Steak Writes a Thing

The village of Brookhill was a small one, nestled in the northwest of a region known colloquially as “the Vale.” The village bore the name for obvious reasons: it was situated on a rise in the ground, vaguely circular in shape, the flat top of which measured nearly five miles wide at its largest. Many, notably externally-written, histories place the population of Brookhill at the time this story takes place at thirty-three. This number, however, is quite far off, as it included only those who lived in the village center, and, ironically, excluded those who were the lifeblood of the well-being of the village: the occupants of homesteads on the fringe of the village – the actual population of the village was nearly double that.

Brookhill was, as most villages of its size are wont to be, chiefly a farming village, cultivating anything and everything that could prosper. However, having, at most, seventy people, the village did not have a forge; they instead bought their tools and other assorted metal objects from merchants from the nearest town, Shademont, the largest town in the Vale. The merchants, in turn, as they did from every other town in the Vale – though especially Brookhill – purchased produce, livestock, and animal products, as agriculture and husbandry were two less-than-common Shademont industries. Brookhill also lacked a mill, as the river that flowed north of the hill – or as it was known in local parlance, the Brook – was too shallow and lazy to be conducive to millwork, and as such any grain produced was laboriously ground by hand.

This type of menial labor was conducted by unskilled workers living in the heart of the village, off of the homesteads. In fact, there were only five tradesmen in the village center: a butcher; a merchant, who moved from out of the Vale, and was regarded as odd by rest of the village; a scribe, who wrote what little history Brookhill had, and some besides, had the only library in Brookhill, though it went mostly to waste, as there were only eight residents able to read; a “doctor,” or as much of one as he could be, giving the rural setting and limited technology; and an innkeeper. On the fringes, there was also a farmer who, due to former knighthood in Shademont, was the appointed captain of the village guard, but there wasn’t much to guard from.

As most Brookhillians were accustomed to a tough life, they were generally a practical, no-nonsense people, not liable to believe in anything that was not as plain as day in front of them; as such, they did not hold with such foolishness gods or magic. They did, however, enjoy stories, though they did not know many – and what they did know was from Shademont – and many of them had an instrument of some sort, for use at festivals, which were a common affair.

It was shortly after one such festival – the Harvest Festival, in point of fact, held in late April – that our story begins. The leaves were beginning to turn red and gold, and frost had been spotted one morning the week previous, which was fortunately after the harvest itself had finished. It was May the 4th, and Declan Huntersson was turning sixteen.

It being his birthday, and not having any farm work to do, as he did not own a farm – he was away hunting far too often to manage one, and he lived alone, so there was no one else to do it, either – he decided to go fishing. Fishing was perhaps the most common recreational pastime in Brookhill; the Brook did not have any fish, per se, but it was cathartic to those who spent the majority of every day tending crops, or in Declan’s case, hunched in the woods waiting for a deer, or some similar animal, to cross his path.

With him that day was Owen, the son of Giles – Brookhill’s guard captain – and Declan’s best friend. Owen pushed for Sybill – his sister, being four years Owen’s senior at the age of eighteen – going along as well, but his father insisted that at least one of the house’s children stay to help with the chores. The only reason Owen was allowed to go was that, now that the harvest was over, the amount of chores available were limited.

So it was that Declan met Owen at the latter’s homestead that morning, and, after a bit of banter between Declan and Sybill, the two headed north, toward the Brook. Fortunately, the journey did not take long, as Owen’s homestead was at the north edge of the hill. Soon, they found themselves at a popular fishing spot. The Brook was wide here, or as wide as the Brook got. There were large, flat rocks on either shore, raised a couple feet out of the water, and perfect for sitting on and letting the water run over one’s ankles. One rock, which Declan took, was even up against a hill, so that one could recline comfortably while sitting on it. The two cast their lines, Declan leaned back, and Owen yawned lazily.

“So,” Declan remarked, “happy to be getting out of chores for a day?”

“I’m happier to be getting out of training for a day, honestly,” Owen replied, referring to the sword training he received daily. “Father’s been working me that much harder since the harvest.”

“Ha! I suppose.”

A peaceful silence fell between them. About an hour later, it was broken by Owen.

“So,” he said, “are you planning on following through with your plan tonight?”

“Aye, I am,” Declan said. “By this time tomorrow, your sister’s going to be a betrothed woman. Or, at least, I hope she is.”

Declan had been courting Sybill for several years prior; that was well-known in Brookhill. He was not her only prospect, by any means; Sybill was perhaps the fairest maiden, eligible or otherwise, in Brookhill. Her light skin – by any means not a commodity in the area – and purple eyes – not a commodity anywhere, as far as anyone in Brookhill knew, though that isn’t saying much – had even attracted a suitor from Shademont – a wealthy merchant, even, who was willing to pay a handsome dowry for Sybill’s hand. He was a kind man, but Sybill had eyes for no one but Declan, and as per Brookhill custom, only she could dictate who she married, though this isn’t to say anyone was unhappy about her apparent choice; Declan was quite well liked amongst the villagers, and often even pitied. Had they believed in such things, the people of Brookhill would have called Declan’s family cursed; Declan’s mother had died in childbirth, his father had been killed by a wild boar, and he had lost his three siblings to illness. Even his grandfather, who had outlived every member of the family save Declan, and up until his death had been the oldest person in Shademont, had died four years previously due to horse-related injuries.

As a matter of fact, one he’d been orphaned, Owen’s parents had offered to house Declan, but he had declined; his desire was to stay in his parents’ house. That being said, however, he dined with them nearly every day, usually bringing with him some sort of animal he’d hunted. He also often brought along with him his lodger, Fynn. Fynn had come to Brookhill, coincidentally, right after Declan’s grandfather had passed away. He was clearly not from the Vale, and was obviously an orphan of some sort, looking for somewhere to live. Declan, having no shortage of houseroom, and being fairly depressed and in need of accompaniment at the time, offered Fynn a place to stay.

The two became fast friends; though generally reluctant to speak of his past, Fynn did mention he was orphaned himself, which, naturally, struck a chord with Declan. However, due to the unfortunate habit of petty theft, it took a while for Fynn to ingratiate himself with the rest of the townspeople, Owen – who had been raised on a very strict moral code – in particular. Still, Fynn never stole food, and what he did steal, he always returned shortly after the fact. Owen was eventually worn down by the desire to have another friend his age – Fynn only being a year younger – and the rest of the townspeople eventually came to think of Fynn as a comical figure – a scamp, to be sure, but nothing particularly harmful.

Regardless, Owen and Declan whiled away the day fishing – and talking, mostly about the Harvest Festival and Owen’s training. Around noon, Declan open up his pack and produced a loaf of bread and some cheese, and a little before dusk, they packed up and started the walk back to Owen’s house. When they got there, Sybill and Fynn greeted the two of them and wished Declan a happy birthday. The four went inside and found dinner already on the table.

“Just put it on,” Fynn said, as though impressed by his timing. “I reckon you lot’re hungry as wolves, with all the ‘ard work you’ve been doing.”

Dinner, it seemed, was sumptuous, at least by Brookhillian standards, obviously in observance of Declan’s birthday. There was a mincemeat pie, potatoes, bread, butter, and milk, the latter two of which were, ironically, a rarity; most of it was sold to Shademont, as they fetched a high price there. The six of them wolfed the food down, Declan even having a second helping, which Brookhillians generally did not do unless it was a very special occasion – which it was, at least to Declan.

After the meal, Declan and Sybill went outside while Owen extracted some water from the well so the rest of them could wash up. After the chores were finished, Fynn decided he was going to go home and said his goodbyes to Owen, Sybill, and Declan. After Fynn’s departure, Owen noticed Declan was sweating a bit and chewing his lip, understandably nervous. Sybill was talking to Declan as if she did not know what was about to happen, which, Owen thought, was likely. Declan cleared his throat and said, “Syb…”

But Owen interrupted. “Do either of you see that?”

Declan gave Owen a very nasty look. “Owen!”

“My apologies, Dec, but look!” He pointed toward the woods to the north. Declan squinted. It looked to him like…

“A person,” He said.

“Aye,” Owen said.

“Who do you think it is?” Sybill asked.

“Not a villager, that’s for sure.” Declan muttered.

“Can’t it just be Fynn?” she inquired.

“There’s not a chance,” Owen said. “Whoever that was wasn’t nearly scrawny enough to be Fynn.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Declan said. He and Owen both possessed keen senses of sight from numerous hunting trips, though, of course, not even Owen was a match for Declan.

Owen glanced at Declan. “Do you think we should follow him?”

Declan scratched his chin. “Aye,” he said at length.

“Wait,” exclaimed Sybill, “what if he’s armed?! What if there are others?!”

“We can stay out of sight, Sybill,” Declan assured her.

“I hope so. Be careful, if you’re going. I’ll stay behind and tell Father.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Owen said. “If, for some reason, he means ill to the village and we don’t come back, he can raise the alarm.”

“How long should I tell him to wait?”

“An hour,” said Declan.

“Very well.” Sybill placed a hand on Declan’s shoulder before turning around and heading back toward the house. Declan and Owen nodded at each
other and started northward, where the shadow had since disappeared into the woods.

Though the man had gone from their vision, Owen and Declan could easily see the tracks the man had made and the bent states of the plant life he had pushed aside. This assured the both of them, as it meant that whoever it was had not seen them. As they progressed through the woods, what little light there had been to start faded steadily, due to both the setting sun and the increasing thickness of the overhead canopy of leaves.

Eventually, after what felt like hours — though in reality had been maybe thirty minutes — of tracking, Owen and Declan came to a clearing. Hiding behind trees at the fringe of the glade, they saw what was clearly a camp: several crude hide tents were set up, enough to hold twenty or thirty people. Milling about the campsite were several unkempt, mean-looking, and bulky men. Every single one of them wore clothes of rough hide and had a long knife or hatchet at their belt. Declan looked at Owen, eyes wide with fear.

“Bandits,” he mouthed. Owen nodded in concurrence; he jabbed a thumb and cocked his head in the direction they came. Declan nodded himself, and the two of them ran, as fast as they could while still being relatively silent. They were, of course, in no hurry to stay anywhere where bandits were hanging about, and needed to warn the village in any case.

When Owen’s homestead came back into sight, the two of them noticed Owen’s father standing gravely at the back door, with Sybill at his side. When they approached him, he nodded.

“Good, you’re all right. You two were darn fools, charging off into the woods like that!”

His sudden anger caught Owen and Declan by surprise. “Father, please,” Owen said. “that’s not important right now.”

“Are there brigands?” Giles asked.

“Yes, sir,” Declan replied. “Twenty or so, from their tents.”

“I’ll rouse the village. Even with me here, twenty of them is something to worry about. However,” he said, looking at Owen, Declan, and Sybill, “I want you three to flee to the woods and stay there until I come and fetch you.”

“But, Father—” Owen exclaimed.

“No! Owen, you’re only fourteen. You are not ready for real battle yet. And Declan, you may be old enough, but I would be remiss in my promise to
your parents if I let you wantonly risk your life like that. I’m sure you want to live for Sybill’s sake as well, and someone needs to keep her safe.”

Declan hung his head, but said, “Very well,” nonetheless; Owen acquiesced as well. “Before you leave, Owen,” Giles said, “I want you to have this.”

He produced a sword, about four-and-a-half feet long. The hilt was made of a gold-like material, although it was far sturdier than actual gold. In the center of the crossguard was set a beautiful, blood-red garnet. The blade was obscured by the sword’s rough leathern sheath, though Owen, who practiced with the blade on a daily basis, knew that it was made from a brilliantly bright, almost pearlescent metal.

“This is easily the most valuable thing in the entire village,” Giles said. “Guard it with your life, and guard your lives with it, if need be.”

“Yes, Father,” Owen replied. He stood silently for a moment before turning away and walking eastward. Declan and Sybill soon caught up with him.

“Where are you going?” Declan asked.

“Your house,” Owen said. “I want to make sure Fynn is safe.”

“Good idea,” Declan replied. “We should get whatever provisions we can, as well, in case we need them, eventually.”

“But…” Sybill said, “we will be returning, won’t we?”

Declan shook his head. “I do not know. Your father was right, Syb. Twenty brigands is a force to be reckoned with in Brookhill.”

“You would think seventy people would be able to overpower twenty!”

“Seventy armed with nothing more dangerous than a mattock and with as much experience in battle as the average deer? Your father is the only one in the village capable of dispatching one brigand at a time. Remember, he might be trained, but if he ever saw real combat, it was over twenty years ago. Not to mention, a lot of the villagers will likely hesitate to kill. The brigands have no such reservations, I’m sure.”

“Plus,” Owen added, “the camp we saw might not be the only one. I would hardly consider the brigands tactical geniuses, but it would hardly surprise me if they had another camp on the other side of the village, waiting to flank the defense.”

“True,” Declan remarked. “...But standing here talking is going to do neither us nor Brookhill any good, in the end.”

The other two in their group agreed with this statement, and they all set off for Declan and Fynn’s home. Unfortunately, the house was located on the eastern side of the hill, and Sybill informed them that their rendezvous point with Giles was a clearing on the western side of the woods. Owen and Declan thought on how they were going to manage to get into the western woods from Declan’s house after gathering the necessary for a while. Eventually, Owen stopped and said, “Oh, of course!”

Declan and Sybill spun around and looked at him, questioning expressions on their faces.

“Do either of you remember the old path?” Owen asked. Sybill and Declan’s eyes lit with recognition.

The hill on which Brookhill village sat only had slopes on its southern and northern sides — the other two compass directions had only sheer cliffs, anywhere from forty to a hundred feet high. To get from the eastern edge to the woods west of the village would generally require a journey at least five miles longer than what a trip would be as the crow flies. A couple of years previously, however, Fynn, who had a proclivity for exploration, had found a small, slightly treacherous path leading down the western side of the hill, where the cliffs were at their tallest.

“It may shave a couple of leagues from our walk,” Sybill said, “but won’t it take over two hours to get to the clearing from Declan’s house?”

“It will,” Owen said. “But the bandits might not attack until midnight, or even later.”

Sybill was not entirely consoled by this, but the three of them continued on nonetheless. When they finally got to Declan’s house, Owen and Sybill waited outside while Declan collected food, it being their job to keep watch. When Declan emerged, he was carrying his satchel, which had seemingly been packed to bursting with provisions.

“My, my, Declan,” Sybill said. “How long do you think we will have to wait?”

“I’ve got enough food in here to feed three for a week, and a tent, to boot. If the village falls and we have to flee, we’ll easily be able to get to Shademont, and possibly out of the Vale if we’re frugal with our rationing.”

“And what of Fynn?” Owen asked.

“He wasn’t in, I’m afraid.”

Owen fell silent. “Of course he wasn’t,” he said at length.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, for one, he’s never where we need him to be at any given moment.”

“This is true. What else are you talking about?”

“Please, Declan, it’s obvious. He’s betrayed the village.”

“What?!” Sybill gasped. Declan shook his head.

“No, he hasn’t,” He said. “He wouldn’t.”

“Really? Then how do you explain the fact that he’s missing just as bandits show up?” Owen asked.

Declan hung his head and was silent.

“Owen…” Sybill said.

“What?”

“I… I don’t think Fynn would do something like this.”

Owen was flummoxed. He thought it was obvious that Fynn had turned traitor on them all, and had no notion as to how the others could be so naive, Declan, who in nearly every other case was quite cynical, especially. It all seemed too convenient to Owen; Fynn turning up when Declan was at his most vulnerable, Fynn going missing right as the village was in dire peril. Owen shook his head.

“I don’t suppose it matters, at the moment,” he said. “We’d best be getting to the forest.”

The others agreed, and Declan led them west in silence. In any other situation, it would have been an exceptionally beautiful night, and the three of them would have stopped to admire the western sky, which was just then losing the last of its solar luster. But all three of them, at it happened, were mentally occupied with other matters, and paid no heed to their surroundings. This changed, however, once they entered the town square. They glanced into the southern sky, and saw a glow; some of the southern homesteads had been set ablaze!

“darn it!” Declan cried. He grabbed Sybill by the wrist and towed her off eastward. Owen stood fixed, despairing at the sight, before pulling himself together and following after the others. The journey through the village center went without incident, fortunately, although Owen could have sworn he’d seen a shadow, or a silhouette, or something of the kind slip out of sight as they left town. Not a soul harried them, or for that matter could be seen, on their way to the cliffs.

When they arrived, it was finally wholly dark. This worried Owen somewhat, because, as Fynn had described it, the path sounded rather treacherous, and he was not sure if he wanted Sybill — or he wanted himself to, for that matter — traverse it in the dark. He swallowed these fears, however, as this was their only way down now. Declan seemed to have been thinking along similar lines, though, as he lifted Sybill up and lay her on his shoulder before starting down the path.

Owen looked over the cliff at the path when he caught up. It was steep, narrow, and rocky; just as frightful as Fynn had said it was, although Owen felt he was lucky it was even there, considering it was Fynn who told them about it. He started down. The journey on the path, though short, was fraught with stumbles that Owen thought would have killed the lot of them had he not steadied himself in time.

When they returned to relatively flat ground, Declan put Sybill back on her feet. The three of them kept moving until they reached the edge of the forest, where they decided to rest for a few moments.

“How much farther is it, exactly?” asked Sybill.

“About a mile, I believe,” said Owen. Declan confirmed this.

Owen turned back to face the hill. He looked up and let out a cry. It looked to him as if the entire hill was aflame. He could not bring himself to look away for the longest while, and when he did, he found that he wished he had not; Sybill had turned to look herself, and her mouth was agape and tears were running from her violet eyes.

Declan, who had not turned back, beckoned for them to keep going and stalked off into the woods. Owen looked toward Declan’s retreating form and said to Sybill, “We should keep on.” He found his voice was shaky and hoarse.

The three of them walked on. All three of them knew the way, but Declan, who was in the forest on a daily basis, led them. Sybill, who was behind Owen, was sobbing quietly; Declan, Owen could tell, was attempting to put on a dignified, indifferent front, but was not doing a good job of it. They marched in – relative – silence for another twenty minutes, when they reached the clearing.

Fortunately, it seemed devoid of brigands, or any sign that any had been there. They walked to the very center and set down whatever they had been carrying: Declan dropped his satchel, Owen put down his sword, and Sybill placed herself on the ground and broke down completely. Owen and Declan knelt on opposite sides of her and each put a hand on a shoulder. Owen found optimism difficult at that precise moment, but mustered up enough to say, “Sybill, it will all be all right.”

“He’s right,” Declan said, “The harvest was good enough that we’ll have enough to go on if some burns, and even if our houses burn to the ground, we can always rebuild. We’re Brookhillians, after all.”

Had the situation been any less grim at all, Owen would have laughed at that last comment. Instead, he settled for, “Aye, Syb. Even if we’re to go hungry, we could always send for aid from Shademont, or go there ourselves.” Owen decided not to point out that Shademont got a quarter or so of its food from Brookhill.

A half an hour later, the three of them sat silently as they waited. Eventually, Owen decided he could take no more of it and asked, “Sybill, did Father say when to expect him?”

“By dawn, I think he said,” replied Sybill. Owen looked up at the sky; it looked to be a couple hours before midnight. He sighed and said no more. Owen started to doze off not long after; he was shaken from this torpor, however, almost immediately. A cracking noise resounded through the silent clearing, and Owen and Declan immediately leapt to their feet and readied their respective weapons.

Nothing happened for nearly five minutes, by which time Owen and Declan had started to make a circuit around the clearing, looking for the cause of the noise. Their attentions were drawn elsewhere, however, by a scream. Owen immediately identified it as coming from Sybill, and whirled around.

A rough-looking man had his arm wrapped around Sybill’s neck, holding a long, rusty knife in his other hand. His face was homely, and he was grinning, showing his few remaining teeth, which were an atrocious yellow color.

“darn it!” Declan shouted. He dearly wanted to fire an arrow directly into the brigand’s forehead, but couldn’t; he did not want to risk harming Sybill.

“You followed us, didn’t you?” Owen said. “darn, I knew I’d seen something.”

“Aye, that I did, lad. And lucky fer me I did.”

“Why did you have to attack Brookhill?!” Declan shouted.

“And who put you up to it?” Owen hollered. “Was it Fynn?”

“Fynn?” the brigand asked. “’oo the ‘ell is Fynn?”

He didn’t seem to be lying. Owen knew the man was a brigand, and was predisposed to mistruths, but he could somehow tell the man was telling the truth this time. It seemed he had misjudged Fynn.

“Just… just…” Owen said, struggling for words. “Let my sister go, d’you hear?!”

The brigand laughed raucously. “Let go ‘a this pretty thing? Ain’t likely to do that.”

Owen let out a shout and charged. He supposed it wasn’t the smartest plan in the world, but maybe the stupidity of it would cause the man to drop his guard – and possibly Sybill, as well. Unfortunately, as it turned out, the man did neither; he stuck his foot out as Owen neared him, and Owen fell to the ground. The man then brought his foot back and gave Owen a swift kick to the head; the latter immediately fell unconscious.

“Owen.”

Owen ignored the voice.

“Owen!”

Owen felt a hand shake his shoulder. The voice was oddly familiar to him. He opened his eyes. There stood Declan, looking down at Owen with a worried expression.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Declan sighed. “I was afraid for you, you know.”

“Why is that?” inquired Owen. “What happened?”

“You were unconscious for nearly an hour.”

Memories flooded back into Owen’s head of the few minutes prior to his falling unconscious. “Is Sybill well?” he asked.

Declan shook his head soberly, his shoulder-length hair flapping as if by wind. “Truly, I’m not sure. That bastard brigand ran off with her. I couldn’t give chase; I was too worried about you. I wouldn’t worry, though; I do not believe she’ll be harmed.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” asked Owen.

“If they wanted to kill her, they would have done it right in front of us. They want her alive for something, I would guess.”

“Can we give chase now that I’m awake?”

“No!” cried Declan. “No. You’re in no condition to do any chasing, I’m afraid.”

“What of the village? Are Father and Mother all right?”

“I do not know. Your father hasn’t yet made contact with us, but that means little. I will venture out in the morning and see what I can. In the meantime, I have to keep watch on you.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you need sleep. However, I can’t let you sleep for too long at once, or else you mightn’t wake up. Someone needs to see to your medicine, as well.”

“What medicine?”

“While you were out, I went looking for medicinal herbs,” replied Declan. “Fortunately, I found some that would serve well. They’ll help with the headaches.”

Declan dug into his satchel and produced a water skin. He unstoppered it and passed it to Owen. Simply the pungent odor of it cleared Owen’s mind a little, and alleviated somewhat the headache he had only just realized he had. He closed his eyes and took a drink of the tea. He immediately spit it back out, however, because he had honestly not tasted a single thing more disgusting in his life.

“You could have warned me it was this horrible,” exclaimed Owen.

“Pardon,” said Declan. “But do try to drink it, would you?”

Owen grimaced, but took another swig nonetheless. He managed to get it down that time, and within seconds felt his pain and discomfort lessening.

“It works, at the least,” he said.

“That’s enough for now,” said Declan, taking back the skin. “I would like to ration it. Those herbs are not exactly common.”

He stoppered the bladder and replaced it in his satchel.

“You should get some sleep, now,” he said. “I’ll wake you in an hour or two with some more tea and something to eat.”

With that, Owen lay down and closed his eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately. His dreams, however, were terrible and terrifying. Sybill dying; Sybill forced to be the servant of some dreadful brigand company. He nearly counted it a mercy when Declan awoke him not much later, though that may have been because of hunger.

He ate a couple slices of bread and an apple, and had a few gulps of the medicinal tea. He sat for a moment in thought and then asked, “If… if something has happened to Mother and Father and the rest of the village… what are we to do?”

“Well,” replied Declan, “it might be well for us to head to Shademont. We could inform them of what has happened and, perhaps, hire some mercenaries.”

“Why would we need to do that?”

“Well, if we make an attempt at rescuing Sybill, I doubt we can defeat all of those brigands by ourselves. We need a professional, or a couple of them, if we can afford it.”

Owen sighed. “I don’t wish to think about this any more. I think I’ll go back to sleep.”

“Very well,” said Declan. “I’ll wake you again in a while.”

Owen had another series of nightmares. It was again nearly a mercy when Declan woke him again. He had another drink of the medicine and went back to sleep. The cycle continued like this until Owen awoke to find the sky tinted with orange and pink. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stood up, yawning.

“I think I shall go into town, now,” said Declan. “Do you want to come?”

Owen shook his head. “I don’t wish to see what might be there. If the worst has happened, though,” he said, “I want you to go to my house and retrieve my family’s savings. It should still be there, if the house still stands: Father hid it well.” He divulged the location of the money to Declan, who nodded, bid Owen farewell for the moment, and head off into the woods.

As it happened, Owen’s house was still standing, and so was Declan’s. There were a few more, close to the center of the village, but Declan did not wish to strip those down for valuables; it felt like stealing, and he felt as if the brigands would have already done so. First, he went to his own house and collected a spare satchel, food, and valuables; fortunately, it seemed the brigands had passed Declan’s house by. He then ventured to Owen’s house to collect the money and other assorted valuables. Owen’s house was also left not plundered, and Declan found some food as well. He felt as if he had collected enough food to get them far out of the Vale, if they needed to.

Owen waited in the clearing for a number of hours; when Declan finally returned, the sun was high in the eastern sky; it was perhaps ten o’clock.

“Did you find anyone?” asked Owen.

Declan shook his head. “I found no one. I stayed away from the town center, though; that might have been where they all made their last stand.”

The both of them hung their heads for a while. “What about our houses, then?” Owen asked.

“They were untouched. I got from them what I could.”

Declan threw the second satchel, in which he had put all of the money and valuables, to the ground. It landed with a heavy thud, and Owen immediately picked it up and looked inside. Nearly all of his family heirlooms — not that there were many — were in there: a silver hand-mirror of his mother’s and a gold ring of his father’s. Owen dug the golden ring out of the bag and put it on his finger. The only thing that had been missing was the silver-and-sapphire brooch of his mother’s, which Sybill had been wearing at the time of her kidnapping, and his father’s sword, which, of course, Owen carried. In there as well was a small burlap bag which held Owen’s family’s life savings. He opened the sack and counted out two gold coins, fifteen silver ones, thirty-two copper tokens, and sixteen tin pennies. In terms of general worth, a copper was worth one hundred tin pennies (giving birth to its colloquial name of the huttin), a silver coin was worth seventy huttin, and a gold ducat was worth thirty silver coins.

Not long after, they had set out. They had decided to go to Shademont by the road, and to get to the road, they were to circle around the southern side of the hill. The noon sun was in the sky when they reached the road. They stopped there and had a meager lunch, and continued on. Due to Owen’s condition, they were forced to walk slowly, and by sunset that day they had gone perhaps what would have been four or five leagues had Owen been able to walk normally.

They made camp by the Brook, which flowed south from Brookhill, coming eventually to a large lake south of Shademont. Declan, somehow, produced a two-person canvas tent from his satchel, and within five minutes had it set up. He then went off into the thick woods on the other side of the road and came back some half-hour later with a sizable bundle of kindling and firewood. By that time, the sun had set almost completely set, but Declan managed to strike up a fire fairly quickly. He brought out a piece of salted pork and pierced it with an arrow. He then held it over the fire. When it had cooked, he split the meat in two with the arrowhead and passed one half — a somewhat larger half, as a matter of fact — to Owen.

After eating his pork and later a piece of bread, Owen had a swig of Declan’s medicinal tea and crawled into the tent. Declan crawled in after him and they both fell asleep quickly, Declan especially, as he had not had any sleep the previous night. Still, he managed to wake up every so often to awaken Owen. That night, for Owen, was too similar to the last for his liking: nightmares, then awoken by Declan for tea, then back to nightmares. Tonight, however, his parents were the focus; he had not been able to mourn them that day, and so he mourned them in his sleep.

That morning, he related his dreams to Declan, who put a hand on his shoulder and apologized for not expressing his condolences. It had been hard for him, as well. Owen nodded in recognition and they began to pack up. Owen cried silently most of that day. The upside was, he was beginning to feel better in a physical sense, and they were set to make decent progress that day.

As the crow flies, Shademont was about ten leagues from Brookhill. However, there was a range of mountains separating the two towns, and the road curved around it; a traveller had to walk nearly seventy miles to get from one town to the other. The road ran south from Brookhill, turned east around the mountains — crossing and leaving the Brook along the way — and then through around twelve miles of swampland. It then curved around to the south-west and toward Shademont, turning northward as it neared the town.

They trudged onward, and by midday had traveled about ten miles. As they went, the thick line of forest to their right began to thin. Eventually, they came to a small hill; upon cresting it, they saw the vast landscape before them: about a mile hence stood a bridge spanning the Brook, which turned south and left their reckoning. Beyond the bridge, they saw the marshes.

In Shademont, as well as Marton — a town to the east, in the exact center of the marshlands — the bog was known as Deepmire Fen. It measured about forty-five miles by twenty-five, and was known for its treacherousness. Owen and Declan saw the vastness of the place and wondered how or why anyone built a town in the middle of it all. As they got closer, they encountered yet another obstacle: flies.

There seemed to be thousands upon thousands of flies and midges, all of them intent on bleeding Owen and Declan dry. They flew up the boys’ sleeves and trouser-legs and crawled all over Owen and Declan’s skin. The two of them cursed the loose nature of their clothing, and trudged onward.

It was difficult going, however; the road had narrowed as it neared the marshes, and was now barely five feet wide. In many places, the swamp-water had flowed over what little road was left, and the two of them were forced to wade into the mud. Owen’s leathern shoes were quickly soaked through entirely, and Declan at once point took his off and poured, seemingly, a pint of water out of each.

As an added bonus, upon looking skyward, the two of them noticed a large, dark cloud heading directly for them. Declan reckoned it would hit them sometime the next day. Rain, however, was something of a blessing in disguise, as there was no potable water to find in the bog, and they were beginning to run low on what they had brought.

As it happened, Declan reckoned poorly; the rain ended up hitting them within thee hours. It rained down in sheets, and soon enough their clothes were both drenched and midge-infested. It was dreary going, and the rain furthered the flooding problem. Eventually the entire road was under water, and Owen and Declan saw little hope of a decent rest that night.

The sun began to move lower and lower in the western sky, though Owen and Declan could not see it do so. They did, however, soon see something on the horizon. It was a small hill, they thought, and seemingly covered in trees. The two of them decided amongst them that it would likely be a good place to spend the night, though it was out of their way.

On the other hand, there was nothing in the manner of a road to the hill. The choice seemed to be to slog through the quagmire — the depth of which could not be determined — to shelter, or continue on the road with little hope of a place to sleep. They decided to pursue the former route.

Declan chose to venture into the marsh first, trusting Owen with his satchel so that the food and the tent wouldn’t take on water if the swamp proved to be too deep. Declan took a step forward. He sank to his ankle. Another step brought the water halfway up his shin, and another found him knee-deep. Soon enough he was up to his navel, and his loose overcoat, which had no fasteners or buttons, was billowing on the water’s surface.

“God darn it,” Declan exclaimed. The Brookhillians might not have worshipped any gods, but they still chose to vainly name one every now and again.

“What is it?” asked Owen.

“The water’s darn near frigid!”

“Do you think your pack would be safe with you?”

“If I hold it above my head, I guess it would be fine. Throw it over, will you?”

Owen did so, and, to his relief, Declan caught the bag. Owen took his own satchel from his back and held it aloft, wading into the deeps after Declan. He found that, at its deepest, the marsh-water was about four inches from clearing his shoulders; Declan, who was taller, fared better, though not much more so. Owen found that Declan had been right; the water — if it could indeed be called water — was cold — colder than the Brook ever got, at least.

They trudged soddenly along. The going was, of course, slower than they had been expected. The sun had fully set by the time they reached the mound, and they reckoned it had taken them nearly an hour to do so. When they climbed the bank, they stood shivering for a while before Declan mentioned he’d brought a spare set of clothes for each of them. Owen accepted his clothes gratefully and changed behind a tree.

Owen found that his new clothes consisted of a tan shirt, a brown pair of flax trousers, a pair of leather boots, and a leather belt with a strap for a sword sheath. Owen assumed the belt had been his father’s; the rest, however, was his own. Declan had changed into a faded green sleeveless shirt, a leather vest, and a pair of tan trousers. On his feet were a pair of boots similar to the ones Owen was wearing.

Declan cut some branches from the trees above them and threw them into the middle of a stone-lined fire pit, which had presumably been made by other travelers. Once they had a decent fire going, the small copse was rather a decent place to sleep; the leaf cover provided protection from the rain, the midges were few higher up, and the fire provided warmth.

The boys’ spirits rose as they watched the crackling flames. Declan, as a matter of fact, produced from his pack a couple of smooth wooden cups, and from a flask poured a small amount of ale into each. They made a toast to the copse and drank. After a couple small cupfuls each, the ale was spent, and Declan brought out some food and they had dinner. Afterwards, Owen proposed they sing a song.

“Which one?” asked Declan.

Owen thought about this for a while. At length, he said, “‘The Green Lady,’ of course.” Declan agreed with this most heartily. “The Green Lady” was a popular Brookhillian song about a most beautiful woman, sung at nearly every festival and accompanied by a collective dance by most of the village maidens. So fitting was the song to Sybill that many villagers had joked that Sybill was the Green Lady; due to this, among other reasons, Sybill had nearly always led the dance.

Far away, in a village near this size
Lived a maiden of such fairness and grace,
That many men would trade their wives
Simply for a glance at her face.

Though, not a single suitor would she embrace,
Nor even give the time of day;
She wished for a man who looked not at her face
And love her for what beneath her countenance lay.

Finally one winter night, in the midst of a snow,
A knock on her door the Lady did hear.
She opened the door to find a lad, his face aglow,
Wet and cold as if he’d come from a mere.

She took him in and sat him at her table,
and told him she must turn him away.
He said, “Lady, I see not your hair of sable,
but I will go as soon as I may.”

The Lady knew he meant what he said,
And in her arms she took him;
And within a week, the two were wed,
And nothing in the future seemed grim.

However, their love was meant not to last;
A year after, the lad was called to war,
And in battle one day he fell, alas!
The Lady saw her love no more.

It was a brief song, to be sure, but contrary to its rather gloomy lyric it had a lively, peppy tune, fine to dance to, and the musicians often played it. Owen and Declan sang it a couple times themselves, but at that point were too tired — and perhaps somewhat too drunk, as neither of them had too much resistance to the debilitating effects of liquor — to dance, and really, they were not much of dancers to begin with.

They fell asleep soon after. Declan and Owen forgot entirely that the latter needed to take his medicine; however, disastrous though it could have proved, by some great fortune Owen awoke, refreshed, with the sun, even earlier than Declan. The only problem was a slight headache, and that the sun seemed somewhat far too bright.

The latter was, in part, because the storm had passed them by in the night. The sky now was cloudless, and the sun was nearly as bright as it was in summer. Owen looked out on the landscape and saw that the swamp-water had receded a great amount, and almost all of the road was visible. There was even a path running south from their camp that they could take to get back to the road.

Owen roused Declan, and the two of them started on their way down the path. The path was potholed and was difficult to walk on, but, Owen thought, it was at least better than swimming. They reached the road again at about ten ‘o clock; actually, in point of fact, they reached a crossroads. To the north the road ran back Brookhill way; to the west lay the road to Shademont. To the south, there was a road that ran to Marton, but to Owen and Declan, that was inconsequential.

The two of them started down the road to Shademont. On the whole, the walking that day was far better than the walking had been the day before; even the flies and midges seemed to keep away from them. By midday, they had finally put the marsh behind them, and came to walk next to a ridge, and the landscape hence was even more awe-inspiring than their view of the marsh from the hill before the bridge.

To the south, at the bottom of the ridge, they could see the Shademere. The noon sun gleamed off of its glassy surface, and the Brook, which had now become a rather sizable river, fed by mountain tributaries, ran down over the precipice and spilled into the lake below. To the west and north were mountains, and large ones. Rising above all others were three monstrous peaks, all of them adjacent to each other.

One of them, Owen saw, was rounded, nearly circular, at its top. This was the Shademont — as opposed to the town at the mountain’s foot, which was simply Shademont. To the left of the Shademont was Silvertip, the tallest of the three. Silvertip reminded Owen in shape of an arrowhead, and its tip, true to its name, was covered in snow; it was even frozen in the middle of the summer, though Owen did not know this. The far right mountain was the Barrow-height. As far as Owen knew, the people of Shademont buried their dead there. The mountain itself was bare and uninteresting, which to Owen made it interesting. Every single mountain nearby, including Silvertip — even at its precipice — was covered in trees, and yet the Barrow-height had no such foliage.

After wondering at the terrain for a while, the two of them ate lunch and continued on. They had hoped to reach Shademont town by the end of the day, but they realized as the sun continued to wester that they were not going to make it. They set up their camp next to the road, and Declan went to retrieve firewood. They had another cheerful night, though not as cheerful as the last. They ate and talked, mostly about Shademont and the wonders it might hold. They went to bed not long after. Declan had decided that day that Owen no longer needed Declan's ministrations, and they were out of medicine — which really had been palliative in any case — so Owen's sleep went unhindered yet again.

The two of them, as by Declan’s reckoning they had less than four and a half leagues of their walk remaining, woke late the next day, and walked leisurely. Eventually, they passed again over the Brook — though by that point it was known as the Norvale River, almost exclusively by Shademonteans — and the three mountains grew ever larger.

Late in the afternoon, the road turned north, and Owen could have sworn he heard a deep but soft clang, as if of an enormous but distant bell. The sun continued to wester as they meandered north, and eventually at the foot of the Shademont they saw the town. An hour or so later, the sun was beginning to disappear beyond the western horizon, and before them stood the gate to their destination. Owen and Declan stood in awe of the size and workmanship of the huge metal door before taking their first steps into Shademont.