Chapter One

“Brave little fools...”

The horned-toad’s granite skin blended almost perfectly with the gravel surrounding it.  At a glance, it was just another of hundreds of rocks strewn about, but this particular rock had scurried towards a small hole in the dirt, catching Jack's eye.  The creature sat unperturbed a few inches from the hole.  Gangs of ants scurried around and onto it, biting uselessly at its spiny armor, crawling up its sides and forward, inevitably to scale the head and wander over the mouth where they were caught by the flick of a sticky tongue.

They were soldier ants, the color of pain, and he kept his distance.

Eventually, enough of the ants piled onto the lizard’s back that it darted a few inches towards him, leaving its creeping shawl writhing in the dirt.  Its tongue gathered up several stragglers before the ants once again began to overwhelm it.  With surprising speed, the lizard fled straight to where Jack was squatting.  Its tiny claws poked his skin as it scurried over the top of his sandaled left foot.  He nearly fell on his ass.  He kicked with his foot while balancing on his right arm, then scrambled to his feet.  The lizard vanished into the scrub. 

A fiery pain shot up his leg.  He slapped at his ankle, only then realizing the lizard had deposited a platoon of enraged ants onto his foot. Cursing, he danced a long step backward, then hopped awkwardly on his right foot while slapping at his leg until he was certain the demonic creatures were gone.  Two pink bumps were already swelling on his foot and ankle.

He flushed, though whether from anger, embarrassment, or the bloody heat, he wasn’t certain.  He snatched his walking stick out of the dirt and set himself to resume his hike. 

A cool breeze blew in from the west, washing over his face.  He smiled and closed his eyes.  The sun had been brutal.Even for Rodera, a country defined by its warmth, this October had been ruthless; the kind of hot that left him wrung out and testy, all day shaking off beads of sweat that trickled into his eyes and down his neck.

The moment was too short.  The breeze waned and the heat returned.  He sighed and ran a slick forearm over his brow.  He’d endured the summer with a measure of resolution, but as the weeks went by and the heat cut deeper into autumn, his frustration increased.

The cool waters of Dhal’s pond beckoned.  It would be worth the uphill hike.  An hour of swimming would cool him off until the lingering heat fled with the sunset.  Squeezing his walking stick, he marched across the pasture, past the big red barn that dominated Holt’s ranch, and started up the trail leading into the hills.

“Jack!”  

He stopped, but didn’t turn around.  What could the old man possibly want?  All the day’s chores were done.  He’d picked the ripe squash from the garden, gathered the eggs, cleaned Baron’s corral, and collected clothes from the drying line.  It was time to relax. 

“Did you forget what day it is?” 

Sighing, he turned around, and saw Holt standing near the entrance to the barn, stroking the silver hair on his chin with his hand.  His tunic hung loosely.  He’d lost weight over the summer, though he was still barrel-chested.  With his hair shaved almost to the scalp, Holt better resembled Jack’s image of a crusty old soldier than he had in the past.  Holt’s right hand held a longbow. Archery drills.  They’d skipped it the last three weeks because of the harvest, and Jack had hoped Holt would let it go for another week.

“I’m going for a swim,” Jack called back.  “It’s too hot.  Besides, I don’t need practice.  I’ve been practicing on my own.”

“That’s good!  This won’t take long, then.”

He choked off the objections that immediately rose to his throat. He never won arguments with Holt, and the sooner he did what the old man wanted, the sooner he’d have his freedom. 

A few minutes later, he found himself standing just inside the swinging doors to the big red barn.  He slapped absently at a fly while staring at the back wall where a group of sacks stuffed with straw were mounted in the vague shape of a large person.  The dummy’s head and chest were crudely painted with rough, red circles, and were nailed to a stack of hay bales. 

After tensioning the bowstring and rubbing it with beeswax, carefully checking each fletch and tip on each arrow, straightening the targets, examining them from twenty paces, straightening them again, and complaining about Jack’s practice habits, Holt finally handed him the bow and a quiver of black-feathered arrows.  He gestured towards the target. 

Jack plucked an arrow from the quiver, slapped it onto the rest, and drew the string.

“Why are you holding sideways it like that?”

 “I can load the arrow faster and shoot from different stances.” 

“Nonsense.  Hold it straight up from the ground.”

He yanked the string to his chest and loosed the arrow.  It landed in the center of the target’s face with a pleasing thunk!  “Head!”

“But you were aiming at the stomach.”

That was true, though he would never admit it. “See?  Practice.”

“Stop being difficult.  There’s no advantage to the way you’re doing it.”

“I can shoot faster.  I can shoot if I’m squatting in the bush.  I can find the line...”

 “Alright.  Do it again.  I’ll give you a penny if you can get the next shot within a foot of the first.”

Setting his jaw, he drew another arrow from the quiver and blew a stray tuft of hair out of his eyes.  In one motion he slapped the shaft onto the bow, knocked it, jerked back the string, and released.  This time the string flogged the soft flesh of his forearm and made a sickening buzz. The arrow wobbled in flight like an airborne trout and clattered to the dirt a few feet shy of the target.

Jack winced. His cheeks warmed.  Then he sniffed, lifting his chin. Holt sniggered a long, raspy laugh as Jack nocked another arrow. 

“Like this,” Holt said, moving to stand directly behind him.  “Start your draw.” Jack lifted the bow in his outstretched right arm.  Holt reached over his shoulder and twisted his forearm so the bow was vertical to the ground.  “Now aim.”  Holt placed his other hand on Jack’s left shoulder, guiding it back.  His arm quavered as he pulled on the string with agonizing slowness. “Find the line.  Get your elbow up.  Bury your face into it.”

He let the arrow fly. It whistled two feet over the target’s head, easily clearing the hay bales, struck a metal brace on the back wall of the barn, and splintered.  He pursed his lips. “At least the line was good,”

Holt shook his head and walked away muttering. Jack smirked.  It was hard to knock Holt off his stride, and it was strangely satisfying.

Holt turned and folded his arms across his chest.  “You know what?  If the Erissians ever attack, just do it your way.  They won’t consider you a threat at all.  They probably won’t even bother to conscript you.”

“Maybe you’re not a very good teacher.”

“I’ve turned the roughest of recruits into royal archers.”

“It’s good I’m not a recruit, then,” he said in a haughty tone.  “I’m just a little rusty.  Anyone can do it your way.”

“So merely hitting what you’re aiming at is beneath you.”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“Don’t practice by yourself any more.  You’re developing bad habits.  And start holding that bow like I taught you.  You were a better shot when you were twelve than you are now.”

“Is that a horse?”

“What?”

Jack stepped outside the barn and watched as a spotted horse crested the trail towards them.  Its hooves thumped the dry earth throwing up a cloud of dust.  The rider was a man, overdressed in the heat, with an olive cloak over the top of leather armor.  His dark hair was matted and stringy, and he looked like he didn’t smell very good.  He sat easily in his saddle, as if he and the horse were one creature.

“At least your ears work,” Holt said from behind.

The rider noticed them and waved.  He tugged the reins and guided the mount towards the barn.  “I’m looking for Gerholt Arentus.”

“You found him.”

“Ah!  Good!” He slid out of the saddle, grunting as his boots hit the ground.  He looked far less natural standing on two feet than he had atop his horse.  “I’m Chase Adan.  I have a message for you.”

“You look warm.  Water?”

“I’ll take you up on that offer.  But…” He withdrew a scroll from the inner pocket of his cloak.  “First things first.”  He held out the scroll and Holt accepted it with a nod.  He examined the seal, then stuffed it into a pocket. 

“Who’s it from?” Jack asked.

“An old friend.  It’s not important.”

“How do you know?”

“The well is over there,” Holt said.  He gestured towards the house.  “Come. I’ll show you.  Fill up that target, Jack.”

Jack ground his teeth.  It wasn’t the fact that Holt wanted to talk to the man alone he found insulting.  It was that Holt thought he was silly enough not to notice.  “I thought you didn’t want me to practice on my own anymore.”

 Holt didn’t answer.  The two men walked side by side towards the house. 

Jack leaned the bow against a post and sat on a hay bale.  He stroked the ant-bites on his foot and tried to ignore the fly that seemed to be fascinated by his ears. 

He’d worked like a serf ever since the spring thawing.  He’d earned a break.  He was tired and frustrated, his clothes stank of horse and sweat, his foot hurt, his forearm had a welt where he’d flogged it with the bowstring, and all he wanted to do was jump in the pond for an hour.  Instead, he was wasting a perfectly good afternoon in a stuffy barn.

He languished there for at least half an hour before he heard the sound of receding hooves outside.  Holt came in and found him sitting on the hay bale. "I see the target still lives.”

“I suppose.”

“Get up.  We’re not done until you put twelve arrows into that circle.”

 “You know, I didn’t exactly volunteer for this,” Jack said, finally breaking.  “I have other things I want to do!”

“You’re nearly a man. War could come to Rodera any time, and when that happens a man needs to be ready. Your life has been too easy.”

“Not this year.” 

“Stop complaining.  You have it better than most.”

“You’re even grumpier than you were before the messenger came.  Did you get bad news?”

“Leave it alone, Jack.”

“I’m not stupid, you know.  I recognize that seal.  It’s from Alamar.  From your family.”

“I said leave it alone.”  Holt picked up the bow and shot a arrow into the target’s face.

“How come you never go back?”  If nothing else, Jack hoped to steer the conversation away from his own character flaws.  “Oren said it’s only about a week’s voyage by ship.”

“Oren hasn’t travelled that much.  A month is more realistic.  It’s six hundred leagues.”

Jack had never been anywhere outside of Rodera.  He thought it might be quite an adventure to visit Alamar, but Holt never talked about the place unless he wanted to point out how much easier Jack’s upbringing had been.

“I wish I could take you there, so you could go through the rite of passage,” Holt said. 

Jack’s thoughts immediately began to drift. He'd learned to recognize when Holt was about to tell a story, and he’d already heard this one.  Several times.  He busied himself with studying a loose fletch while Holt cast arrow after arrow into the target’s chest and talked about sitting blindfolded and nearly naked on a raft at the center of a lake; all night long, shivering through his blindness amidst the uncanny sounds in the wilderness, afraid to move for fear of capsizing the raft…

The story went something like that, though he was no longer listening.  His thoughts had returned to swimming. 

“…and then the morning came,” Holt continued, “I took off the blindfold and saw a small boat floating nearby.  And there was my father, barely awake, where he had watched over me throughout the night.” Holt paused, his eyes far away.  Jack was tempted to mention the telling lack of faith Holt’s father had demonstrated, but decided against it.  

“That’s a beautiful tradition.  ” Holt and Jack turned to find Kara leaning on the door, wearing a crooked grin.  The afternoon breeze tugged at her reddish-brown hair.  “I absolutely think Jack should do that.  I’m sure Dhal’s pond is big enough.” 

“Hush,” Jack said.  It was hard enough getting some free time without putting that idea in Holt’s mind.  Her grey eyes twinkled back at him playfully.

“My Lady,” Holt smiled, inclining his head.  Kara beamed at him and curtsied.  Jack rolled his eyes.  Holt always called her that and she always glowed.  Somehow she had thoroughly charmed the old man.  Holt sure didn’t treat him like royalty.

“You forgot to tell him, didn’t you?”  Kara said. 

He had no idea what she was talking about.

Kara sighed and turned back to Holt.  “Can Jack come into the village?”

“Why?”

“Bobo’s naming is tonight.  Mother made sweet treats and Bobo’s all excited because he heard a rumor somewhere that Jack would be dropping by.”  She smiled at Jack in that smug way that said his compliance was expected.

He groaned inwardly.  He’d forgotten about Bobo’s naming party.  He’d been toying with the hope that Kara had come to rescue him from the day’s drudgery, but it was now clear he was being traded from one taskmaster to another.  “You’re just looking for someone to help manage a gaggle of kids.”

“You’ll like it.  Sweet treats…” 

Her mother did make good cakes.  And it was getting a little late for swimming.

“Say hello to your mother and Oren for me,” Holt said.  He turned towards Jack, holding out his hand.  Jack shrugged out of the quiver on his back and handed it over.  “Be sure to thank Kara’s mother before you leave.  And don’t be too late.  We have work to do in the morning.”

“I need to wash up and change clothes,” Jack said.

“Yes, you do,” Kara agreed, wrinkling her nose. 

Excusing himself, Jack jogged out of the barn and across the hard-packed dirt field to the house he and Holt shared, wondering what needless toil the old man had planned for the sunrise. 

For the past five months he’d awakened with the dawn nearly every day.  There was always work to be done.  If it wasn’t cutting firewood it was spreading manure, warmed to eye-watering ripeness in the summer heat, it was tilling and plowing, or it was hauling barrels full of water from the creek to the gardens and tending to the weeds that seemed to spring up overnight, fully grown and insolent.  Then there was the spring harvest, and the fall harvest.

Of course, all that work was typical on Holt’s ranch.  In a normal year, it could be done leaving plenty of time for idling about, but this year had been different.  Most of the young men of Farstead had gone off to fight the war in Sevestal, which had created more work for everyone left behind.  Moreover, Holt seemed to believe there was no cause to lie about when young men, not much older than Jack, were on the march.  It made little sense.  Rodera hadn’t started the war, and Jack wasn’t even old enough to fight in it.

He peeled off his soaked head scarf and shirt, then winched up a bucket of water from the well and dumped it on himself.  It wasn’t as good as swimming, but at least it was cool.  He pulled up another bucket which he carried inside the house to fill the wash basin.  He disrobed and scrubbed away the dirt and sweat of the day as best he could.Deciding he was as clean as he was going to get in the absence of a full tub, he toweled off and pushed his thick, wet hair away from his eyes.  At the bottom of a pile of half-folded clothes Jack found the long-sleeved green tunic Kara’s mother had made for his fifteenth birthday.

He shrugged into his tunic, buckskin trousers, and knee-high leather boots, then returned to the barn where Holt and Kara were chatting about the war.That was all anyone seemed to want to talk about these days.  Jack was tired of it all.  There were many things he wanted to do in his life, but becoming a soldier was not one of them.  The day might come when he’d have no choice but to put on a uniform and march into battle, but he certainly didn’t long for it.

“Are you ready?” he asked. 

Kara nodded.  “You’re welcome to come, Holt.  Oren would enjoy some company, and mother is always thrilled to see you.”

The old man begged off with the excuse he had too much work to do, which Jack knew was a gross exaggeration.Holt bade them farewell and Kara waved as they turned and headed off into the emerging gloom of twilight. 

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