Walls of Earth and Stone

By Nathaniel Firmath

Book One of the Onidai Saga follows Ralph of Meadrow, the disgraced son of a long-dead coward, as he seeks to change his fortune through the claiming of an ancient title. Though his hands have not been trained to war, and the land of his birth is known only for farming and brewing, he will step forward to test himself against dangers beyond all but his wildest dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathaniel Firmath
• Release date: Jul 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301823710

Nathaniel Firmath

I write novels.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Latch Bolt

The nomads attacked but once in the time of my childhood. It was a raid, ill-advised and numerically weak, and my father died in the fighting of it. He was a Forester, a rank not unlike that of captain, and he fled for the wall, leaving those under his command to fight on without a leader.

Many of his men died before the battle's end.

My father's corpse was found face down—his spear and shield discarded far behind him. No such act had ever occurred in the history of Meadrow. Fifty centuries of Guardsmen, and only one coward. My father. The people were outraged, and, unwilling to allow the Guardsmen to see to their own, they called upon their Phulako—Warden of the Builders' Light; Emissary to the Kenalkan Banners.

Each Banner employs its Phulako differently; in Meadrow the most successful Farmer bears the responsibility, and most have considered the title nothing more than an inconvenient distraction. In the time of my youth, Edam held the title. He was called upon only rarely in matters of justice, for that was the responsibility of the Guard, but with so many slain as the result of my father's cowardice, the people cried out for retribution.

The Guardsmen loved my father, but the Phulako had been called, and his decision was final—irreversible. My mother and I were proscribed, outlawed, and the speaking of my father's name was forbidden under pain of harsh reprisal. We were no longer protected by the law, and any harm done to us would not be treated as a criminal act. All of our possessions were forfeit, and we were forced into the cold with only the clothes upon our backs. We lived briefly on the streets, begging what we could, but Edam had poisoned the ears of the people. We were treated by most with a cold indifference, while a few reacted violently to the mere sight of us.

The forest outside the wall was far gentler, and we lived there for many years, foraging as needed. In time we learned to live rather well, but my mother feared for the future. Our fortunes changed when an aging apothecary, too old to range far beyond the wall, tasked my mother with the gathering of herbal remedies. By my twelfth year, and the eighth spent living in the forest, my mother had scraped enough coin together to build a rude tavern.

Rude is perhaps a polite description, for it was of the poorest quality in Meadrow, though we did well by keeping prices low, the difference to be made through volume. Though I am now Onidai—War Marshal of the Kenalkan Banners—I was treated in my youth with a heady mixture of total neglect and open disdain. Loneliness and self-loathing grew familiar, a trend unbroken until my sixteenth year.

* * *

The Harvest of Third Seed was at an end. In Third Seed, barley is the primary crop, and nearly half of the arable farmland is allocated to the growing of it. Our barley beer is famous, and the finest brews are valued more highly even than the wines of Viharth. That year, the Farmers seemed to be drinking the excess, and their thirst for violence was equally strong. My mother's patrons fought each other at the slightest provocation, and the third brawl of the day was by far the worst.

A half-dozen brawny drunkards thrashed about the room, cursing and spitting in a crush of angry limbs. Their fight was the result of some drunken debate, and I stood among them, trying to find words that would appease both sides. I was still too young to understand that rational speech would have no effect on the irrational: nor would any words of mine have gleaned any reaction, short of violence. And so, for all my trouble, I succeeded only in trapping myself within the tangle of combatants.

At one point, the group collided, and the heavier brawlers succeeded in pinning their opponents to the door. I was still between them, and I could hear the door frame groaning behind us. As we swayed there in those silent moments that always precede minor disasters, I remember thinking that the door could easily support our combined weight.

And of course, I was sorely mistaken.

The door gave way with an explosive crack, and we collapsed into the entryway, the Farmers still fighting over an argument they'd long forgotten. The belly of a particularly fat and sweaty brawler pinned my head and neck to the lower back of the man beneath me—I can still recall the stench.

Amidst all the biting, gouging, grappling, and cursing I heard the muffled command of a voice from above, and the fight ended immediately. I tried to rise with the man above me, but the jerking motion of the one beneath threw me to the ground before I could move. The sight of my helpless collapse filled the air with a nasty, mean-hearted laughter. This was nothing new, and I did not feel the sting of their ridicule, for it was more familiar to me than the warmth of a father's embrace. Their laughter was short-lived, even in their drunken state, for the same commanding voice shocked them all to silence.

Get those drunkards to the quarry. If they refuse to sleep off their drink in peace, we'll let them sweat it off at honest labor. And enough of that giggling! If I hear one more chortle out of you Ladies of the Guard, you can split stone with the rest of these layabouts! Get moving!

They did as they were told, and said nothing in response. I knew the voice well. He wore the armored regalia of a Stabler—one rank above Forester—and he dropped from his mount to offer a clean, calloused hand. I wiped my own on my shirt before accepting his assistance, which earned me a smile, complete with a flash of white teeth.

He was taller than most, strongly built, and he wore the armor of a high-ranking Guardsman as an ordinary man might wear his second best tunic. Though his close-cropped scalp was covered by his helmet, I knew that his hair would be a ruddy brown beneath, shot through with patches of gray, a match for his close-shorn beard. He wore a white cape and helmet crest, and though his armor was marked by more than a few pits and shallow dents, it bore the bright sheen of meticulous care.

Garth, son of Dowan had been my father’s subordinate, a mere Shielding only fourteen years earlier. Promotions are rare in peaceful lands, and those that advance in rank with any frequency do so by virtue of merit alone. Garth was a man of great importance, and when he treated me with any measure of kindness, none dared comment.

He lifted me easily, and the moment I regained my balance he clapped me on both shoulders.

Three in one day? Keep it up and you’ll be a veteran by the end of the harvest—if you survive.

I understood his meaning, but there was still my pride to consider—I had none.

You must be joking. I had everything under control from the start! You and your men broke us up just as I was about to make my move.

Now who's joking, boy? They'd have killed you out of hand. Wouldn't even think to scrape you off their boots!

Kill me? I'd like to see them try. Just the same, I'm glad you arrived when you did—the sweat-reek on that fat one has grown into a life all its own. If he scrubbed his belly with a wet cloth, you'd have to try him for murder. In all honesty, I'm glad the door's broken—anything to air out the stink.

His laughter was hearty and good-natured, and we spoke for a while in the clear light of a cloudless autumn. He inquired of my mother, and at length we discussed the tavern business, the harvest, wall patrol, the new duty rosters, and even took a few moments to trade the latest rumors. After more than a quarter-hour he paused, his eyes darting about in search of something I'd already noticed. Three garrons remained, but the Guardsmen were nowhere in sight. He glanced over my shoulder and sighed deeply.

Drinking on duty! Wouldn't have happened when I was in their place, back when your—back when things ran differently. Just as well, I have duties to attend, and no time to play nursemaid today. Next thing you know, they'll be swinging from my teats like a couple of teething infants! Just tell them from me that they're to remain in the neighborhood...mounted and outside. If you have any further trouble with the filth in there, just stick your head out, and those two layabouts'll handle it for you. No use breaking your back. Give your mother my best, and if someone does start another fight...feel free to finish it. A good beating is all this lot understands, anyway.

I watched him mount up. At sixteen, I should have been riding with him. As he disappeared around the bend, I looked to the sky. Clear blue, and only the faintest wisps of white. The day was bright, and I could feel the heat of the sun, even against the slight chill of the faint breeze that spilled over the wall.

The damage to the door was only minor. The door frame bore minimal damage as well, with only slight splintering in the area of the latch bolt, which had flown free of the door. We had been lucky. Had it been a severe break—something requiring replacement or extensive repair, our profits would have suffered from the reduction in stock required to pay for it.

I took another long look at the brightness of the day and inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of fresh air. I held two more breaths in like manner, and when I could stall no longer, I exhaled explosively. With the sights and smells of that fair day frozen in my mind, I plunged myself into the sour stench and inky blackness of my mother's tavern. It was barely midday.

* * *

The door slammed behind me with a warbling, hollow sound that proved, without consideration of fragility that it was crude, nearly to the point of worthlessness. I ran immediately to fetch a set of wash-gray bedclothes from the loft—we'd had guests only rarely, for as I have written, ours was a poor establishment. Unable to simply rope it into place, I fastened the sheets as a curtain against the daylight, and wedged the door open wide. The billowing cloth gave the tavern an even sadder appearance, though none of our regulars seemed to notice.

At the end of Third Harvest, the tavern was usually busy, and that year we seemed to be tending the needs of every Farmer within a thousand hectares.

This was no idle occurrence.

A week before the harvest began, my mother paid the bakers in advance, offering a bit above their asking price to deliver to our tavern alone, and she assured them that the demand of her patrons would keep pace with their supply. She had treated with the butcher in like manner, and though the brewers had resisted corruption, the freighters proved far less virtuous, and required only the promise of free drink in exchange for their complicity. As a result, half of our competitors lacked an adequate stock of food and ale, and many of their customers found themselves beneath our truly humble roof. We turned a handsome profit, but not without risk.

I was granted little time to catch my breath in the aftermath of the brawl, and I spent the next few hours sweeping up broken jugs and replacing chipped ale pots while my mother saw to the needs of the entire room. Nuda was a fair and agile woman—gifted with the kind of grace that many women claim, and few actually possess. At work, she was in constant motion, exchanging jokes with the regulars, playfully chiding some oaf as he attempted to fondle her in passing, and never did a patron of hers complain of an empty vessel. She was not at all in her element, but did well to adapt. My mother had lived eight years in the forest, and she had no wish to return.

Luckily, there were no further fights that day, and the two of us labored side-by-side until well after sundown. I hated the work, but knew it was not without purpose, for my mother thought our clapboard shack behind the tavern far preferable to the forest hut she had built with her own hands. I preferred the hut, though I kept the thought to myself. Perhaps it was the safety of community that she favored, though for my part, I only felt secure far from disdainful eyes—another opinion I kept well hidden.

As we prepared to close for the evening, I set about mopping the floor. By the end of the night, the rough-hewn wooden boards were always covered in a semi-viscous concoction of ale, weak mead, cheap wine, jam, smeared butter, grease, a fair amount of drool, and a few other things that didn't bear thinking about, so I knew I would have to change the mop water a half-dozen times before the floor would again feel slick and clean beneath my feet.

The room was nearly empty, with only a handful of regulars and the same pair of Guardsmen that had neglected their duties earlier in the day. They were well into their cups by then, though they were far from our worst customers.

I was finished with the floor, and had started clearing the tables when one of our regulars began groping at my mother. He had made similar attempts earlier in the evening, and she had treated him with a playful non-interest. Had my mother been anyone else—a woman protected by the law—the man might have treated her reaction for what it truly was: outright refusal.

My mother was very attractive for her age, and drunken advances were common. She was not yet forty, and her skin was pale and flawless, so that she retained a youthful appearance. Her figure was ample, though she was not by any means overweight, and she possessed the same high cheekbones, pale blue eyes, and raven hair that marked us as mother and son. In better times, I have no doubt that she would have been considered quite the prize. As the proud wife of a senior Guardsman, few of the lower Farmers would have had the courage to look her in the eye.

Unfortunately, we were in disgrace, and the bastard pawed at her like an expectant husband. He was no prize at all. The man appeared to be in his early fifties, though I could only guess, for excessive drinking might have aged him considerably. He was short, broad-shouldered, and shorn completely bald, while his tangled mess of a beard was clotted with the dried stickiness of poorly aimed ale. He had only one eye, a leather patch covering the mishap on the other side. Eventually, he calmed in response to mention of his wife's reaction, should she learn of his behavior. For a while, things returned to normal, and I gave the incident little thought until an hour later, when the one-eyed man rose, as if preparing to leave.

My mother had been on the other side of the room, carrying a load of dirty dishes, and the man turned abruptly as he made to pass, grasping her by the shoulders from behind, spinning her with such force that she dropped her load of plates—I was already in motion as they crashed loudly upon the newly dried floor.

They struggled violently, and though my mother was not a feeble woman, I knew that the man would have the better of her, sooner or later. One of the Guardsmen craned his neck to look on the disturbance. He assessed the situation and then returned to his drink, his owlish eyes betraying not an inkling of sympathy.

My memories of that night are vivid, even now. I remember nothing of anger, only a dry-mouthed, panicked worry as I crept forward at the crouch. At that moment, I was reminded of my father, a singular occurrence, as I could scarcely remember his face. I could not have been more than three years old as I watched him polish his shield. There, in our strong house of stone, he rubbed the thick, triangular sheet of slightly curved bronze with an oil-damp cloth. He spoke with eyes to his work.

This ward does not belong to me, and it isn't for my benefit that I carry it. When enemies approach, I am not shielding myself when I crouch behind it. This shield and my body are all that stand between those I love, and those I must fight to protect them. This shield belongs to you, and to your mother. Someday, it will belong to your son. You'll protect them, and they'll protect you. Behind this shield, you are invincible.

My left fist made contact behind One Eye's right temple, and I stepped into it, accidentally delivering a perfect blow. I was not strong, even for my age, but momentum, my opponent's drunkenness, and the fact that his missing eye had obscured my approach, all conspired in my favor. He released his hold on my mother, and I stepped forward to separate them. As I write this, I feel no shame in admitting that I was terrified.

My mother shouted something from behind, but I had focused my full attention on One Eye, who shook his head like a wet dog. He bellowed something unintelligible and swung at me clumsily with his right arm. I ducked beneath the blow, moving to his blind right side as I struck again with a left hook. The most basic rule of fist-fighting is that the dome of the skull is far too thick to strike with a clenched fist; I learned that rule well that night, and felt as if all the bones in my hand might have been broken. With a swift backhand, One Eye launched me onto a nearby table. Dishes scattered as I landed, and he did not even bother to look over his shoulder as he turned again to my mother.

Ever since I was a child, I have been able to employ either hand equally well, though until that night, I had only been able to use the talent at menial labor. I grasped a ceramic mug by the handle with my undamaged right hand, and whistled loudly to turn the lout's attention to me. I held my right hand low and cocked my left fist—the latter throbbed hotly in complaint of its recent misuse.

I made as if to strike, and he raised his right hand to block, his left fist low. I feinted clumsily and side-stepped, swinging my right arm with every ounce of strength that remained. The fire-hardened ceramic collided with One Eye's temple like a hammer upon a glowing billet, and the tankard shattered. One Eye dropped like a felled ox. The shock on my mother's face was slack-jawed and absolute.

The Guardsmen, heavily intoxicated, chose that exact moment to come to their senses. They lifted their spears in a clatter of cups and half-empty plates, and in my terror, I did not wait for them to give chase. Their response, my mother's expression, and the heap at my feet were all the evidence that I needed—I was certain that One Eye was dead, and had no illusions about my fate.

Before his disgrace, my father had been treated as a hero. Even the Farmers loved him, and the other Guardsmen were in awe of him.

They abandoned his naked corpse in the street, and my mother and I buried him in a shallow grave outside the wall.

My father had not been a murderer.

CHAPTER TWO

Mushrooms and Baskets

Outside my mother's tavern, I looked to the garrons of my pursuers. A mounted escape would have been faster, but I had not ridden since before the death of my father. Deciding against theft and the conspicuous sight of a mounted boy, I turned the beasts in opposite directions and struck them hard to send them flying. The Guardsmen were drunk and without mounts, and so I hoped to gain an early lead.

My flight was frantic at first, for I had it in mind that they might not bother about capture. They knew their Stabler to be an intimate of my family, and it is likely that they feared Garth's reaction, should I live to corroborate the truth—of One Eye's attempted rape and their refusal to intervene. And, as all knew, it was not against the law for them to kill me, even without the suspicion of murder.

I stayed in the shadow of the mercantile district at the join of East and Southwall, and feared at every moment that I would hear the vibrant clanging of the alarum. No warning had sounded, and at that point I was sure that the pair of drunken Guardsmen had no intention of capture.

I crept in the alleyways between low-lying buildings of mud and brick for nearly an hour.

At the edge of the mercantile district I found myself without cover, with nothing between myself and the gate but the dirt of the open road. I was in the shadow of Southwall, though near also to the turf of Eastwall, with the southernmost minor gate of the eastern stretch a paltry two hundred paces away. I could not crouch in the turf or range from the road, for the narrow track was cut directly through the side of a high hill, and ended in the southernmost bridge over the Meadrun, uncovered within the bounds of the wall. As I merged with the packed dirt of the narrow track, I looked behind. None in pursuit. The bridge was only thirty paces away. I fought to control my breathing.

It was then that I saw the Guardsman.

He had turned from a crossroad beyond the bridge, and he kneed his garron forward, his spear shouldered at rest. The man was sober, alert but relaxed. It was late, and most of the drunks were abed. Night duty is little more than a pleasant evening ride, and he hung an oil lantern from one of the short flukes below his spearhead. I could hear the whistling of an old march, and he kept his green cape wrapped around crossed arms as a measure against the slight chill of late evening. He marked my presence, but did not react in any way. I kept my pace steady and continued to move forward—I had to remind myself to breathe.

When less than twenty paces separated me from the mounted Guardsman, I saw him lift his head in the light of his lantern, even as his mount began to cross the bridge. His gaze was beyond me, fixed on some sudden urgency. I heard an unintelligible shout from far behind.

To the credit of the mounted man, he required but a moment—with no need to make out the slurred bellowing of my pursuers—to understand what was happening. Very calmly, he dislodged the lantern from the socket of his spear and leaned forward to place it gently on the ground. As his eyes met mine, I knew what I would have to do.

He raked his spurs, and his mount lurched forward with an agitated whicker. I do not think he intended to kill me, for he reversed his spear, threatening me only with the rounded buttcap. I made first for the edge of the path, and scooped up a handful of dust; I bolted towards the fast-walking garron, charging as swiftly as my feet could carry me. When less than five paces separated us I slid to a halt, crouching low and bringing my hand to my mouth. Making a tube of my fist, I blew the dust upward. The Guardsman's mount rose upon two legs at once, bucking violently with stinging eyes, its nostrils choked with dust. The animal would be fine, the discomfort only temporary, and the rider was helmeted against his fall—he moved little, but did not appear to be injured.

The gate was closed, and the men at the gatehouse were already mounting. The alarum clanged loudly from the towers abutting the gate, and behind me I could see my drunken pursuers, open-mouthed and gasping for breath. They were very close, their jutting iron points betraying their intentions.

I took up the discarded lantern, whirled it about my head and released. Ceramic and translucent glass shattered upon the ground, erupting before the feet of those who'd thought to kill me; gouts of flame bloomed upon their trousers as they leapt away in shock.

The newly alerted Guardsmen were many, and I knew that I could not escape on foot, so with a silent prayer to the Lady of the Harvest, I leapt from the bridge.

The chill shocked me, and I was deafened by the roaring of the water. The canal ranged along a gradual defile, speeding the current that the river was as foam. I could see the drainage culvert ahead, and I was thankful, for I knew that it bore no grate.

Then, as I reached the level of the wall, I remembered why the current had carried me so quickly.

At the edge of the Meadrun river valley, beyond the wall, the runoff from the river collects in a pool—a wide, narrow bowl of limestone rubble. Depending on the season and volume of the river, the southern pool can range in size from puddle to pond, or, as it was at the time of my escape, a small mere. And it is not fed directly—the drop from river to mere is twice the height of the wall.

I plummeted, tumbling. My weight and the force of impact wrung the very air from my lungs. I clawed at the water above me, fighting my way to the surface in a fit of desperation, anticipating at every moment that the next heartbeat would carry me to the open air. The thought was maddening, and I had to fight against the urge to inhale in anticipation. I gasped for breath the moment I won to the surface, and the beads of water scattered by the splash caught in my throat with the welcome air. I sputtered and coughed, but was glad to be alive.

I wasted no time in paddling clumsily to the water's edge, and in the madness of the moment I laughed, thinking that, as first swims go, mine had not ended too badly at all.

I lifted myself at the slip between two of the small boats used for fishing in the spring and summer months—a sad end for the intrepid river fish that survive the drop—and did not pause to deliberate before stripping my body entirely. It was a ludicrous moment for anything approaching humor, but again I found cause to laugh when I looked to the treeline and remembered that there was little water to be had in the forest at that time of year, and none at all that could be considered safe to drink.

One of the boats contained a wooden bucket, and I stole it without hesitation, dunking it hastily into the clear water before fleeing. Only my feet were covered, my buskins squeaking loudly as I stole into the treeline. The southern pool was within the circuit of regular patrol, for the Nomads of the Eastern Nowhere can smell water the way other men might detect the aroma of roasting meat. Nomad or Guardsman, I wanted no witnesses to my naked vulnerability, and I knew exactly where I might hide.

* * *

In the untamed wilderness of the Meadrun Valley, survival is a matter of shelter. There are no caves in which to hide, and stones of adequate size to build a sturdy structure are few and far between. In my first few years in the forest, my mother and I were forced to weather nights so cold that I wept in outrage, even as she held me in her arms. She had tried lean-tos, but the wind always changed direction in the night, and we were buffeted by the relentless chill of bitter winds in spite of her most cunning contrivances.

Finally, just after I had reached my seventh year, my mother found in herself the genius that I would come to know well, and she went to extraordinary lengths to end my suffering. She wove our shelter out of thumb-thick branches, and at first, it appeared much like a great, upturned basket. I often marvel at the knowledge shared by most women, and having woven a basket or two as a young girl, my mother employed the technique on a much larger scale. She remembered every twist in the pattern, and wove our new home from memory. I can remember the rarity of laughter in the forest as she made a game of covering the wickerwork frame in clay. We laughed little thereafter, but I have never forgotten that alien feeling—the joyous state of simply being a child.

The following day we traveled far from the forest in search of the wastes of the Nowhere, and the fine crystalline sands that accumulate there. When the layer of clay was evenly coated, sparkling with the sands of the wastes, my mother upturned the shelter, leaning it against a nearby tree. And there she lit a fire.

Together, we turned the clay-coated basket, feeding the flames throughout the day, and when we were finished, our shelter was complete—glazed, waterproof ceramic, covering a strong frame of woven branches. She dug a roundish hole up to the height of her waist, then fitted the basket above it and staked it to the ground. As a final touch, she piled mud at the perimeter to block out the wind, so that at long last, we would be shielded from the elements entirely.

In time, the floor would come to be tiled in the same glazed ceramic as the roof, and she stoned the earthen walls with rocks from the ancient dry river bed to the southwest.

She was no stonemason, but determined to protect me from the chill of winter, she fashioned a hearth of her own design. Gathering remedies for an infirm apothecary, she was able to scrape together the coin necessary to purchase two dozen tapered ceramic cups. After chipping away the bottoms, she formed a pipe of the overlapping vessels, which she bound with strong staves and flaxen twine. Beneath the improvised chimney, she built a hearth of river rocks and clay, and allowed the fires within to bake the ceramic.

Only our hinges of thick copper were built by hands other than her own, and we salvaged planks for the door and frame from the piles left at the southernmost sawmill.

Our beds were canvas sacks, suspended by networks of rope. Even when the fire died in the ceramic hearth I had no fear of the dark, for above my head a luminous moss—known as 'weevil wither' to the apothecary—bathed the room in a gentle cerulean glow. On the outside of the hut, my mother had encouraged the growth of a darker moss, and like weevil wither it was known for its properties as an insecticide and pest repellent, though it gave off no glow of its own. To further shelter us from hostile eyes, she transplanted bushes, shrubs, and all manner of undergrowth, surrounding the hut entirely.

Yet in spite of all the care taken to build a comfortable home, she regarded her life in the forest with shame, and that I will never understand, for a house built with love, be it hovel or hut, towers above the most opulent mansion.

Where my mother was content to forget her ingenuity, I had made regular visits, the latest only months before my escape. In the four years prior to my flight I had accumulated a few tools and comforts, mostly salvage. I had a small knife and an old copper hatchet, as well as a whetstone, a tinderbox, a glazed ceramic cup and another of copper, a number of fat beeswax candles poured from the stumps that my mother had seen fit to discard, a tattered blanket patched crudely by my own hand, a fair amount of flaxen twine, a length of thin rope, and a sling that I had used in my rare successes at hunting.

At that time of year I felt sure the hours spent with snare and sling would only be wasted, but I knew the forest well, and even as I ran naked through the dying underbrush I was able to snatch up a handful of white caps. Wet, cold, and naked, my thoughts were only of comforting warmth in the hidden safety of my mother's hut, but I knew that I would not survive long without food. I would have to forage.

CHAPTER THREE

Dreams and Thunder

My task was simple, even in late autumn. The sun was again bright, the weather warm enough for comfortable travel, and no one had foraged outside the wall in nearly four years. I found piles of white caps, and even hazelnuts and a few acorns within fifty paces of my hut. There were more mushrooms in the wide clearings, as well as garlic and green onions, and a wealth of butterwheat, which, properly ground, made a coarse but flavorful bread.

There were herbs for tea, and even a few for unguents to apply to the minor cuts and scrapes I had acquired in my mad dash through the forest. I had fashioned a wide pouch from one of the canvas bed sacks and the length of thin rope, and with the sun beginning to descend and my pouch filled nearly to bursting, I prepared to retrace my steps.

I was in a clearing and still far from home, when suddenly I dropped to the ground in a panic. A sound had broken the quiet idyll of autumn—more alien in the depths of a forest than the sight of flames on a still pond. I had ranged more than three miles, with not a single Guardsman in sight throughout the day.

I knew well the rattling shuffle of mail, but the sound was heavier than I remembered, and the bronze scales of low-ranking cuirasses rattled but little on garron-back. I flattened myself in that clearing, unable to move, though I was certain that the treeline offered more safety. It seemed an hour, but the faint shuffling faded into nothingness. I didn't stop to scavenge further as I stole home, and I lit no fire until long after dark.

* * *

No peace, even in dreams. I watch myself, barely four years old, on the day my childhood ended. My mother has to be restrained as my father's naked corpse is dragged by the neck behind a mule. The shaft of a red javelin protrudes from his back, and I wonder idly if they had removed the javelin with his armor, only to stab him again for effect.

I gaze upon the face of my younger self, and his expression is blank and lifeless. To his credit, he does not cry. All gather to watch the spectacle in the great square of the mercantile district, and upon a platform erected there, Edam, then barely forty— sneers at the form of my slain father.

"He ate our food, lived within our fertile valley, thrived behind our guarded walls, and we asked nothing but his courage in return. And yet he, Forester of the Guard, fled for the wall, leaving his men leaderless; trapped within the contradiction of conflicting wills.

"With my own eyes have I seen the clutter of their corpses; with my own ears have I heard their spirits groaning. By the manner of their deaths—the positions of their corpses—I need not guess at what befell them.

"A few held their ground and fought, sparing no thought for withdrawal until the foe was beaten back.

"Some others realized the folly of their disarray, the tangled chaos of individual fighting; they tried fall back in good order, hoping to gain the ground, the distance and time, that they might return to a fixed formation. But by the time they were of one mind, it was far too late.

"They had no leader, and so they were divided; they were indecisive; they were unable to coordinate the whole of their force.

"The Guardsman tasked with command, that...Forester...that...coward...has caused the deaths of twelve Guardsmen—two of them without sons of their own. Two families of Guardsmen, lost forever! Three, in fact, for my judgment must be harsh.

"Hereafter, the name of this man is proscribed by law. His armor, weapons, garron, house, and all possessions clearly of his name will be auctioned, the proceeds to be offered to those families now doomed to die without sons to continue their line.

Those he has left behind will not carry the name of his forefathers; they shall eke out an existence at the lowest level of our society, serving as a warning to all. No harm upon their flesh will be treated as crime. May all stare upon his loved ones, feel their shame and know, through them, the awful price of cowardice.

The boy and his mother were given no aid, even in the burial. They had to venture outside the wall, where the woman scraped the ground with a pair of yarn shears. I watched young Ralph, standing no taller than his mother's hip, as he helped dig his father's shallow grave with nothing more than a wooden bowl. It was nightfall before they finished covering him with what stone they could find, and when they returned to their home, they found it barred.

They slept on the ground that night, huddled on the doorstep of what was once their home. That tiny, innocent child did not understand what had happened during the long-winded speech of the Phulako. He knew only that his father was dead, and that his mother mourned much more than the loss of her husband. He slept, his head in her lap, unaware as she stroked his mop of raven hair, that he had enjoyed his final dream in a land that hated his father's name.

I stood in silence, aware that I was dreaming, and knew I could do nothing but watch. That was not the first time I had seen my father's body dragged through the streets. There was something oddly comforting in despair, for it was familiar, and I knew the feeling far better than any other.

As my younger self drifted off to sleep, the world faded to near darkness. In that place, surrounded by calm and warmth, I felt truly safe. The young boy before me slept without stirring—his childhood would end with the following dawn. Disgrace would await in time. For the space of those last few hours, his head in his mother's lap, he was burdened only by the weight of despair.

I awoke violently in a fevered sweat. A fire still burned in the hearth; I'd not been out more than a few hours. Few things can stir me before my body claims its tithe; summer storms may topple trees, and horrific nightmares play out to their conclusion, and I'd still not wake until my time.

But I had heard something out of place; as to waking, that was another matter entirely.

I threw on my buskins and smothered what remained of the fire, leaving only the faint glow of the moss above, then crouched low beside the door and listened nervously, my heart hammering spear points in my chest—I feared greatly that I had been discovered.

With closed eyes, I strained to hear the source of the disruption. Thunder. No wind in the trees. Rain, though rare in the Nowhere, always thumped loudly, even on the moss covering of the roof. And yet, I had heard no such drumming. I waited for long moments, hearing only the pounding of blood in my ears. Thunder echoed again, a single clap, but with the addition of something else.

The ringing of metal stood out clearly in the