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THE POWERFUL HAVE A responsibility to protect the powerless. An honorable man will never take advantage of those who cannot defend themselves and should cast the harshest rebukes at those who do.
—Belond, headmaster of Scaleback Academy
* * *
THE TREK THROUGH THE marsh was taxing on the best of days; to the exhausted men following Captain Torreg, it became brutal. Onin ached all over his body, and he felt fatigue like never before in his life. Onin couldn’t imagine a simple village of woodsmen and their families facing the nightmarish raiders from the Jaga. Not while I breathe, he thought. Not if I can do something about it.
He stubbornly placed one foot in front of the other, refusing to let his pace slacken.
"By all the dragons in the sky, I’m tired," said Flea. Onin shot a glance over his shoulder. The little man stumbled as his foot slipped in the ubiquitous mud of the marsh. "I’m going to sleep for a week once we get home."
"As if Janda will allow it," replied Onin with a crooked grin. "Can you imagine what condition the stable will be in by then? Your first week will be mucking, not sleeping."
"Maybe they’ll need us for long, boring stints of guard duty out in the middle of nowhere," said Flea. He made a disdainful face. "Someplace my stepmother won’t be able to find me."
Onin laughed. Janda might be kind enough to Flea, but she always overworked the boy. She seemed to have an aversion to paying for labor, so she assigned as many duties as possible to her stepson. Since he lived at her inn, with nowhere else to go, Flea had little choice but to shoulder the work.
"Are you kidding? After this, we’ll be appointed to the Royal Guard and have to move to the Heights!" said Onin. "Before you know it, we’ll be riding on the back of a dragon, on our way to meet the king."
"And there you go with the dragons again. I swear you’re going to marry one."
"It would be an expensive dress," Onin said. Flea laughed and so did Onin. The mirth felt good and lessened the sense of fatigue at least. After a moment, however, they both remembered the destination and their purpose. Suddenly the joviality seemed out of place. The boys fell silent as they contemplated what awaited them in the coming hours.
The march continued through the rest of the day. As the sun set, the band of fighters reached the boundary of the marsh and the way station storing the supplies. Without stopping to rest, the group split into two. The wounded and few who had no will to fight departed for Sparrowport, while Torreg’s Guard and the Midland volunteers saddled the horses to make for Lost Grove.
"Make haste!" shouted Captain Torreg. "If we leave immediately, we can reach the village by dawn!"
The men, Onin and Flea included, redoubled their efforts. Within minutes, the horses were saddled and remaining supplies were packed in the saddlebags.
They set off at a canter, setting a pace intended to eat up the distance but preserve the horses as long as possible. Onin had much more experience saddling horses than riding them. Each trotting step sent shudders through his body. Before long Onin felt a terrible ache in his thighs.
Several hours passed before they reached the forest boundary. The rising moon resembled a happy crescent of silver dangling in the sky like a woman’s earring. It soon disappeared behind the dark canopy of branches and leaves as they continued into the woods.
Complete darkness soon enveloped them. Patches of night sky peeked through the blackness, but Onin couldn’t see anything around him. He had no idea how the horses could see well enough to maintain the current pace but they did. Despite the horse’s jostling beneath him, Onin found his eyelids drooping, and his hands felt numb on the reins.
The warmth of the day faded completely, and a deep, wet chill settled over the woods. Steam rose from the mouths of man and horse as the steeds continued to churn along steadily to their destination. The shadows streaked past, and forest sounds echoed in Onin’s ears, only to fade behind him. Hunger gnawed at his belly, and he chewed on some jerky he fetched from his meager supplies.
The horses slowed down as the band reached a stream. Taking it slowly, the horses crossed the stream, splashing through to the other side. The cold water shocked Onin to wakefulness, at least for a time, and the horses resumed their canter.
The first hints of daybreak made themselves apparent when the village of Lost Grove came into sight. Onin let out a great sigh of relief, even as his teeth chattered. He desperately wanted to get off his horse and sit next to a fire. By the time he reached the village square with the rest of the soldiers, Torreg had already dismounted and called the locals out of their beds.
A barrel-chested man with an equally large and flowing beard approached the soldiers. He wore his night clothing but carried a wide-bladed woodsman’s ax with a well-worn handle. Other villagers, also armed with axes, converged on them.
The captain and the village headman conversed hurriedly. Other woodsmen joined the conversation, but Onin couldn’t wait to see more as the soldiers dismounted and began to take stock of the town’s defenses.
* * *
TORREG WASTED NO TIME and, after a perfunctory greeting, started his explanation before even hearing the bearded woodsman’s name.
"Jagan raiders are on their way here. They cannot be more than two hours behind us. Rouse every able-bodied person and arm them. Send the children and elderly into hiding."
The woodsman looked stunned and more than a little skeptical. "Why would raiders be coming here? We are far away from the swamps and have nothing of value."
"I do not know the answer," said the captain, shaking his head. "But they can have no other destination in mind, unless their plan is to wander the woods aimlessly. I doubt that is the case."
The woodsman had been joined by several neighbors, and they conferred hurriedly among themselves. After a short discourse, the first woodsman spoke again.
"We have nothing to offer. We cannot afford your protection. Leave our village now. We’ll see to our own safety, like we always do."
Torreg gritted his teeth. While he understood the sentiment, he had no time to convince these hardy folk of his good intentions. He wanted to scream at the gathered men in frustration, denouncing them as fools, but then an alternate tack sprang to mind.
"Very well, we shall depart immediately," said Torreg. "But before I leave, may I inquire as to your funerary preferences?"
"What? Funerary preferences? What are you getting at?"
"Your preferences—as in, would you rather be buried or have your corpses burned? Will there be a need for individual graves, or will a single mass grave suffice? There can’t be more than a hundred people in this village, so a ditch of appropriate size could be dug within hours. Then again, with all the logs available here, we may opt for a funeral pyre."
The collected woodsmen looked angry but fearful at his words. They took turns looking at one another but said nothing. The spokesman for the village recovered first.
"By what you say, we could easily take it to mean you will kill us if we do not accept your generous offer of protection from these savages."
"If I intended harm to you or your families, I would have ordered my men to attack the moment we arrived. You were all asleep and unprepared. This village would be in flames by now." Torreg softened his voice. "Please, do as I say. For the sake of your families, heed me. Each minute is precious."
The woodsmen shared another set of glances and seemed to arrive at a silent consensus.
"All right, we will listen to you," the bearded man said. "But what if these savage bandits never come here?"
"It’s my sincerest hope they don’t."
* * *
"HERE I AM, SITTING on a stump in the middle of the forest, and it’s the most comfortable I’ve been in days," complained Flea. He wasn’t so much sitting as reclining across the stump. His bedroll served as a pillow, while his legs dangled over the edge, resting his feet on the ground.
Onin reached up and yanked the bedroll away. Flea’s head landed on the stump with a hollow-sounding thud. Onin laughed as Flea yelped with the sudden pain.
"Your head even sounds empty."
"Not all of us can be blessed with a solid rock like the one you have perched on your shoulders." Flea turned to give Onin a disapproving look. "You know I crack walnuts on your forehead when you’re sleeping, don’t you?"
"That would explain the shells surrounding my bed in the morning." Onin chewed on a knuckle thoughtfully. He took a few steps closer to the forest, staring into the darkness. "How far out do you think they are? Are they really coming this way?" he wondered aloud.
"The captain seems sure of it. I don’t know about you, but I’m inclined to listen to him." Flea sat up, his posture pensive and tense. Onin could sense their jokes served to hide the concerns they shared.
"By the gods, there’s a lot of them." Flea shuddered with the memory. "When they came from the swamp earlier, I could feel my knees giving way. It was all I could do to keep from running the other way."
"But you didn’t," said Onin. He cast a meaningful look on Flea then turned his gaze back to the dark forest. "You stayed and fought as bravely as any of us."
"But I don’t know if I can do it again!" he whispered harshly. "What am I doing here? I’m no fighter! I barely know which end of a sword to hold. Any sane man in my position would have gone back with the wounded."
Onin reached out and grasped the front of Flea’s tunic. He pulled his friend closer until they were face-to-face.
"You are here because you know it’s the right thing. Look around you."
Shocked at his friend’s intensity, Flea turned his head to both sides in compliance.
"These people are at the mercy of those devils, and we both know the swampy bastards have none to give," Onin continued. "You were scared before, but you fought anyway. You’ll do it again because you know it’s the right thing. It's why you chose to come along instead of returning with the wounded."
Onin released his grip. Flea’s hands trembled but he set his jaw.
* * *
THE PREPARATIONS WERE almost complete. The women and children were away, sequestered in nearby caves. Torreg had watched them file past, most in nightclothes with blankets thrown over shoulders. Their eyes were wide with fright at the sudden flight into darkness. Wives pleaded with husbands, children clung to fathers, but the men of the village ushered their families away with reassuring words. After the last of them had moved from sight, the hearty logging folk took up the positions designated by Torreg.
Sergeant Bolg, as always, stood near Torreg. “The women and children are gone. I hear the caves have plenty of space in them. One might wonder why we aren’t joining them.”
Torreg kept his gaze ahead. “These men seem to understand the need to stay.”
“Every man wants to defend his home, of course. But they don’t understand the odds like we do. We should lead them to the caves, save as many lives as possible.”
“And let the raiders have this village? Then what? This village will be in shambles, and raiders will still be roaming the countryside. No, this ends here.”
“What harm can they do? There’s not another settlement within days of here. You said so yourself. What are they even doing out here?”
“Only the Founders know the answer. But I am sure it isn’t good. Every community, no matter how humble, is under the king’s protection. I will not leave Jagans to ravage as they please. As for the odds, they are significant, but we can win this battle. We both know that.”
Torreg shot his sergeant a sidelong glance. Bolg nodded reluctantly.
“We end it here. It’s our duty.” Torreg’s tone carried finality.
* * *
BY THE TIME THE MARAUDERS launched the attack, less than an hour had elapsed since the arrival of Torreg’s men. The men of the Jaga came streaming from the forest and up the trail, screaming wildly. Most of them still had blood on their weapons from the previous day’s battle. The forest echoed with the sound of their approach.
The attackers entered Lost Grove uncontested, and at first impression, the village seemed empty. After the Jagans entered the village square, however, armed men appeared from the doorways, and arrows began to rain down on the savages from the rooftops. The raiders along the trail took the brunt of the archery, and many fell with feathered shafts sprouting from them. More soot-blackened figures emerged from the forest to clash with the defenders on the ground.
Torreg’s Guard formed at the far end of the village thoroughfare and advanced on the main body of the enemy. The tight formation of interlocked shields allowed the Guardsmen to thrust their swords over the edges to great effect. The Jaga raiders came at them in a mob, and the stream of savages crashed against the formation and fell away, like crockery being dashed against a boulder. At first Torreg and his men seemed unstoppable, but in a short time, the greater number of attackers began to take its toll. One Guard fell to an attack from a flanking raider, which left an opening in the formation. The raiders pushed into the breach, and two more Guards became casualties. The advance came to a halt as the raiders pressed in from the front and flanks of the Guardsmen.
The Midlanders and ax-wielding woodsmen of Lost Grove had concealed themselves with the log homes of the villagers. In accordance with Torreg’s hastily contrived plan, they fell in behind the formation of Guardsmen advancing down the thoroughfare, finishing off the stragglers left in their wake. However, the advance stopped, and the Midlanders and men of Lost Grove gathered into a cluster behind the Guard. More frenzied barbarians spilled forth from the trees, and several hoisted themselves onto the cabin roofs to attack the archers.
Onin found himself at the rear of the group, hard pressed by the encroaching raiders. He smashed at them mightily, driving the enemies within reach away or down to the ground with crashes. Flea fought beside him tenaciously, any hint of his earlier fear having faded away. The large wooden shield fairly covered his entire body, allowing Flea to lash out with quick strikes or stab around the edge, while barely exposing himself to harm.
Onin felt his lungs burn as he heaved about with his mace. Blood flowed from gashes across his arms. A Midland soldier fell to his left, and he moved that way to lend aid. His efforts came too late, however, as a raider stood on the man's sword arm while another ran him through. With a hoarse cry, Onin crashed into them shield-first, sending both sprawling. Still more took their place, and Onin fought on.
Onin's heavy wooden shield, already splintering at the edges, finally gave under the punishment. A chunk sheared away from the top, and the enemy's blade bit into Onin's shoulder. Even as blood flowed from the wound, Onin gritted his teeth and pushed his way forward. He shattered the attacker's sword arm with a follow-up strike then finished him with a backhanded swing to the soot-covered head. Onin's vision grew blurry.
Onin stumbled over the body of a woodsman as he struggled to clear his eyes. Screams of the wounded and enraged filled his ears, but he pressed on, attacking fiercely even though his arms felt leaden with fatigue. He found himself near Flea once again, just in time to see his friend get bowled down by a burly raider. The two rolled over one another, each struggling for an advantage. They came to a stop with the raider on top, his hands clenched around Flea's throat. Onin reached the spot just in time and laid the savage low.
Wordlessly Onin helped his friend back to his feet. Flea shot him a look of gratitude, but neither could spare the breath for words. The pair found themselves in a lull on the battlefield, and Onin used the opportunity to take stock of the situation.
Near the outskirts of the village, the battle still raged. Captain Torreg and his men stood resolutely in the center of the road, their ranks bolstered by the remaining Midland fighters. The enemy swarmed about them, a disorganized rabble, but their chaotic attacks struck home far too often.
Fighting had broken out on most of the rooftops in the village. The archers had long since given up the bow in favor of melee weapons as the savage warriors clambered onto the log dwellings to get at them.
A disturbance at the other edge of the village pulled their attention. The high-pitched screams of children pierced the cacophony of battle, and some tiny forms darted from one of the houses with a pair of raiders in pursuit. Onin would have sworn if he had the breath for it. All of Lost Grove's children had supposedly evacuated to a nearby cave along with the elderly.
Flea, closest to the fleeing children, sprinted forward. Onin pursued his friend but had a greater distance to cover. Raiders joined the chase, seemingly excited by the prospect of easy prey.
Flea collided with the first Jagan just as the fleeing children reached the tree line. The impact sent Flea to the ground, as the enemy outweighed him substantially. However, the savage reeled from the blow and could not effectively counterattack. From his prone position, Flea lashed out with his sword, scoring a deep wound in the leg of his foe. The man fell to one knee but left Flea vulnerable to the next attacker.
Onin willed his feet to move faster, but everything seemed to move slowly—too slowly. He watched in horror as the Jagan’s blade entered Flea’s gut. A visceral scream tore itself from Onin’s throat, and the world exploded into motion, carrying Onin the rest of the distance to his fallen friend.
He smashed the savage with enough force to lift the man into the air. As the body landed in a crumpled heap, Onin spun, his own eyes wide with frenzy, and viciously crushed the knee of another swamp raider. The stout young warrior attacked with a savagery matching the enemy’s. He felt a blade bite into his shoulder and another into his back, but there was no pain. His rage deadened him to any sensation. One by one, the marauders in his vicinity succumbed to his relentless assault.
Suddenly no enemy remained. Onin turned in each direction, looking, begging for someone to fight. Only the village defenders remained; the swamp raiders had all fallen or fled into the forest.
Dropping his weapon and shield, he rushed to Flea’s side. He grasped the ailing man’s hand in his own, but there was no answering grip. Onin looked into his friend’s face, desperate for a sign of life. His eyes remained open but lifeless. Solemnly he closed them.
Hanging his head, Onin let the tears flow.