sore from the beating that day. “What is it?”
	“Have you ever thought about getting out of here?” The rest of the slaves looked down, focusing on their meals.
	“Don’t joke about that kind of stuff. You know what’ll happen if Forsten hears us…”
	“Well let’s just imagine we thought about it.”
	“Ok. So what if we did?”
	“How do you think we would go about it?”
	“Tough question. Well if we assume that in an imaginary situation we escaped. We would then have to cross the Yur’den. And both of us know how dangerous that is.”
	Olter nodded.
	“Then we would have to get rid of these chains somehow. I doubt a blacksmith would want to remove them. But if we got rid of them, we would have to go to some large city where no one would ask any questions about where we came from. You know more about larger cities since you’ve been to the capital.”
	Olter shook her hands, revealing the calices on her hands to Irvin. “No no no. I don’t know anything.” She laughed nervously. “I’ve only been to the capital once. Anyways, what would we do after that?”
	“I don’t know. I only know farming so I might join up with some ward farm-lord on the surrounding farms near the city. You might be able to pass as a butcher and could join up with a guild or something. Either way, life would be rough.”
	“Yeah.”
	“Why you so curious? You know we can’t escape right?”
	“I know…Just  a little something that I’ve been wondering about lately. It’s getting late. Good night Irvin.”
	“Night.”

	The next day they were punished for talking about escape, whipped ten times each for the “sin of thinking of unlawfully escaping from my protection” as Hrokal put it. Irvin figured that it had to be from one of the other slaves that had reported to Hrokal or one of his children about what they had discussed last night. That night, Irvin and Olter didn’t talk as they silently sat against the dank walls of the slave room, the dripping of water and the rustling of movement above them making creaks in the wood. Irvin, despite the constant pain and the bleeding from his back, Irvin wondered. Wondered about whether or not he could actually escape. At least if he escaped he might be able to free himself from the living hell, from the endless nightmare he found himself in. He was afraid more than anything than else, a feeling that he had grew accustomed to in the last several weeks. The pain and fear intermixed to create a terrible feeling that combined the worst of both emotions. But Irvin still wondered. Even if he was able to escape the prison of Hrokal’s mansion, would he be able to return home? Would the people of Potren welcome him back?

	Time soon became lost to Irvin, the days and weeks and months melding and mixing together in some sort of endless dream. A dream of constant abuse, pain, and discomfort. New slaves came occasionally as Hrokal and his family became more accustomed to Irvin and his presence, something that earned him less painful punishments. And although that was reason to be happy, Irvin felt no happiness. The weeks had turned him cold, emotionless and unwilling to do anything more than live out his daily life of obeying the orders of his owners. He still had Olter though, and she remained a source of life and happiness for Irvin. They didn’t talk about escape or anything not pertaining to life in the manor though. However, Irvin’s life had turned into a cycle. It was a cycle that refused to be broken, both by Irvin and by everyone else, his fellow slaves included. But one night the cycle was broken.
	Irvin was awoken by the screams of people upstairs, screams of the type he had not heard since the fateful day that he had gotten Yulther and Breth killed. He sat up straight, his body taut from pure reflexes that had been trained over the last several months. He looked over to his right to see Olter sleeping on her side, some of her long hair trailing across her face. He shook her up and whispered to her.
	“Wake up.” He said.
	She wiped some of the sleep from her eyes. “What is it?” She asked.
	“Did you hear those screams? Sounded like one of the daughters.”
	“Huh?”
	Irvin pushed himself up, his chains clinking in the silence of the slave room. He pushed up against the rotten wooden door, its hinges creaking in the darkness. Mysteriously, the door was open, swinging open as Irvin slightly pushed forward. As light spilled into the room, the other slaves looked up, their eyes blinded by the sudden light. But what lay beyond the door was what scared Irvin the most. The dead and bloodied body of Forsten lay there, large gashes on his chest and arms. Irvin stood there, his mouth agape, as he stared at the dead face of Forsten. The servant’s eyes were wide and his mouth contorted from a combination of pain and fear. Such a combination disgusted Irvin, as it reminded him of his own feelings. Looking upwards towards the end of the long stairway that led to the mansion, Irvin mentioned for Olter to join him. She quickly followed behind, as did many of the other slaves as they rushed out, their eyes glittering with hope for escape.
	As they exited the stairway filled with the stench of blood and death, the soft screams of others could be heard in the direction of the main hall. Irvin remembered that the side exit to the mansion lay further down the hall and took Olter by the wrist, pulling her along as the other slaves scattered, some heading in the direction the dinner hall, others heading in the same direction as Irvin before turning down into other rooms. After a couple minutes of running through the hall, Irvin finally found the door. Just as he was about to open it, Olter stopped it.
	“Wait. Where are you going?” She said.
	“Escaping. What else?”
	“Don’t you think we should try and protect the master?”
	“Why would we? All he and his accursed family have given us is pain and suffering!” Irvin said, the anger from the past months spewing out of him.
	“Without him, we don’t have a place in the world!” She screamed, her voice echoing through the empty hall. “Even if we are able to escape, what place do slaves have in the world? What would we do? Get captured again and be sold off once more? Huh?”
	Irvin looked away from her, his fist and teeth clenched. He looked back at her. “I don’t care that we don’t have a place here. I just want out of this damnable nightmare!”
	Olter gripped Irvin’s flimsy shoulders, thin from malnutrition. “This isn’t a nightmare damn it! This is real life Irvin! Get a grip for Il’dren’s sake!”
	Irvin brushed her off. “It doesn’t matter what happens after we get out, Olter! If we stay here we die!”
	“So what if we die?”
	“I care that’s what!”
	“Why?”
	“I…”
	“What is it?” She said, her eyes piercing his own.
	“I told myself I would make sure you lived. That’s what.” He said finally.
	“Don’t just decide for me what I want to do with my life.” She said coldly.
	“But you want to live don’t you?” Irvin asked, this time desperate.
	“Of course I do!”
	“Then let’s go.”
	“Not after we protect the master.”
	Irvin sighed. After a while he finally said, “Fine.” And he followed her towards the main hall.
	When they reached the dining hall, three bodies littered the table. The corpse of Hrokal’s wife, and his two daughters. The last daughter could not be seen. As they rushed past the blood, Irvin noticed the same wounds that he saw on Forsten. It was then that he realized. They were sword wounds. Whoever had killed them were raiders. Hopefully the guards could beat them back before they reached the main hall. As Olter and Irvin headed down the main staircase that led into the main hall, the screams grew louder. As Olter threw open the large doubledoors, the clang of steel and metal and battle became clearer. The once-clean wooden floor of the main hall was splattered with blood as seven raiders were engaged in battle with Hrokal’s own guards of four. Hrokal as well had joined in the melee, wielding a beautiful blade that shone unnaturally bright against the lights of the room. A great man, wielding a large broad sword, swung at the shields of the four guards as Hrokal swiftly evaded the large swipes of the weapon. Seeing the arrival of the new slaves, the man, dressed in heavy mail armor, motioned for the rest of the his brothers in arms to fall back. As they retreated through the main entrance door to the manor, the guards followed the raiders with a warcry, Hrokal shortly behind them. Irvin looked on the floor and saw a boy. Hrokal’s own son, a blade still gripped in his hand. Gritting his teeth, Irvin ran over to the body and ripped the weapon from the lordling’s grasp. When he rushed outside to follow the battle, he saw Olter frozen in the main hall, alone with the smell of death.
	When Irvin exited the mansion, the morning fog persisted as rain beat down all around him. He gripped the sword tighter and ran into the battle, sword raised. He went for an overhead attack on one raider, which was deftly blocked by his opponent. The blood rushing into his head, Irvin slashed viciously to the left and right, putting his enemy on the defensive. However, after one slash he slipped, the mud underfoot causing him to fall on his feet. As the raider swung down onto him, he rolled out of the way before he was kicked in the face by the metal boot of an unseen foe. His head spinning, Irvin focused his vision to see it was the large warrior, his sword sullied by blood. Using his sword as support, Irvin pushed himself up and readied himself. Although his previous opponent stood at the ready, the man clad in armor held him back with his arm and charged at Irvin. Irvin stepped to the side, his boot squishing in the wet mud. Irvin swept his sword to the side before it was brought into contact with his enemy’s own broadsword. He then pushed Irvin’s weapon out of the way before bringing his blade down in a great vertical slash. Reacting swiftly, Irvin rolled out of the way and leaped upwards, attacking on the man’s right shoulder. The sword merely resounded against the metal plate of the enemy’s armor and with a loud laugh he swung again, this time horizontally. Ducking, Irvin then tackled the man, pushing him to the floor and pinning him down with his arms. With all his strength and barely thinking, Irvin then ripped off the man’s helmet. And pressed his blade to the opponent’s neck. The face that revealed itself to Irvin was that of the captain of the mercenary band that had sold Irvin into slavery all that time ago.
	“C-captain…” Irvin mouthed.
	A smile spread across the captain’s face. “I knew that was you by your face. Now. It looks like you beat me in single combat. What’s the choice? Join us?”
	Irvin was frozen in place. “I…I have another I wish to take with me. I must find her.” He had found the will to say such words after his conversation with Olter.
	Irvin got off the captain and ran off, abandoning the battle and his weapon before running into the mansion. When he pushed open the double doors, he found himself facing Hrokal, his strong hand on Olter’s wrist.
	“What are you doing here?” His master asked, a wild look on his face.
	“Looking for Olter.” Irvin answered truthfully.
	“You will protect me! Go back out there!”
	Irvin swallowed. “No.” He said, his heart pounding in his chest.
	Hrokal pointed his blade at Irvin, its steel shining. “Go!” He said. “I order you!”
	“I will not!” Irvin screamed.
	Hrokal let go of Olter, throwing her flimsy body to the ground. He marched over to Irvin, blade in hand and Irvin felt fear. He backed away, seeing the all too familiar face of anger that he had seen over the months. Irvin tripped and fell, his muddy boots squeaking on the wooden floor. In the dim light of the hall, Hrokal raised his blade and swung down. Irvin covered his face with his hands and closed his eyes, waiting for the pain and the blood. But it didn’t come. When Irvin looked up, there was Olter, her arms outspread. She turned her head and smiled a little bit before the second attack came from Hrokal. A thrust through her chest, letting the sharp steel of the blade appear before Irvin. Irvin blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing. With a scream, Olter gripped the shaft of the weapon and ripped it out of her chest. In response, Hrokal punched her, knocking the slave to the ground. Grasping the weapon, painted with blood both new and old, Hrokal stalked over to Irvin. The blood rushed to Irvin’s head once more as he screamed a warcry and tackled Hrokal to the ground. The sword slid out of the lord’s hand as he landed on the hard floor. Rolling over to where the blade had landed, Irvin picked up the weapon and ran at Hrokal, his weapon grasped in both hands. With a scream of rage, he stabbed the man in the neck, letting blood escape his body. As Irvin pulled the sword out, he then slashed Hrokal across his chest, causing more blood to splirt from his body. With a final movement, he stabbed his former master in his abdomen and ripped the weapon out, causing Hrokal to fall backwards.
	Realizing how tired and exhausted he was, Irvin collapsed on the floor. He then rushed over to where the dying Olter was, her hair dirtied by her own blood as she lay on the floor. Irvin grasped her by the shoulders and shook her.
	“Olter? Can you walk? We have to get out of here…” He asked. But the answer was already clear
	She smirked. “I’m not going anywhere, Irvin. I have…to die here….with m’lord….”
	“You got to be kidding me! We have to get out of here. I’m sure we can find someone…”
	She gripped his shoulder. Tight. “Listen to me Irvin. Get out of here. By Il’dren’s name, you got to go far away from here. You should know that better than anyone else.”
	“I…I do.” He nodded, trying to wipe away the tears that had appeared on the edge of his vision.
	“Then go.” She smiled. “I’ll see you later.”
	Irvin stood up, the sword of his late owner in hand. “Yeah.” He whispered to himself as he went outside once more. “I’ll see you again. Later Olter.” And he stepped outside, crying. It was the third time he had cried since he had buried his father five years ago.


Chapter 5

	Irvin rested that night, his back and arms sore from traveling for the majority of the day. The fury had faded from his blood, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. All was quiet between the mercenaries and Irvin as his thoughts lingered on Olter’s death and the new weight of the sword he had taken from her killer. When he had exited the mansion, there were no words exchanged between him and captain once he saw the bloodied sword Irvin held. The tears in Irvin’s eyes were another sign of what had transpired. He simply said, “Let’s go.” And they left.
In the fading sunlight, Irvin examined his new weapon, its bright metal reflected his bloodied and tired face back to him. It reminded it that he hadn’t washed his face or cut his hair in many months, something that brought back only painful memories. Memories of his simple days on his farm. Before he had to leave for war. The bloodied steel reminded Irvin of his father’s words. “Beware of war, son.” He had told Irvin. “War ruins all. The land, the people, even the souls of the dead. It ruins everything it touches.’ And Irvin now knew the truth of that statement. Virl and Kostein’s supposed deaths were just possibilities, not things that were true. But Olter’s death was a certain truth. He had seen her die with his own eyes. That much was certain to him. And that certainty brought pain to him.
	When night fell upon them, no fire was lit by the mercenaries. When one of them asked why, the captain just said, “Don’t want any of them spirits attractin’ to us.” There was then agreement and soft nodding between them as they set down and took out some vegetables and bread from one of the large backpacks they carried. In the familiar darkness, the captain turned to Irvin.
	“So. How did you end up here?”
	There was silence before Irvin answered. “You sold me here, remember?”
	“Ah yes. Must’ve been tough.”
	“More than you know.”
	“But you’re alive right?”
	“I guess.” Irvin paused. “Hey, where are you guys heading?”
	There was visible uneasiness between the rest of them. “Up north. We were plannin’ to follow the Ren’ia River north towards the mountains.”
	Irvin calmed himself and felt his body relax. It was helpful to be around people again. “Why there?”
	“You know how those big fortresses are up there? Has to be some sort of work up there.”
	“So you decided to do some regular mercenary work?”
	The captain chuckled. “Yeah. Turns out there isn’t a lot of work for sellswords-turned-slavers.” He paused. “Anyways. I may as well introduce you to everyone while we’re at it.”
	Irvin nodded.
	“My name’s Ul’teel. You talked to Kevan before. Then there’s Hostal, Aestin, Cerst, Iayal, and Bostin. What was yours again?”
	“Irvin.”
	“Nice to meet you Irvin.”
	Irvin nodded in the darkness.
	“Now Irvin, since you’re one of us now, you have only one law to keep.”
	“And what is that?”
	“Obey the laws of Il’dren.”
	“How so?”
	“Pray to him before and after every meal. Its late now so we can talk more about it tomorrow. We have to wake up early tomorrow anyways to get out of this accursed swamp.”
	“Agreed. The faster we get out of here the better.”
	There was another chuckle as silence took over the camp and the band descended into sleep, this time including Irvin.

	A shake awoke Irvin the next morning. But unlike how he was rustled from uneasy sleep in the previous weeks and months by the late Olter, this time he woke up to the face of the captain, the rugged features of his scarred face becoming quickly visible. Shaking his head, Irvin stood up and as they packed up camp and prepared to set off again through the misty swamps of the Yur’den. He was handed a heavy pack by one of the mercenaries, a person whose face Irvin knew but could not place a name to go along with it. The pack was something that would’ve weighed him down considerably several months ago, when he was just a farmer. But now, after all the hard work he had had to endure, it was a somewhat light package. The rest of the supplies were packed into the small wagon that Irvin remembered riding in on his way to the city where he was sold into slavery. It brought back uneasy memories. As he started to walk along the worn dirt road, a sellsword jogged up to him and talked to him, a grin on his face.
	“Fancy seeing you again, especially after all these months.” He said, his matted hair showing signs of the morning rain that had started to fall.
	Irvin drew a blank on his name. “…And you are?” He asked.
	A laugh from the mercenary. “Come on Irvin! I remembered your name and everything. It’s me, Kevan.”
	“Sorry, I don’t remember you.”
	A sigh from Kevan. “Well I guess you wouldn’t remember me after all that time. Whatever. So what have you been up to?”
	“You know, just being sold into slavery.” Irvin replied plainly.
	Kevan laughed in the silence of the morning. “Fair enough. Care to tell the specifics?”
	Irvin looked Kevan straight in the eye. “No.” He said, mustering enough malice as he could.
	Kevan held up his hands, a nervous laugh on his lips. “Ah ok ok I get you Irvin. Calm down will ya?” He said. “Anyways. I guess it’s only fair I tell you about what I’ve been up to these last couple months right?”
	Irvin sighed. “Might as well since you were about to tell me anyways.”
	Kevan laughed again. “True that. Anyways. Right after we sold you, we went east, towards the vast fields where the captain said there had to be some large armies. It seemed that he had some sort of revalation after sellin’ ya.” He then dropped his voice to a whisper. “If ya ask me, he just felt bad about sellin’ people. Didn’t feel like it was the right thing to do ya know?”
	Irvin nodded.
	“Regardless, we went east. Lots of bad stuffs happen out there. The rebel forces are fighting out there a lot right? And there’s these huge battlefields we found. Bodies all around. Fire and arrows too. Lots of loot to be had out there, if you can stand the stench of bodies. The vultures love that stuff. Anyways, we tried to follow the battlefields to an army or two. After a couple weeks we found none so Ul’teel said we should head back down south. We were runnin’ low on water too but everyone agreed that even if we went back down south, there was little work to be had there so we came to an agreement to head back to the east. I reckon that Ul’teel was thinkin’ that we could get some honest work at the capital.” He chuckled.
“Like there’s any honest work for sellswords like us. Anyways, we went back east. That was about three weeks ago. When we came to the capital, they sent us out. Said something about a toll fee or something. Typical crown-folk if you ask me. Crowns, crowns, crowns. That’s all they care about. So we hatched another plan. We were thinkin’, there’s big forts up north right? Those big forts have to have some sort of big armies in them right? So we head up north and join up with them or something. Apparently some big-shot lord just pushed back the rebels so we could just follow ‘em down south or something. Since the lordy that started this whole mess’ castle is back out to the southeast. At least that’s what the guy at the capital gates told us. So we went up north. And let me tell you, it was a hard goin’. Mud everywhere and always bandits out in those parts, especially on the Silver Road. So we no cooking fires for a couple weeks. It sucked. Anyways, we finally followed the road north to the damned Yur’den. I had heard rumors about the place right? Like the usual stuff. Ghosts and death-wraiths and other unearthly things. Didn’t think it would be this bad though. Voices in the night. Weird dreams. I didn’t think we would last. That was about two or so months ago. I lost track after a while. I think the others did too. So we were goin’ crazy right? We figured if we find some sort of place we could steal their horses or something. And luck be had, we ran into your lordy’s place just yesterday. Took us about a month or so to find it though.” He sighed again.
“And there you have it. I won’t ask more about your own time in that place, I got the chills just by looking at it. But here, have this.” Kevan rummaged around in his bag and pulled out a sheathe, one that looked to be pulled from the manor. “Snagged this while we were attackin’ the mansion. Looks like it’ll be a pain just to carry that sword everywhere so how about this?”
Irvin looked at the ornate sheathe, its surface inscribed with stylized letters and flowers and colored a colorful green-blue. “Why are you giving this to me?”
“It fits your blade doesn’t it? A lordling sheath for a lordling blade. A common sheathe for a common blade. Makes sense to me.”
Irvin nodded and took the sheathe, tying it around his waist and sheathing the sword that had weighed upon his right hand.
“Feel good ain’t it?” Said Kevan, his characteristic smile spread across his face.
Irvin nodded.
“Anyways, I’ll talk to you later. The Captain—er Ul’teel says we’re going to be out of the Yur’den by the night.”
Irvin waved him goodbye as Kevan distanced himself from Irvin. Surprisingly, he felt at peace once more, for the first time in what seemed like forever. After the slavery, and the endless traveling, and the battles and wars, there was finally respite. He was still unsure of whether or not going with the mercenaries was a good idea, but it was the only choice he had the moment. It was then that he noticed that he still had his chains on. He ran over to Kevan. The sellsword had his eyes on his foot, when he heard to heavy clatter of chains on mud, he looked up quickly.
“What is it?” He asked.
Irvin unsheathed his sword. “Can you cut these for me?” He said, motioning to his metal restraints.
An energetic smile and nod came from Kevan before he yelled to the front of the line, “Wait up guys!” And stopped. He then took the sword from Irvin’s hand and swung down on the chains, unnaturally slicing them apart with ease. The sellsword then applied the same process to the feet restrictions.
“That’s one nice blade ya got there. Must be of pretty nice make.” Kevan sighed. “Well there you go. We can cut the clamps when we sit down for the night.”

After more time of trudging through the mud, they set up camp around a willow encased with moss and took out more salted food from the packs. Ul’teel sat against the trunk of the tree, setting the huge sheathe that held his broadsword against him. Flanked on either side were several other people from the group, whose faces and names had placed in their time marching through the Yur’den. On the right was Aestin and on the left was Iayal. Kevan sat down to the left of Irvin as the familiar fading red light dimmed the green of the trees. Right as they were about to eat the assertion of vegetables and salted meats that they had prepared, Ul’teel held up his hand in the fading light.
“Wait.” He said. “I have to explain the rules to Irvin here.” And there was collective nod from around the circle.
Irvin, calm and feeling at ease, spoke openly for once. “Go ahead.” He was curious about not only the laws of the mercenaries he had to follow, and about the religion of the church that Virl had joined. From little he had learned about the clergy’s beliefs, they believed in one of the many gods that the people in his hometown subscribed to, the so-called Old Gods. But beyond that he didn’t know much.
Ul’teel leaned forward. “We observe the practices of the church. But none of that ‘heretical’ crap that you see the inquisitors’ acting on these days. Just plain worship before and after means as well as battles. Don’t forget to pay forgiveness to Il’dren when stealing from corpses and after killing animals.”
Irvin was now interested. “Can you tell me the Story of Beginning?” He remembered his father telling him some of the tale of how the world was created when he was a kid, but such memories were distant and faded now.
Ul’teel’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? So you’re curious now huh? But let’s eat. I’ll tell you over dinner.” It seemed like everyone else was ready to eat so they began. After picking some choice meats from the pile of food in the center of the twilit-circle Ul’teel moved over to where Irvin was seated at the opposite end of the circle. Once Irvin had taken some of his own food, Ul’teel began.
	“Before the beginning of the earth and the sky and the water and everything else,” He began, his voice somewhat audible to Irvin above the talk of the other members of the band. “there was the Mother of the Earth, the goddess Uran. She birthed the physical land into creation, with all its wonders. Water flowed from streams, mountains sprung up from the north, and the great fields and hills were created. It was a beautiful land, filled with life and abundant with untapped riches. And in this moment she birthed the two High Gods as well, the god of life, Il’dren, and the god of death Wel Toram. She then ordered the two gods to mate with her to produce offspring that would gift the life of humanity into the world to populate it with more life. Il’dren agreed to this union and from their ritual came the eight children. But when Uran offered the same to Wel Toram, he became enraged by the idea of birthing life into the world, utterly repulsed by it. And so he slew the mother-goddess Uran, and from her blood came forth humanity. Disgusted by the horrendous sin Wel Toram had committed, Il’dren banished him from the realm of man down unto the death-world of Koran-Tel, a world of Wel Toram’s own creation. And with this, the god of death cursed eternal vengeance upon Uran’s creation of man and his enemy, Il’dren. But the god of life did the opposite, with his wife-mother dead, he sweared to eternally protect humanity. And so he split his godly power between his eight children and created the divine realm of Er’torath. With that, he returned to his holy throne, weakened, and entrusted the protection of humanity to his offspring. And thus the age of humanity begun.”
	Irvin was entranced. It wasn’t the same kind of trance he was under when Virl spoke back at Fort Bervon, but it was close. It was clear to Irvin why Virl had found the church so appealing. A higher calling. Something above yourself. Such feelings coursed through Irvin then, the overwhelming smallness and insignificance of his body became overtly obvious to him and he felt small for the first time in a while. As Ul’teel clasped his shoulder, smiled at him, and silently moved back to his spot at the front of the circle, Kevan turned to him in the gathering darkness.
	“He tells the best stories don’t he?” He said.
	Irvin nodded in silent agreement.
	“Anyways.” Said Kevan. “Let’s take off those clasps shall we?”
	“How though? We don’t have the keys to the locks and even a sword as sharp as mine couldn’t cut through clamps without hurting me.”
	A wink came from Kevan’s twinkling eye. “I got something.” He said as he rummaged through the pack that sat by his feet. He pulled out a small metal object, a rod of sorts with a slim straight edge on the end. It’s sides were flattened like a knife but it lacked the sharp edge of a weapon. He inserted the tool to the screw that tied Irvin’s hand-clamps together and twisted it. After several rotations the screw came off and the clamps came apart. He repeated the same process and to Irvin’s surprise it worked again. His eyes widened.
	“What is that?” He asked in amazement.
	“A thing I got from a guy that heads out to the capital a lot. Picked it a while back. Called it a driver. Unwinds the screws that tie things together and takes ‘em apart. Nice ain’t it?”
	Irvin rubbed his now-free wrists. “It’s certainly handy. How much did it cost you?”
	“About fifty crowns.”
	Irvin nodded and they returned to eating. The rest of the night was uneventful but Irvin talked to the rest of the band. He fell asleep that night feeling a little bit safer and farther away from the nightmares of war and the pain of slavery.

	That night, Irvin awoke, remembering the final moments of Olter’s life. Of the quick blur of movement as she dashed in front of the blade Irvin now possessed, and of her final gasps as her lifeblood gushed out of her wounds. Her final words echoed within his mind as he passed on to sleep. “I’ll see you later.” She had said, as Irvin had held her body. The horror of it all, of the undeniable death of Olter and of the accursed circumstances that had led up to her demise, haunted Irvin. The contradictions of his promise to ensure her safety and her faded life were made clear to him. I had promised to keep her life safe. I had promised myself that simple task. He thought to himself. And I couldn’t even see that through. First Kostein, one of the only people I could call a friend. Then my own brother. And now a fellow slave. It then dawned upon him. He didn’t even know that much about Olter besides where she came from. What she liked, her favorite foods, her favorite season, her favorite animal, not even what she disliked. He didn’t know any of it. And it frustrated him, left him with a hole in his heart. It turned his stomach, making him feel empty. He felt alone again, a feeling that returned in the darkness of the night with no one awake. That loneliness burned him, tortured him. It was more painful than any of Hrokal’s punishments that he had had to endure in the past months. It hurt more than any wound and stung more than any muscle strain. With that pain and those hurtful memories engraved in his mind and the thought that Olter was forever gone from his life, Irvin sat amongst the swamp, listening to the soothing crickets and insects of the Yur’den. Slowly he eventually fell to sleep.
	When the sun rose after a long night, Irvin along with the mercenaries packed up their gear and set out once more. As they marched along, the two sellswords Irvin recognized as Bostin and Cerst began talking amongst each other. Still haunted by the nightmares of last night, Irvin kept to himself, his hand on his hip as it rested on the hilt of his blade. As he rubbed his thumb across the engraved pommel, he was reminded of the unearthly ease at which the sword had cut the chains yesterday. Still, he didn’t want to talk to Kevan about it and talking to the other rest of the sellswords was awkward and uncomfortable for him. So he kept the silence. By midday the muddy ground gave way to grassy dirt and soil, the moss and insects of the swamp fading into the distance. Eventually, they had exited the swamps of the Yur’den and entered the highlands of the north. Ul’teel turned his head to the rest of the party as they marched on and proclaimed, “Finally! Out of the accursed swamp!” He then spread his hands as he walked forward, matching his usually-fast pace with that of the tired band. “Welcome to the Arastkelia Highlands, men. It’s going to be getting cold fast so let’s go a bit further and sit down for a bit.” There were some sighs around Irvin but he simply just adjusted the strap on his pack and moved forward.
	After several minutes the sun had risen above them in the somewhat cloudy sky. The pale grass and low-lying hills now covered the landscape, their shape reminding Irvin of his homeland to the far south. The familiar hills took him away from the horrors of the past year, reminding him of the season during which he would tend to the fields and eke out a meager living amongst his crops. Of the years that he would be alone with his fields, his hungry stomach a constant enemy as well as the limited time he had to produce a certain amount of crops as part of the tax imposed on the town. The rumbling of the wagon wheels, along with the rhythmic march of feet on the dirt road, all reminded him of the long march to Fort Bervon, of his fateful encounter with Kostein.
	Once they sat down, Ul’teel, along with Hostal and Aestin went over to the wagon and took out several sacks. Within each were about two to three cloaks, lined with wool. As Irvin fastened the cloak to his back and wrapped the warm cloth around his body, the warmth spread throughout his body. He tightened his sheath to his waist and felt the reassuring weight of his elaborate blade on his left side. He looked to his side to see the rest of the band readying their weapons, Ul’teel with his large broadsword strapped to his back, Cerst with his spear, and the rest of them with longswords sheathed at their waists. Irvin adjusted his cloak and looked forward, in the direction of the path they would be taking. The cold wind blew in from the north-west, chilling his face and blowing his hair back. As the gale howled in the silence of the desolate highlands, Irvin spotted movement in the distant. A small group of barely visible figures moving through the hills, closing in on their position. Irvin stood there watching for what the figures would do. As they got closer and closer, Irvin strained his eyes in the strong wind and before long was convinced it was a band of soldiers. He whipped his head around, looking for Kevan.
	“Kevan!” He yelled when he couldn’t find the mercenary.
	Kevan ran over to Irvin and faced him, his once-long hair tied back in a ponytail. “Irvin, you see somethin’?”
	Irvin nodded. “Yuh.” He pointed in the direction where he saw the distant group of soldiers, their figures becoming more and more distinct as time passed and they drew closer. “Soldiers, that way.”
	Kevan’s eyes widened and he turned around. “Capt—er Ul’teel! Soldiers to the north!”
	A cry soon then came out from Ul’teel. “Ready everyone! Protect the wagon!”
	Everyone scrambled around, packing away the food and supplies as well as any stray valuables in the wagon before forming a protective circle around it. A call came out from Ul’teel.
	“Draw weapons!” He commanded and out rushed the familiar draw of steel against metal as Irvin and the rest of the mercenaries readied themselves for combat. As the silence drew harder, he now saw the engraved lettering on the blade. Despite not knowing what the letters meant, he was nevertheless curious about why there were carvings on the steel of the weapon. And while he saw his own afraid face on unnaturally spotless metal of the sword, the silence of the situation enveloped him. He counted down the seconds in his mind as the galloping of horses and marching of feet grew ever closer. He tried not to look around at his surroundings, for fear that that act would invite more terror. Irvin was trembling once more, his palms getting sweaty under the pressure of a life or death situation. He gripped his sword tighter, the leather handle wrapping around his right palm. He tried counting in his mind to shut out the enclosing sounds of battle.
	One. Two. Three. The horses were only a couple miles away. Four. Five. Six. Seven. The steps of the soldiers grew louder. Eight. Nine. The clanking of their armor became more and more distinct. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. A battle cry erupted from both sides. Irvin opened his eyes to see the enemy force arrayed around them. A force of easily two dozen soldiers, about seven to ten or so of them on horseback. They bore the emblem of a house unknown to Irvin, but it scared him nonetheless. He turned to Ul’teel’s direction, waiting for orders from the captain of the group.
	There was a battle cry that came out and Irvin was jerked back into reality as chaos erupted around the wagon. Wielding his sword in both hands, Irvin charged at his first opponent, a soldier with a leather cuirass and a chain vest underneath. He locked steel with his enemy’s own spear before they broke apart, observing each other. Irvin steeled his nerves before charging in once more, trusting his instincts to make his blade strike true. He was blocked at every turn by the long distance of the soldier’s spear, before Irvin was forced on the defensive. A horizontal swing from the spear-wielder forced him to drop to his knees and roll out of the way on the grassy field. When he rose again, another horizontal slice awaited him, which he blocked by bringing his sword up to meet the metal end of the spear. Pushed back a little bit, Irvin hopped backwards several steps before raising his sword with both hands and charging in with a yell. He was able to get close to his opponent, and was about to get his own attack in before the enemy tackled him to the ground with great force. His head spinning, Irvin reached for his enemy’s hair and started pulling much to the opponent’s pain. The soldier stood up for a second, grabbing Irvin by his cloth shirt and punched him, sending him reeling into the dirt of the plain. Quickly rising, Irvin scrambled for his sword and whipped his head around to see his enemy armed once more with his spear, just when he was about to rush in again, he felt the cold touch of steel against his neck. Wildly moving his eyes to the left, Irvin saw another soldier and was sure of his death then but then a cry came out.
	“Stop this!” Came a voice, one that did not belong to any of the band of mercenaries. Irvin turned his head to see the soldiers back down from combat and resume their encircling formation around Irvin and his fellow sellswords. Irvin creased his eyebrows in frustration.
	“And what may be the cause for this attack?” Came the voice of Ul’teel.
	“A mere reconquering of what is ours.” Was the reply. Irvin turned his head to see a man that was obviously the platoon’s commander move forward on horseback. His face was obscured behind heavy plate armor that covered his entire army. He was obviously a knight of high status.
	“Reconquering? Of what?”
	“This wagon of course.” Said the commander, pointing to the wagon.
	“That’s yours?” There was a scoff from Ul’teel.
	“But we bought this wagon with our own coin.”
	A laugh came from the commander. “You mere lowfolk owning a wagon and the supplies I see on it? Now that’s a jest.”
	Irvin saw Ul’teel grit his teeth. “Believe it or not, it is ours.”
	“I will forgive you for those base lies. Now, for the new future King of Mordan, Astrith Brone of House Brone, I shall let you live and reveal my name onto you and your base band.” He paused, letting a new wave of despair wash over those he was addressing. “Before you stands the Lieutenant Talren, officer in service to the Viscount Yrento of the Volento Viscounty. With the graciousness of my lord and the mercy of the future holder of the Silver Crown, I shall reclaim what is ours and spare your lowborn lives.”
	With swift action, a dozen or so soldiers closed in with spears. Irvin and the others were left no choice but to back off from the wagon, leaving their supplies behind. It only took a few more moments before all that they had except what they had in the packs on their backs was taken from them. The galloping of horses and marching of feet soon grew distant and soft, leaving a hole of despair amongst the Irvin and everyone else. Without speaking a word, Ul’teel gathered what remained of their belongings and marched forward. The rest of the band followed in suit.

	Irvin had grown used to traveling but still the endless cold and expansive highlands of the frigid north made him distressed. The immense weight of the pack he wore as they trekked through the cold strained his back, and he could say the same of everyone else. As the weeks passed, they were forced to trudge through howling cold winds and huddle around fading fires. By the end of the first week they had run out of wood and there was little vegetation around to find extra fire wood, if wood at all. So for the next couple weeks Irvin and the mercenaries had to survive on stale rations, uncooked meats, and cold vegetables. On the sparse occasion that someone did spot wildlife either during the short days or the dark nights, it ran away too fast to pursue in a hunt. Many rabbits occupied the highlands. Irvin tried to swallow his pain and disgust at the whole situation but it was hard after several months of staying in one place, doing simple housework. But still he forced himself to keep pace with the rest of the group, for fear they would abandon him in the wilderness. Little to no words were exchanged in those weeks as a somber feel fell upon them. As the group followed the mountains north, the great Khroten Mountains stretching both to the east and to the west, their imposing peaks stretching up to the sky. Irvin never got tired of staring at their cliffs, even as the winds grew colder and the howls of wild wolves grew louder and louder as they neared the mountains themselves.
	After several weeks of pain, suffering, and traveling, Irvin finally spotted a great fortress in the distance. He was tired and as a result all sense of shyness had faded from him so he pointed it out to Cerst. There was a dull response from the slender mercenary as he replied, “Looks like we’re coming up on Castle Enraskia huh…” His voice fading through the afternoon winds. Irvin called out to Ul’teel.
	“How much farther till the castle ya reckon, Ul’teel?” He yelled.
	There was a short pause as they trudged through the rugged grass. “We should reach it by sunfall!” Came the reply, his voice echoing through the plains. Silence was the reply but underneath it Irvin could sense the relaxed relief of everyone else, including himself. With a short sigh to himself, he adjusted the straps on his pack and moved forward, his eyes focused on the mountains and the sanctuary of safety that awaited them.

	As Ul’teel had said, around sunset they had arrived at the massive gates of Castle Enraskia, a large and empossing fortress that guarded the Pass of Enraski, one of the main roads to the lands north of the Khroten. It was a land that Irvin knew little about, just like most of the kingdom beyond his small hometown. Irvin felt a large sense of foreboding prescense, of a figure that had been standing since the centuries before Irvin was even born. He had felt the same feeling at the capital, but it was moments just like this that reminded him how far away he was from home and how small he was in larger picture of the world. He had been caught up in a war larger than himself, with people and forces much older and powerful than he could ever aspire to be. He shivered both due to the presence of the castle and the ever-present winds. Irvin turned to Kevan as they waited for someone to come forward from the castle’s other side.
	“What you reckon they’re doin?” Irvin said, surprised at his own change of accent, a result of the many weeks traveling with and talking to Kevan and the mercenaries.
	“Probably the guards are gettin’ their officers for somethin’.” Replied Kevan, stretching in the breeze against the tall stone walls of the fort.
	Irvin sighed. “Well the sooner we get inside the better.”
	“Can agree to that.”
	And they waited. By the time the sun had drifted behind the large mountain range to the north, the winds had calmed down as the breeze gave way to eerie silence. After a while, a cry finally came out from the battlements of Enraskia, a lone soldier holding a spear barely visible beyond the large walls.
	“For what reason has your group come?”
	Ul’teel stepped forward and responded. “We have come seeking the main royal army force. We are a group of mercenaries looking for work.”
	The guard disappeared and after a couple moments the iron portcullis was raised and the large wooden doors opened with a creek. Irvin and the group of mercenaries looked at each other. Kevan just shrugged and led the way into the safety of the castle. Irvin followed behind, his eyes lingering on the inscriptions on the walls of the castle. He tapped the nearby Aestin’s shoulder.
	“What do those things say?” He whispered.
	“Just some stuff about the End of Days.” Replied the sellsword bluntly. Of all the mercenaries, Aestin knew the most letters since he came from a larger city.
	Irvin rose his eyebrow as he surveyed the walls that they moved past. “What’s that?”
	“You know Wel Toram right? Well long story short, after Il’dren promised to protect humanity Wel Toram planned to gather the spirits of the dead and assault Il’dren’s fortress of Er’torath and thus destroy humanity. The name of the attack is called the End of Days.”
	“Ah…” Irvin nodded and then silence overtook him again.
	They then entered the castle and the imposing walls faded behind them, instead the muffled bustle of soldiers replacing the frigid silence of the outside world. Tents were set up all around them, the various colors of the different loyalist houses that resided in the castle. The sound of blacksmiths mixed with the loud laughter of people gathered around fires as they drank ale. Irvin, overwhelmed by the sounds of the people, looked to Ul’teel for guidance as the rest of the mercenaries gathered in a small circle near the gate.
	Kevan was the first to speak, as always. “So, capti—Ul’teel. Where do we go from here?”
	It took a while for the captain to respond. “We go to the Captain of the Guard. They should have some work for us if any at all. Pray Il’dren that they do. If they don’t we ask where we might be able to find some.
	Iayal spoke up, clearing his throat as he pushed his long black hair out of the way. “What if the main army has already left?”
	Bostin interjected. “Easy. We just follow them.”
	“Fair enough.”
	Ul’teel spoke up. “Regardless of the location of the main force, we find work and get some coin. That’s what we’ve always done.” Everyone else nodded and they set out for the main barracks.
The building was easy to find, as its boisterous noise was effortless pinpointed by the rest of the band as they moved through the camp. Movement had died down but it hadn’t died out just yet. There still a few fires on the trails that crisscrossed through the encampment of the castle that could be described as a small town. The barracks itself was a large stone build, easily several stories tall and engraved with the seal of a crow gripping a spear in its talons. Always the initiator, Kevan stepped forward and knocked on the heavy wooden door that made up the barracks’ entrance. After a couple seconds, it was opened by a burly soldier, his dark brown hair short and his face covered in sweat.
“What is it?” He asked.
Allowing Ul’teel to do the talking, Kevan then stepped back. “We are looking for work. Can you take us to the Captain of the Guard?” Asked Ul’teel, matching his own tall body to the soldier’s.
“Work? What’re you, sellswords?”
A swift nod from Ul’teel. “I had heard the main loyalist army was stationed here or around here. Where are they?”
“You talkin’ about Eroth’s army? They left about a week or so to go to the southeast. Said they were marchin’ to the eastern plains.”
Ul’teel looked nervously back at the rest of them. It was one of the few times Irvin had seen him display weakness. “Still, we are looking for work, so let us talk to the head of the guard.”
“Can’t do.”
Kevan stepped forward, irritation in his eyes. “Why not?”
“No one but those in service to the Head General can enter.” He pushed Kevan back with a thick finger. “That doesn’t include you sellsword.”
Kevan now had lost his temper. “Do you have any idea how much crap we had to get through to reach this godforsaken place? To just be turned away? You have no idea.”
Seeing that the situation was about to go out of hand, Ul’teel reached his firm hand for Kevan’s shoulder and grabbed him. He looked the mercenary straight in the eyes. “Kevan.” And the man slinked back.
Ul’teel turned to the soldier. “I understand. Who might we talk to find work?”
“No one. Trust me when I say there is no work to be had here. Try your luck with the Eroth’s force.”
Kevan spoke again. “Why you…” Ul’teel strengthened his grip on Kevan again, silencing him.
Ul’teel turned to the rest of the band. “Let’s go. There’s nothing for us here.”