Hey anyone who actually reads this! It''s been a busy year for me. In the meantime, I''ve gotten into law school and found a girlfriend with whom I then broke up. Finally got the time to finish writing this. Didn''t bother with PR, so feel free to point out any mistakes. Enjoy!


    -----


    It was a regular morning in the Staron household.


    Abigail had woken up early, and was cleaning the dishes from last night’s meal.


    She yawned, rubbing her drowsy eyes with her sleeve.


    Her straight blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail behind her. She wore a plain white dress that hung loosely on her shoulders, showing off her generous bosom. The barest hint of sunlight filtered through the window, bathing her in a warm, soft glow. Her husband, John, was still in bed upstairs. They had eaten preserved pig’s feet last night – a gift from the mayor. Too stuffed to do anything, the couple had gone straight to bed. As she scrubbed the plates and cutlery with a wet rag, she hummed a soft song. She sang a few notes, a few words. It was a popular lullaby of the north. It told the story of a child that got lost in the woods and his journey as he ventured further into the forest until he fell asleep


    underneath the shade of a giant tree.


    Two days ago, John had gone go down to the town to buy butter, tobacco, and various other necessities. He also sometimes brought back rumours and news of the surrounding region. Apparently a noble of the Willdoak family had saved the life of the innkeeper’s daughter.


    Right now, John was still sleeping soundly, and showed no sign of waking up.


    “His birthday is coming up soon,” Abigail pondered idly, “I wonder what I should get him… Maybe a new pipe?”


    She looked down towards her bulged stomach and rubbed it with a gentle hand. She smiled.


    “Well Frederique? What do you think we should get daddy?”


    Abigail was three months pregnant – a girl. The child was going to be born in mid-summer. She had named him after her parents, Friedrich and Angelique – a tribute to the years they had spent raising her and the sacrifices they made so that she could live the live they never could. They had died together, three years ago, from typhoid fever. She had met John soon after – the fourth son of a prominent nobleman of the region. Their union was controversial at first, but John reached an arrangement with his father. He relinquished his inheritance, and in exchange, his father allowed the marriage and gave him enough money to go off on his own – a paltry sum, by any standards. After years of hard work, the couple had finally managed to scrounge up enough coin to buy themselves a small plot of land and establish a farm on the outskirts of a town – where they now resided.


    Abigail fondly recalled the tender moments she had spent with her parents and her husband, and intended to treat her daughter with the same love and care.


    A pot of boiling broth hung over the fire. Abigail had peeled and placed potatoes and herbs in the pot beforehand, potatoes being one of the rare crops that could grow in the rough and capricious northern climate. They bobbed up and down in the bubbling liquid. The pleasant smell of thyme and lavender permeated the kitchen.


    Abigail dried off the plates with a towel, and started to stow them away into the cupboards. Her bare feet padded lightly on the hardwood floor as she went to and fro between the water basin and the shelves, standing up on the tip of her toes when the stack of clean plates grew too tall.


    A loud banging, followed by a crash resounded across the house, startling Abigail. She dropped the plate she was holding. It shattered on the floor.


    “John? John was that you?” she called out, as she walked out of the kitchen towards the main hallway. “John? What was that nois-…”


    Abigail stopped speaking as she reached the hallway. Their front door had been kicked in. The broken door hung loosely on its hinges, swaying back and forth in the crisp air.


    “John? John!” she cried out in a panic, “John come down here! Someone brok-“


    She never got to finish her sentence. Cold metal passed through her heart as the bandit pushed his blade into her chest.


    She looked down, only to see the bloodstained tip of a dagger protruding from her breast.


    “J-John… h-help…”


    “Abigail! Abigail what is it?” a recently awoken John shouts back at his wife, “I’m coming down!”


    Frantic footsteps came from upstairs as a he rushed down wearing nothing but his slippers.


    “Abigail? Abigail what’s wrong? Abigai-…” he stopped himself as he stood in the staircase, in shock. His wife’s limp body fell to the floor as the bandit pulled out his dagger. He wiped off the blood on her hair and turned to face the newcomer.


    “ABIGAIL!” John cried in desperation. He darted towards the backdoor and flung it open, running out into the cold snow.


    “No, no, no… this can’t be happening.”


    But John doesn’t make it far. Two masked men were waiting for him outside. One of them had his sword out, pointed directly towards the farmer. Unable to stop his momentum, John impaled himself on the blade. It passed through his body like a hot knife through butter, making a sickening crack as his flesh and bones were torn apart. John coughed up crimson fluid as his ruptured lung filled with blood. He looked up, clawing fruitlessly at the air. The last thing he saw was his killer’s smile, whose scarred lips twisted into an unnatural snarl.


    The bandit lowered his blade. John’s body slowly slipped off, falling listless into the snow and staining it bright red.


    * * *


    “To arms men! We’re being raided!” yelled a pitchfork wielding man mounted atop a pilobos. “Get the sick, elderly and children to the church! Anyone who can pick up something to hit with, on me!”


    He was tall, broad shouldered, and wore a thick brown ankle-length fur coat along with a matching unshanka. His gloved hands gestured frantically, directing the fear stricken populace towards safety. He was in his fifties, with rugged traits and tanned skin weathered by the rough climate. His forehead and the corner of his eyes were wrinkled with age, and his thick mustache, usually grey, had turned white as snow from the cold. A humungous longbow hung at the side of his saddle alongside a variety of leather packs of varying sizes, and the corresponding quiver hung at his waist, filled with arrows. His mount, a massive lumbering beast resembling a crossover between an ox and a sheep, stood as tall as a man and was as wide as five. Steam came out of its nostrils as it breathed.


    Left and right, the weaker townspeople of Stagmore scrambled southward towards a wide brick building, huddling against each other to keep warm. Many of them had only just woken up and still in their nightgowns and undertunics. At the northern entrance, a few dozen volunteers were putting up a worthy defense. Hidden behind fragile barricades of haystacks and wooden planks, they harried the invading bandits by pelting them with whatever they could throw. A few had taken refuge on the rooftops, pushing loads of snow onto approaching marauders. Stones and rocks and glass bottles broke more than a few brigand noses. Any bandit that got close enough to jump over the barriers were met with a flurry of pitchforks and spears. However, the attackers were retaliating with actual weapons, and while the townsmen outnumbered them three to one, the bandits far were better armed, better armored and more proficient in combat. The defenders were falling fast.


    “Mmfs-ter Ford!” a young boy shouted in a muffled voice. He ran towards the great woolly mount and its rider.


    Holding on to an oversized scarf with his mittens to prevent it from unravelling from around his neck,  he strode clumsily across the thick snow, making his way through the small crowd of men and women gathering around Ford, finally leaning onto the pilobos’ side. He looked up towards the large man. The child’s face was red from the chill air. He pulled down his scarf.


    “Mayor Ford!” he stammered on, out of breath, “grandma told me to run to you and told me to tell you that everyone’s at the town hall and that they’re safe and that everyone is there and that there is people coming in from the other side and that he thinks it’s the mercenaries and that they’ve come back to …”


    He stopped and inhaled sharply.


    “And that they’ve come back to help us and that you should be prepared for them to get here and that he wishes you luck and…”


    “Whoa there Jehan, take it easy boy,” said Ford, reaching down to pat the child’s head, “you’ve done a fine job. Now tell me that again, but slowly.”


    “Church…everyone…safe…mercenaries…-ays ago…come back…help…prepare,” sputtered Jehan, gasping between every word.


    “Ah, so everyone’s gathered safely at the church, and we’ve got reinforcements coming to help us. Is that it?”


    Jehan nodded vigorously.


    “I see…” the mayor acknowledged, patting the boy’s shoulder. “Thank you. Now run back to your grandmother. She must be waiting for you.”


    The child ran off back towards the town hall. Straightening himself up, Ford turned to face the crowd that had rallied to his call.


    * * *


    “Alright you dirty dogs, up! Get your filthy arses off the ground! We’ve got bandits for breakfast!” she yelled.


    Back at the mercenary camp, Avah stomped and shouted around the tents of those who had yet to wake up, tipping them over if they persisted on not listening. Those who had awakened were lined up in a messy file in front of a flag bearing mercenary. The latter was using the flagpole to hold herself up, leaning drowsily on the standard.


    “Erina! Our symbol is not a headrest!” admonished Avah, slapping the standard-bearer behind her head, “And wake up! And clean that drool off your armor!”


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    The captain, who had finished waking up her troops, had come to take her place at the head of the file, standing at the side of the sleepy girl. Avah was equipped in her full set of ebony armor, and stood resolute at the head of her small army. Facing her were nearly two hundred men and women, groggily lined up and swaying back and forth in their drowsy formation. She took off her helmet, giving it to the standard-bearer to hold, and set her gaze upon her troops.


    “Ahem,” she coughed softly.


    They did not respond, busy making idle gossip to each other.


    “Ahem!” she cleared her throat once again.


    A few of the recruits near the front responded, lifting their heads and rectifying their posture into a militaristic salute. Still, most of the mercenaries did not react.


    Annoyed, Avah scratched her head and let out an exasperated sigh. Ripping the flagpole out of the standard-bearer’s hands, she slammed the shaft against the ground, making a loud bang.


    “How many times do I have to rack my throat to get some attention huh?!” she roared, “Wake the fuck up! All of you! Now tell me, who are we!?”


    “The Blackspear Mercenaries!” they shouted in unison. This time, all the mercenaries answered.


    “You’re damn right we are! And what is our oath?”


    “Blood and gold! My life for a coin and my soul for the blade!” they chanted even louder, like a rehearsed choir.


    “To hell and back boys! Now march! After me!”


    * * *


    The bandits had broken through the makeshift barricades and were now making a beeline towards the center of the town, where the mayor and his followers were regrouped. Corpses, mostly the elderly and children that did not wake up in time to make their way to the church, littered the snow in their wake. Most had been killed swiftly and painlessly within their homes, and their bodies dragged out onto the cold outdoors ground. Of the fighting women and men that fell beneath brigand blades, most were left alive, but incapacitated or unconscious.


    In front of the barbershop, a townsman dragged himself across the freezing soil with his bleeding leg in tow. His Achilles’ tendon had been cut beyond repair. He could no longer stand. He crawled forward, towards the listless body of a young boy, and cradled it in his arms. It was his son. His throat had been cut open, and blood still flowed out of the fresh wound, though his spirit had left long ago. Tears streaming down his face, the father held his dead child tight against his chest, silently sobbing. The bandits ignored the man, stepping over him as if he weren’t there at all. This scene repeated itself all over the town. Injured and confused men and women cradling their dead loved ones, cursing the bandits under their breath, powerless to stand up against them.


    Forward they marched. They did not pillage. They did not steal. They did not rape. Any who did not fight were caught and killed, and those who did were maimed and left to bleed. The bandits were in sight of Ford and his followers now, and within the range of their arrows and slings. The townspeople had set up fortifications similar to those of their brethren that defended the town entrance. Morale was low, and some townspeople that had initially agreed to fight had taken flight under the disapproving glares of their peers. Nobody stopped them, as all understood their reasons.


    “Stand strong! They’ve got swords, they’ve got blades, but they’re still mortal, and they bleed red, just like you and I!”


    Ford attempted to rally them, riding back and forth on his pilobos. “If they break through here than we’re as good as dead anyways, so fight! Stand strong and fight!”


    At his call, the fear stricken people tightened up their formation. Those still remaining at the front of the barricade had strengthened their resolve and their determination shone on their faces. Poised and pitchforks at the ready, the poor man’s phalanx was fragile, but its members would die before letting a single brigand pass.


    Ford moved towards the back of the group. His large mount made him an easy target. The mayor pet the pilobos’ head, and leaned over to its ear.


    “Millie, stay”, he whispered.


    The beast took a deep breath, and racked the ground with its wide feet creating a shallow pocket in the snow, where it laid down on its stomach, immobile. Ford, after ensuring that the creature was still, stood up on his mount and secured his feet in its fur. He unclasped the bow from his saddle and pulled an arrow out of his quiver, nocking it onto the bowstring. Eyeing an approaching bandit, he pulled back on the string and raised his weapon. It creaked as the flexible wood bent and broke through the accumulated frost.


    “Raise your weapons people of Stagmore! For our friends! For our families! For our kin! Today we fight! Today we die!” he roared.


    And the arrow flew true.


    * * *


    “Daddy let me go!” Falka cried, struggling against her father’s grip. “You saw me cast that flame! I can fight! I want to help!”


    “You’re not going anywhere!” replied Ohsmald, jerking her towards himself with a tug of his remaining hand. “You’re going to stay safe with Aunt Lynda, and we’re both going to get out of this alive!”


    “You can go stay and hide with the others like a coward!” she retorted, yanking her arm free of his grasp, “I’m not going to hide when I can do something about all this! If mommy was here she would go and fight! What a man you are!”


    She stood resolute, arms to her side and breathing heavily.


    For a moment, Ohsmald was silent. Then, faster than Falka could react, he struck her across the cheek, sending her sprawling across the snow. She laid there for a few seconds, not realising her father had hit her. Holding her bruised face with her hand, she looked up at the innkeeper, astonished.


    He took her hand and lifted her back to her feet, brushing the snow off her beige coat. He started walking the trail towards the church once again. This time, he didn’t bother pulling her along. Falka, still shaken, followed quietly.


    * * *


    The clash of steel rang throughout the town.


    “What kind of raid is this?! This isn’t a raid, this is an organised assault!” a man cried out while parrying an incoming sword strike with his own. He looked back towards Ford, who was letting fly arrow after arrow at the incoming attackers. This moment of distraction cost him his life. His opponent, taking one hand off his sword, drew a dagger from his belt and sheathed it deep into the townsman’s skull through his chin. He fell dead on his back, eyes still wide from the shock.


    Raids were not uncommon in the northern reaches of the Kingdom. Deserters and defeated soldiers, remnants of Dukor’s Nordic campaign, often banded together and assaulted passing caravans and unsuspecting travelers earning their livelihood through blood and steel. The Northmen, against whom the Kingdom fought six years ago, sometimes ventured southward when the hunting on the tundra was scarce, to plunder poorly defended towns. This, however, was no attack by a ragtag bunch of brigands, nor burly savages. The attackers were undoubtedly Dukorian, and while they were poorly equipped compared to the common soldier, they had organisation and discipline beyond any professional company.


    “Is this kind of attack common around here?” asked someone standing next to Ford and Millie.


    “No, we haven’t been attacked in years, I was a kid last time we got raided. I remember it like it was…” Ford began to reply, but trailed off as he looked towards the man who asked the question.


    When did he get there? Millie didn’t react either and she knows the scent of everyone in this town.


    “Like it was?”


    “Ahem, like it was yesterday,” concluded Ford. “Who are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here.”


    The mayor lowered his bow in his left hand and put his right into his cloak, resting his palm on the hilt of a dagger.


    “No need to be alarmed, Mister Ford, I’m but a traveler,” replied the man. He held his hood tight around his neck, as if to ward off the cold. “I spent the night at Ohsmald’s place.”


    “Ah, well welcome to Stagmore I guess,” Ford bent down slightly, craning his neck in an attempt to see the man’s face.


    “I’m sorry, a bandit attack might not be the best hospitality we can give you, but I hope you enjoyed your stay.”


    He squinted. Ford was looking straight at the stranger’s face, yet he couldn’t make out his traits - as if the whole thing was a blur. From the corner of his eye, the mayor could make out a semblance of a beard and long hair, but if he looked at it directly, he couldn’t make out anything; like the shadows in the corners of a room lit by a flickering fire.


    Damn my head hurts. Well he hasn’t done any harm. And if Ohsmald let him stay at his inn then he can’t be that bad. Old innkeeper’s always been more perceptive then I was when it came to judging folks.


    “Don’t you worry my good man, I’ve got news that help is on its way.” Ford did his best to smile. “You should make your way to the church. The rest of the town is over there, or whoever could make it there in time at least. It’s safe there.” He gestured southward, pointing down a trail mangled by footsteps in the snow.


    “Oh no, no, no,” the cloaked man said nonchalantly as he crossed his arms.  “I think I’ll watch,”


    “What? But its danger-,” Ford got cut off as the faint sound of war horns echoed behind him.


    Help was near.