Novellas | The Scribe Of Worlds

The Darkness and the Moon Saga

“And we shall never see them here again!” Ban’s voice finished the cheery melody, dying out as Tuddle lifted another log into the fireplace. The inn was warm and bright, but empty – most of the townsfolk were outside, enjoying the warm nights of summer before fall truly set in.

Deno sat in the corner, his ever-present hood thrown back, just as his feet were thrown on the table. Tuddle had given up on attempting to correct the habit.

“Who’s next?” Banestor asked, gracing the rest of the men with a bright smile. “Deno? You always have good stories.” He continued to look around. “Aldrick?”

Tuddle touched his scarred arm, then cleared his throat. “I believe there is a story I have yet to tell,” he said.

“You?” Ban asked, setting his lute on a nearby table. “You have stories?”

Tuddle looked at him with tired eyes. “You don’t think I was always an innkeeper, do you?”

Banestor coughed uncomfortably. “Well,” he said. “I suppose it doesn’t much make sense for you to have been born here, does it?”

“No,” Tuddle agreed.

Deno let out a short snort of laughter, looking up at the man sitting beside him. His humor was cut short when he saw the look on the other man’s face, then he looked back at Tuddle.

Tuddle noticed the interaction, then nodded. “I believe it’s finally time I told you the story of how I came here, my friends,” he said, taking his place in a chair. The other occupants of inn leaned forward, eager to hear his story. For though Tuddle heard much, he often said very little. This, they knew, was perhaps a chance they would never get again.

Table of Contents

Part the First: Smile at the West

Lant looked up from the garden he was hoeing. His face lit up as he saw the slim form of his childhood friend, Cassia. Her dark hair was recently cut, and was springing back to it’s usual curls.

“How much longer are you going to be?” she called, not daring to step onto the field for fear of ruining the ground.

“Thank you for coming with me, again,” Cassia said. “You know how I hate these gatherings. I get so uncomfortable.”

Lant bit his tongue to say the obvious – that he would do anything for her. Instead he just smiled and nodded. “No problem,” he choked out.

“I’ll see you later, then,” Cassia said, waving. He waved back, then turned to his work. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her walk off. ‘Her leg must be bothering her,’ he thought, noticing the slight hitch to her step.

~10 Years Prior~

“5! 6! 7! 8! 9! 10! Here I come!” Lant uncovered his eyes and scanned the area. The old, rotting stumps of Glumpwood provided numerous hiding places. He jumped onto a sturdy looking one and tried to see over the tops.

Glumpwood had been made up of gigantic trees, over six feet in diameter. When they had fallen, they had left gigantic stumps. The children of Ashbur Village loved to play among them. Hide-and-go-seek, tag, anything that involved running through the monstrous stumps.

Lant couldn’t see his friends, but he knew they were there. He jumped off the stump and started searching. Twice, he heard giggling, but by the time he looked to the direction it came from, the other child had gone.

An eerie howling started, and Lant shivered. He knew it was one of his best friends, Vadd, but it didn’t make it any less disturbing. To make himself feel better, he howled back, throwing his head back and allowing a wilder side of himself to take over.

There was laughter from some hidden source again, but this time, Lant was ready. He sprinted in the direction of it, and caught a glimpse of a light blue dress. “I see you, Cassia!” he shouted.

The girl laughed, and kept running. Lant jumped onto the stump that separated them and ran after her. Near the edge, the wood had turned to powder. It slipped from under his feet, and he fell, rolling to the ground.

Cassia paused, to make sure he was okay, and Lant used it to his advantage, springing at her. Cassia squealed and ran. Lant followed, reaching his hand out to tag her.

Looking back, Lant assumed that Cassia must have stepped on her dress, causing her to trip. In the moment, however, he had no idea what had happened. All he saw was Cassia fall to the ground and scream in pain.

Instantly, all the children knew the game was over. Squealing in mock terror was one thing, but the cry of an injured girl was a dead give-away that something wasn’t right.

Lant knelt by Cassia and saw a shaft of wood protruding from her leg. For a second, he panicked, his heart-rate quickening and his breath come quickly. Then he looked at Cassia’s scared face and realized that he needed to be brave, if only for her sake.

The other children were gathering around now. All of them hung in a loose circle, looking at each other, silently asking each other what to do. “Don’t move, Cassia,” Lant said. He inspected the wood. It wasn’t connected to the ground, but had punctured deep into her thigh. It was already stained red, and blood was still leaking from where it met her body.

“Jack, Carny,” Lant said, looking at the two boys he named, “Run back to town and get Doc Hardy.” They stared at him for a second. “Go!” he shouted, and they bolted, running towards the town as fast as they could go.

“Lant?” Cassia asked. “It hurts.”

“I know,” Lant said, soothingly. She wasn’t his best friend, or even in the top five by Lant’s ranking, but he knew that it was what she needed to hear. “Someone will be here soon.”

The wooden post seemed to have blocked most of the blood flow, but Lant wasn’t a doctor. He could only make assumptions. He tried to make Cassia more comfortable, taking off his jacket and using it as a pillow, but there wasn’t much he could do otherwise. The other kids stood staring silently, not knowing what to do, either. One of Cassia’s friends, Solindra, knelt beside her head, stroking her softly and whispering reassurances.

Lant didn’t move, but remained rooted in his place next to her, gripping her shaking hand in his sweaty ones. Only when he heard Doc Hardy’s heavy gait did he look up and move out of the way. Doc Hardy knelt beside her, and looked her over. “You’ll be fine,” he said, touching the wood. Cassia whimpered, and Doc Hardy smiled comfortingly. “Don’t worry. Here’s something for the pain.” He lifted a small bottle to her lips and let her sip it. Then he drew it back and re-corked it. Within a few seconds, Cassia’s breathing had become more stable.

“All right, I’m going to pull this out,” Doc Hardy said, touching the wood again. “It’s going to hurt,” he said, “but I need to do it. Okay?” Cassia nodded, her face wreathed in fear and pain. “Hold her leg down,” Doc Hardy ordered Lant. He did as he was told, bracing the leg. Doc Hardy took a breath, then pulled.

=<>=

Even now, years later, Lant could still hear the scream. It echoed in his conscious, and whenever he came across it, he instantly felt an urge to protect Cassia, no matter what. He shook his head to dispel the scream and bring himself back to reality. He lifted the hoe, rolling his shoulders and heading back across the field. His feet carried him in a path that didn’t trod on any of the fertile ground he had just tilled, a task he now did without even thinking of it.

Once clear of the tilled earth, Lant’s pace picked up, and he jogged over to the toolshed. As fast as he could, without being clumsy, he stowed the hoe back where it belonged. He then locked the door and sprinted away, to his house. It was a typical farmhouse for the area – one story, but still very large and sprawling. The roof was slanted to have a larger surface area on one side than the other in order to collect more water from rainfall, and, with the same goal in mind, it extended well past the actual end of the house. Lant passed the rain barrels as he ran. With annoyance, he noticed that they were more than halfway empty. The rains hadn’t come in far too long, he knew.

He put the thought behind him and ducked into the house, blinking to adjust to the lower lighting. He ran through the halls, nearly running his mother over in his haste and momentary blindness. “There’s a bath waiting for you,” his mother yelled after him. Lant nodded his acknowledgement and shouted his thanks, but continued running. He slid into the bathroom and began to prepare for his bath.

In thirty minutes, he was a clean as he could possibly be. His half-week beard was shaved, and his hair was trimmed to a tidier length. Lant’s mother found him trying on the different jackets they had pulled from the closet for the occasion. “I like the dark blue one the best,” she said, handing it back to him with a smile. Lant knew it had been one of his father’s favorite jackets – all of them had been his father’s at one point.

It was knee length, and would cover his entire body, instead of only having a tail like some of the other ones. And it had an ageless air about it, that no matter how many years it had been since it was made, it would still be considered good fashion. “Thanks, Momma,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“That’s what I’m here for,” she replied as pulled it over his shoulders. “Have fun tonight,” she added, stepping out of the doorway to let him leave.

“Yes, Momma,” Lant replied, smiling.

“Be good to Cassia,” his mother continued. “Dance with her at least a few times.”

“I’m sure there’s not going to be a need for that, Momma,” Lant said, “All the men’ll want to dance with her.” Even as he said it, a shy smile began to creep across his face.

“Be that as it may,” his mother said, noticing the look, “Make sure you get your dances in. All right?”

“Yes, Momma.” Lant fully smiled back at his mother, then spun and left, his coat trailing out behind him.

“And remember!” his mother shouted after him. “If anything happens, smile at the west!”

=<>=

~Eight Years Prior~

The sharp report of the sticks filled the air. The mock swords were almost perfect replicas of the real ones, but far less deadly. Though, as several inexperienced and rather lazy fighters were finding out, they still had their own bite.

Lant’s young face was set in a grimace, and he fought with a fury that the Masters could hardly contain. He spun around, knocking weapons aside, hitting the other trainees as hard as he could. Even as off-kilter as he was because of his anger, none of them knew how to face the madness he was showing.

“Lant! Stop this!” Master Drallak shouted from where he stood observing. “Get off the field, now!”

Lant obeyed, but his eyes were downcast and smoldered with a barely bridled anger. “What do you want?” he asked.

Master Drallak rapped him over the head with a training sword, hard enough to get his attention, but not to cause serious injury. “That’s no way to speak to me.”

Further down the row, Master Shino made a motion, but the Headmaster, Quast ver Perios, caught him. “Lant needs this,” he said, and Shino subsided.

Drallak paced around the boy. “Now, Lant. Ask me again.”

“What do you want. Sir.” Lant added the proper word in, but it was harsh, without any of the proper respect.

“My desire is for you to act within the Warrior Code,” Drallak replied. “I understand how hard it’s been for you-”

“You understand?” Lant scoffed. “You understand? That’s all you do. Every single one of you Masters, you all understand me. But none of you have to live it!” Lant’s voice climbed in volume. “None of you have to go home to that no longer has my father in it. None of you have to take care of all of your family members. None of you! How can you say you understand? You understand nothing!”

In the moment after the statement, there was silence. The entire training yard came to a standstill, unsure if it was proper to proceed. Drallak towered above Lant, his eyes sympathizing, but not softening. “But that’s where you’re wrong,” he said slowly. Lant stared at him, anger burning in his eyes. “You see,” Drallak went on, “When I was a little younger than you, I lived out in Woodkin, by Glumpwood. And the raiders came through and destroyed everything. Literally every single person I knew was dead. The people of this village found me lying in the ruins of my city. So I have lived it, and much, much worse.”

“Then how can you tell me to not be angry?” Lant screamed. “I have every right! My father is gone! He’s never coming back!”

“Go home,” Drallak said, quietly but forcefully. “Come back to me when you’re ready to train.”

Lant threw his sword into the dirt at the Masters’ feet and sped off, leaving the training field. He didn’t stop running until he was in his house, safely within his bedroom. And then it came, just like it had when he had heard the news for the first time. He found himself unable to control his body as sobs wracked it, tears that he wished he could hold back rolling freely down his cheeks.

His mother found him there later, red eyed and curled into a ball. She sat beside him, and rubbed between his shoulder blades. “Have I ever told you about smiling at the west?”

Lant looked up through red-rimmed eyes. “What does that mean?”

“You know that I smile at the sunsets, right?”

“Because they’re beautiful?” he asked.

“No,” his mother told him. “Whenever I see sunsets, it’s like the sun is being taken away from me. It’s a reminder that the night is coming soon. But when I see it, it also reminds me of how blessed a day with the sun is. How glad I am that I got to enjoy it. And that, no matter how long the night seems to last, the day will come again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lant asked.

“It means that no matter how hard your life seems without your father, you can’t forget all the good times you had with him,” his mother said, tears forming in her own eyes. “And that no matter how deep the heartache is, the night doesn’t last forever. It will fade, even if you don’t feel it now, and you will walk in the sunshine again.”

Lant closed his eyes and curled back into it, but his mother’s promise rang in his ears. Just like Cassia’s scream, it echoed and stayed with him for the rest of his life.

Two hours later, Master Drallak received a rap on the door. He opened it to find Lant, whose fiery indignation had changed to steely determination. “Teach me,” he said.

=<>=

Lant hurried along the road, toward Cassia’s house. The afternoon sun was still bright and warm, and a cheer filled his heart. He felt like skipping, but it felt too juvenile, especially wearing his best suit. Instead, he stepped lively along the road to her house. He bounded up the steps, halting and making sure he was put together before knocking sharply.

Cassia’s father answered the door and they shook each other’s hands warmly. After Lant’s father had died, Bap, as he was known around town, had become a surrogate father, just as he had done with many of the children who had experienced the loss of a parent. Lant knew he wouldn’t be half the man he was if Bap and Drallak hadn’t helped him as much as they did.

As they made idle chitchat, Lant noticed Cassia come into the room. She wore a new dress, light blue with a silver sash. Lant greeted her as she came over. “You’re lovely tonight,” her father said, beating Lant to the compliment and leaving the boy’s mouth hanging open.

“I think,” Lant said, hoping Cassia didn’t notice how wide his mouth had been, “The right word is gorgeous.”

Bap smiled, putting his hand on Lant’s shoulder. “Have a good time tonight, you two. Come back safe, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Cassia said, taking Lant’s arm and smiling sweetly at her father. He led her out of the building, Cassia’s parents following. Her mother waved to them with a dishtowel. They waved back, as was their tradition, then strolled up the road toward where the young people of the town were starting to gather.

After a few houses, Cassia let go of his arm, shaking her head. “I’m so nervous for tonight.”

“It’s the same old, same old,” Lant said. “We’ll go, talk, dance a little, then come home. It never changes.”

“But the Westvalers are coming tonight,” Cassia said. “That’s a whole new crowd.” She shivered, though what exactly from, Lant couldn’t tell.

He considered the news. Westvale was about a half-day’s journey away. It wasn’t far for trading, but not usually worth it for a gathering like this one. “I didn’t realize,” he said, scratching his head. “But it’ll still be the same thing, like usual.”

“Maybe,” she said. Then she smiled up at him. “Come on! Let’s stop walking so slow!”

=<>=

~Two Years Prior~

“You’ve improved a lot,” Drallak said. “You’re not the angry little boy who stormed out of here all those years ago.”

Lant, no longer a boy, but not quite a man, smiled back. “Thank you, Master. I do my best.”

“You do indeed,” Drallak said approvingly. “You’re still rough on a few things, but quite frankly, there’s not much I can teach you. I can refine things, but not much more can be taught.”

Lant beamed at the praise. He wasn’t like some of the boys, who were adepts at the blade, and picked it up with hardly any effort. However, through practice and perspiration, he had achieved the same level as they had.

“Now,” Drallak continued, “Isn’t there some sort of social gathering tonight?”

“Yes, sir,” Lant replied. “For the under-twenties.”

“Those were the days,” Drallak commented wistfully. He waved a hand. “Go have some fun, Lant. You’ve deserved it. I’ll see you tomorrow. Feel free to sleep in, if you’d like to.”

“Thank you, Master Drallak!” Lant shouted, turning and running before he could change his mind.

Within two hours, he had arrived at the place that the gathering was happening. It was an old cornfield, which had been unused for years. In the center, there was a huge bonfire being prepared. Lant joined the other boys tossing wood on, laughing and joking with them.

A band was starting up some music, and the girls were starting to grab their friends to get them to dance. And then Lant saw her. She was swaying to the music, her dark hair blowing around her face. Cassia had grown up, and he had hardly noticed. And while he was close friends with her, he didn’t realize how lovely she had become.

He walked over, his knees knocking. “H-hi, Cassia,” he stuttered.

“Hi, Lant,” she said. She looked around, almost nervously. “I’m so glad to see someone I know here.”

“C-could I have th-this dance?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, smiling back.

By the end of the night, Lant was sure he had fallen in love.

=<>=

It had been a long two years, secretly admiring Cassia, but never wanting to broach the subject. There were times that he felt she was interested, then other days, she seemed clearly platonic. As Lant escorted Cassia back to her house in the evening, he listened to her talk about the man she had met, Ashder. He was a Westvaler, she explained, but she had felt completely comfortable with him. “They’re having a dance out there in two weeks, and he asked me to come. Do you think I should go?”

“If that’s what you want, then I think you should go for it,” Lant said, smiling slightly. But his heart wasn’t in it. He was glad the darkness hid his hurt.

“I don’t think my dad wants me to go alone, though,” Cassia said, more to herself.

“I can go with you, if you’d like,” Lant offered.

“Oh, would you?” Cassia asked. Her voice was so hopeful, and although it was too dark to see, Lant knew she was doing her irresistible pleading puppy eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Lant bit his tongue before he could suggest that she not go. “Of course,” he said instead. He could hear the strain in his voice, but Cassia’s mind was so occupied, she didn’t realize.

A few minutes later, he watched her go into her house. Bap waved from the door, and Lant waved back. The older man came down to him, studying him in the half-light from the house.

“How are you, Lant?” he asked.

“I’m doing well,” Lant said, averting his eyes.

“You have a good time tonight?”

“As good as any dance,” Lant said, looking back and smiling.

“Very good. You walk home safe tonight, Lant.”

“Yes, sir,” Lant replied. Then he walked off. Bap watched him go, then went inside. He was awake for many more hours, wondering what was wrong with the young man he had helped raise.

The next morning, Lant walked over to Master Drallak’s house. Before he got to the house, Drallak met him outside. “Good morning, Lant,” he said in his typical brief manner. “If you want to talk to me, you’ll need to walk with me. I’m heading for a meeting with Headmaster Perios.”

“Of course,” Lant said. He fell into step alongside his teacher. “Tell me honestly, sir. How good am I with the weapons you’ve trained me in?”

Drallak hummed. “You’re quite good, overall. Like I’ve said, there are still some flaws in your technique, but they’re things that can be worked out, over time.”

Lant nodded. “How do you think the villagers would think of me if I left?” he asked. “I’m debating whether there’s anything to stay for.”

“Cassia’s not romantically inclined toward you, is she?” Drallak asked bluntly. Lant turned away. He had talked to Drallak about his feeling many times before, but the truth of the words stung him.

“No, sir. She’s talking about this Westvaler she’s met. Ashder.”

“Do you still love her?” Drallak asked.

“With all my heart,” Lant replied.

“Have you told her?”

“Of course not!”

“Why not?” Drallak asked.

“Because…” Lant said, grasping for words. “Because she’s never thought of me that way.” “And she probably never will, unless you talk to her about it,” Drallak said, stopping and turning to him. “Lant, take my advice. Go and talk to her. If she turns you down, then come back and talk to me. But believe me, being open and getting hurt is far preferable to overanalyzing everything she says and does. There’s a chance of being friends after the first. After the second, there’s nothing you can do to be close like that again.”

Lant hung his head. “I suppose so,” he said.

Drallak put a hand on his shoulder. “Cheer up, Lant. It seems hard now, but you’ll pull through, don’t worry.”

“Smile at the west,” Lant murmured to himself, then looked up. “Thank you, Master Drallak.”

As he went to step away, Master Drallak paused once again. “One more thing, Lant. Sometimes, the things we love the most deeply are the very ones we hold the loosest.” He nodded, then turned away. Lant stood with the thought for a second, then walked away as well. Both thought of the conversation for the rest of the day.

=<>=

The silent stumps welcomed Lant. He walked among what remained of the massive trees. Glumpwood, once the place for him to play and have fun, was now a place of solitude and respite for him. As he wandered the aging forest, he thought back to his conversation with Cassia.

He had started hinting how much he cared for her, and she had replied by saying, “I love you, too.” His heart had jumped when he heard it. And then she continued. “I couldn’t have asked for anyone to be a better brother to me. If only you really were family.”

And just like that, his dreams had been crushed. The memory cut across him again. His heart constricted, and he walked deeper into Glumpwood. The day was fading, but the darkness felt right for his emotions.

He looked up at the sky, following the last vestiges of sunlight to the west. He remembered his mother’s words, but he couldn’t. Not at this. There was nothing to smile about. Even the memory of the hope hurt. He wanted to scream with the pain, but no words came. He dropped to his knees, hiding in the shadow of a massive stump.

His thoughts ran rampant. How could it be that he wasn’t enough? Without the hope of Cassia, was his life worth anything? How he wished he could be Ashder.

Jealousy sprang up within his mind, and he had visions of courting Cassia, of professing love and lavishing gifts and love onto her. He saw Ashder’s face, tear-streaked like his own, turning away as Lant and Cassia pledged their lives to each other. For a second, he fantasized about killing the Westvaler, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

Then a new thought began to grow in the dark soil of his mind. Master Drallak’s voice twisted its way through the jealousy and the pain. “Sometimes, the things we love most deeply are the ones we hold most loosely.”

‘Hold her loosely,’ it seemed to be saying. Lant felt his heart break, but he began to realize a hard truth.

Sometimes, love is realizing that you are not the answer.

He didn’t know how long he stayed here. But when he finally arose, it was a new man. Lant was convinced now. His love for Cassia hadn’t died. But it had a new purpose – to make sure she was with the right man. Until that happened, he knew, he couldn’t leave.

He might not be the ultimate answer, but he would help Cassia answer the question along the way.

=<>=

For the next year and a half, Lant was focused on two things: Cassia’s relationship with Ashder, and his weapons training. He sold the farm, and he and his mother moved into town, where his mother was able to get a job as a store clerk. Lant did odd jobs to help keep himself fed, but was confident that when he left, the village would keep his mother in good health.

Every two weeks, and sometimes more besides, Lant and Cassia would ride out to Westvale, where Ashder would meet them. Lant was quickly accepted into their community, and his visits were anticipated.

He, along with the other Westvale men, would swap stories over tankards of ale, and then Lant would stay the night at one of their houses. All of them became close friends over the year and half, though he was closest with Ashder’s friends. “I feel like you’ve replaced him,” was the comment more than once. Lant didn’t mind – Ashder was a good man, and his friends proved it.

Aside from the Westvalers, he would meet traders from further beyond. One of them, Durman, was a regular in the town and took a liking to Lant. One night, while sharing a table between just the two of them, Durman cleared his throat. “So, tell me,” the massive man rumbled, “Why do you continue to bring Cassia here, when you love her like you do?”

Lant looked up, then to the side. “I didn’t think anyone had noticed,” he said quietly.

“Most people don’t see what I do,” Durman replied. He motioned for Lant to continue explaining.

“It’s because I do love her, Durman,” Lant said. He opened and closed his mouth, unsure how to explain the experience in Glumpwood. Finally, he settled on, “Beyond that, I don’t think I can explain it.”

Durman considered for a minute, then nodded. “I think I understand. And if I do, then I’m proud of you. It takes a very strong man to carry that load.”

Again, Lant opened his mouth, but found no words. Instead, he nodded and accepted the compliment.

After a year and half of bi-weekly trips, dances, drink and stories, the awaited day came. As the men sat around drinking their second round and playing dice, Ashder burst into the room, Cassia on his arm.

“Everyone,” he shouted, and the room fell quiet. “I have an announcement to make!” He looked down at Cassia, who grinned broadly up at him. “Cassia and I have decided to get married!”

The room erupted in cheers – Ashder was beloved among the men of Westvale, and everyone had been hoping for this for a long time. The men surrounding Lant were on their feet in excitement, pouring forward to shake Ashder’s hand. All of them, that is, except Durman, who examined Lant carefully. He was surprised to see he was the one smiling the broadest.

Once the congratulatory drinks had been bought and passed around, Durman caught Lant’s arm. “Can I talk to you outside?” he asked, motioning with his head.

Lant nodded and followed the massive man out of the bar. In the hubbub, no one noticed their absence. Once under the brilliant night sky, Durman looked up and pointed to the moon. “Tell me, which is the better friend, the sun or the moon?”

Lant shrugged, his brow furrowing in confusion.”

“At home, we have a proverb,” Durman explained. “Who is the truer friend, the sun or the moon? The moon is by far the better friend. For the sun is with you in the day – but only the moon walks through the darkness of the night with you.” He reached into a chest pocket. “You’re going to walk through night very soon, but I want you to take this.” He uncurled a massive hand and held out an ornately carved wooden crescent moon, hanging on a loop of leather like a necklace. “If you need me, I’ll walk through the dark with you, Lant,” Durman said seriously. “Don’t forget that.”

“Thank you,” Lant said. He stuck out his hand. “I’ll remember you, Durman. I promise.”

=<>=

As Cassia prepared in the front room, there was a knock on the door. Her mother looked up. “Now who could that be?” she asked, rather flustered. She peeked out the front door, expecting a busybody. “Oh, Lant,” she said, pulling the door open and allowing him to come in.

“Hello, Cassia,” he said, stepping in quietly. He looked down at her mother. “Can I have a moment alone?” he asked. Cassia’s mother nodded and slipped into the back room.

“Are you ready for this?” Lant asked, stepping towards Cassia.

Cassia was smiling as she looked up. Then she caught his eyes. The breath went out of her, and she was stunned by what she saw there. In that instant, she saw all the love he had held for her over the years. All the unsaid words and unexpressed feelings were passed through the single glance.

“Why?” she asked, taking a short step back, finding it suddenly hard to breath. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because,” Lant said, instantly knowing what had happened, “While I love you, I’m not right for you. I never was. I never will be. And I’m fine with that, Cassia. What matters is that you’re happy with Ashder,” Lant smiled. “He’s a good man. I know him from his friends. You’re well suited for each other.”

“But you?” Cassia said, suddenly connecting all of the dots and realizing how much pain her friend had gone through – how much she had unwittingly put him through. “Will you be okay?”

Lant hugged her, one final time. “Of course I will be,” he said. “I’ve made my peace with my decision, and have for years. But I’m leaving tonight. I’ll probably never see you again, Cassia. But I don’t want you to think I’m leaving because of you. I’m not – I just need to find out who I am right for. Or who’s right for me.” He looked down at the ground, smiling faintly, then lifted his face. “And one last thing. Thank you.”

“For what?” Cassia asked, reaching out a hand, as if asking him not to leave.

“For…” Lant said, then finished firmly. “For being you.” He exhaled sharply and withdrew a letter. “This will explain better,” he said, putting it into her hand. He saw tears in her eyes, and hoped that the letter would help them dry. “I love you, Cassia,” he said quietly, “And I am so very, very happy for you.”

Then, unable to continue, he turned around and left, closing the door behind him and on Cassia for good. He hurried down the steps and to the path, hiding the tears on his cheeks. His rucksack was leaning against the stairs, and he shouldered it, the weight barely present on his now-muscular frame.

He had said goodbye to his mother before he came to see Cassia, and suddenly, he felt the loss of connection very deeply. But he didn’t turn around. Instead, he put his head down and walked faster, heading due east from the town.

He walked for hours, arriving at the army grounds in the late afternoon. The bored looking man behind a desk near the front nodded at him as he approached. “Wut can I do fer yah?” he asked.

“I’m looking to sign up,” Lant said.

“Sure thing,” the man said, leaning forward and pulling out a sheet of paper. “I’ll need yah name.”

Lant hesitated. “Does the old rule still apply? The one that says if a man joins the military, he can change his name?”

“Course it does!” the man replied. “Waddya like to be called?”

Lant thought. He had thought about it, but never really decided. He wanted to honor Master Drallak, but that name would be too close to home. Then he remember that what Drallak was to him, Headmaster Perios had been to Drallak. He came to his decision. “Perios,” he said. “Call me Perios.”

“Well, then, Perios,” the man said. “Welcome to the Army of the Ishtan Federation.”

Only a little while later, he had been outfitted in the armor of the Ishtan Federation. He had been shown to his barracks, where he shared a room with three other men. All of them had seemed as welcoming as could be expected in the military.

And now he stood, facing the way he had come. His armor was in his barrack, but he still carried the sword at his hip. The sun was slowly dying into the sky, the colors bleeding throughout the horizon. He pulled the sword from the scabbard. He held it up, admiring it in the last light of the day. He took a deep breath, allowing it to hang limply by the side. He faced the setting sun. His mother’s words came back to him, and he nodded. This setting sun, he decided, would remind him of the days of Lant. The carefree days of youth. As the sun disappeared, Perios took a deep breath.

And then he smiled at the west.

Part the Second: Obliteration Without Direction

Perios ducked into the tent that he shared with his squad. Leonard Cathgard looked up. He was a stocky man, with sprawling red hair that sprouted from nearly every available surface of skin. “Perios, good to see you,” he said.

Esteban Villith, short, fair skinned, but tougher than most men Perios knew, lounged on his cot. “Well, for the most part,” he said, grinning cheekily, his scarred arms crossing behind his head.

Habish Tuddle, the final member of the squad, rose to his feet and saluted. Out of the four, he was the most physically imposing, with a gigantic frame that filled the tent. But all of them obviously respected Perios.

Some men have skill with the blade – an uncanny ability to sense and feel their blade and the blade of their opponent. Perios didn’t have it naturally, but he had trained himself until he had did. And in Leonard’s eyes, that made him an even more fearsome warrior than someone who was born with the gift.

By nature, Perios was a man of action, and often, a leader. People respected him, and none more than these three, who fought alongside him for nearly the entirety of his military career.

“Where’ve you been, Perios?” Habish asked, sitting back down.

“Getting our orders,” Perios said. Officially, he was considered a captain of the Ishtan Federation, but unlike most captains, he only had his squad to direct. Likewise, the other three were officially subordinates, and though they jokingly (though respectfully) called him commander, all four treated each other equally, and for good reason.

Habish was strength incarnate. His ability to crush opposing troops with the two massive war hammers he carried was renown throughout the land. Esteban preferred using a short sword and small shield with minimal armor – hence the numerous scars crisscrossing his body. Leonard favored his swordstaff, which had small, dagger-like blades on either end. All four were fiercely loyal to each other, and were respected by anyone they came across.

“The only ones who don’t respect them,” it was said, “Are the ones who will be killed.”

Perios’ squad moved from encampment to encampment, adding their strength as an elite unit to supplement the troops already there. There were twenty or thirty such squads, comprised of some of the most skilled warriors within the Ishtan Federation – and Perios made sure that their squad was one of the best.

“And our orders are?” Leonard asked, scratching his beard.

“There’s a town, right on the border,” Perios said. “It’s a major trading outlet. If we can take that, we’ll be in control of at nearly all the trade going in and out of Tuleen will be cut off.”

“Rashin, right?” Habish asked. Perios nodded. “We’ve been trying to take that for years,” Habish continued. “It’s never been successful.”

Perios’s eyes twinkled dangerously. “The Ishtan Federation has been trying to take it. We, on the other hand, have not.”

“You think we can do what an army can’t?” Esteban said, smirking.

“I believe we can,” Perios said. His eyes flashed in the same way again as he pulled out a map of the city. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

The city of Rashin had started as a simple dwelling by a well. But it had grown from that into a sprawling maze of houses, shops, restaurants and places of worship, all closed in by a thick wood and rock wall, protecting the citizens from attack.

The army of the Ishtan Federation marched on Rashin the way an executioner approaches doomed convict. Unlike a convict, however, they did not find the city with a hood, awaiting their death. Instead, the town was active, preparing defenses. All along the wall, scouts reported, were catapults and ballistae. Additionally, they had a garrison of archers, just waiting for the soldiers to step into range.

The Ishtan army halted about a mile away from the city, and began to set up their base camp. As they did so, four men slipped out of camp and toward the city. Esteban led the way, having grown up near the Tuleen border. They took a circuitous route, coming around to the side of Rashin.

“Tuleenians aren’t morons,” Perios had explained. “They’ll set up a guard all along. But they are predictable. They set up their largest number on the sides facing directly at the enemy, and the sides facing directly away from the enemy. It’s a good strategy, but leaves the sides open.”

As they approached the city, they began to slow down, being wary that they might be spotted. Habish called out to the others. “I found a cave!”

Perios crept over to him. The cave was large enough to fit all four of them, even Habish. It found a perfect ratio of not being too far from the wall, but wasn’t so close that there was a chance of someone spotting them. He nodded, motioning for the others to join him.

Esteban retrieved a small pack of energy pills, to help keep them awake for the coming night. He handed them around, and it quickly grew quiet. Perios sat erect, watching the wall. He regulated his breathing, preparing himself for the mission that was to come. He already knew it was going to be a long afternoon.

Leonard pulled himself over the rampart, crouching in the shadows of the low wall. He crept along toward the northern tower, Esteban climbing up behind him. The scarred warrior turned the opposite direction and started toward the eastern tower. Perios trusted both to do their jobs quickly and quietly.

Meanwhile, Perios and Habish slipped down into the city. As they approached the light, they became common men, laughing and joking at some inside joke. It burned Perios not to have his sword at his side, but it was a necessary affliction if the mission was to succeed.

Rashin was a large enough town, with a big enough merchant populace, that once inside, people were not checked a second time. The two ambled through the streets, laughing, until they came into the deserted market. Perios walked up to a tent and cut a small hole, peeking through it. He shook his head, and moved on. After several attempts, he grinned and sliced a neat hole down the entire way.

Habish snorted softly as he looked in. “You were right,” he said, when he saw the large jars sitting in a neat pile.

“I told you,” Perios said, quietly. “They’re setting up for war. What better time to sell pitch?”

There was a slight noise behind them. Perios turned to find a young boy, in his early teens, looking at them in surprise. A slight squeak popped out of his mouth, and he turned and ran to the end of the row of tents.

That was as far as he got. Taking one step forward, Perios reached into his cloak and pulled out his knife. Without pausing, he threw it, striking the boy in the middle of the back. Even as the knife left his hand, Perios followed it, swinging his cloak off and throwing it over the boy’s head to stifle any noise. Death not instantaneous, but neither did it take long. Once the movement stopped, he pulled the body away, then turned back to Habish.

“Let’s get to it, then,” Perios said.

Habish nodded, and walked to the rack. He pulled the first jar down, and handed it to Perios, who grunted with the weight. Perios walked to a nearby tent and ripped a hole big enough to push through. Inside lay a large stack of cloth wares. Carefully, Perios lay a trail of pitch from the top of the cloth, out into the street, where Habish met him with another jar.

All night they worked, laying pitch in the shadows of the town. The only people who would find it, Perios knew, where the drunks and the castaways. And no one would listen to either of them. When they were finished, there was a web of pitch laid through the major portion of Rashin. Anyone they had encountered was silent in the grave.

They returned to the northeastern wall, and Perios gave three short whistles. Instantly, he could see the soldiers on the far walls perk up, their attention caught. Only a few seconds later, there was a hissing noise from both the northern and eastern towers. Esteban and Leonard had taken control of the ballistae in both towers, and now turned the flaming arrows into the town itself.

Their aim was true. With a sudden roar, the pitch caught fire. The flames shot through the town, lighting fire to every building it touched. Seconds later, the screams started.

From his perch on the wall, Perios watched the fire, his cold eyes untouched by the heat. Dimly, he recognized that the sun was rising in the east, but he didn’t care. This burning city was his sunrise. It was the dawn on a new era. The era of the Ishtan Federation.

Within the day, Rashin had surrendered to the Ishtan Federation’s control. Not a single Ishtan soldier had been killed or even injured. Perios was recognized in front of the army. He grinned savagely at those cheering at him. He knew they would follow him to death and beyond. Head General Kermdal may have the final say, but Perios was the people’s leader.

In their cheers, he was called the Consuming Fire. No name fit better, Perios thought. The unbridled strength of the flames was just like the raging passion that drove him.

The cheering died down, the presentation finished. The men turned to looting the remains of Rashin, as little as they were. Perios and his team returned to General Kermdal’s headquarters, set up in the former governor’s home. The Head General greeted Perios with a brisk nod. The three tacticians who traveled with Kermdal were gathered around a map, muttering between themselves on how they were going to continue the assault into Tuleen.

“We have good positioning now,” one man, Grigor, said, looking up at the four men, before looking back down. “But we need to continue to press forward.”

“Without pressing too hard,” the second, Achel, said. “We can’t stretch ourselves too thin.”

“But we cannot become lax in our waiting,” the third, Brindle, finished. “Or else they will destroy us.”

“They’ll become angry about this,” Achel said without looking up. “Without Rashin to supply them, they’ll become desperate. And desperate men will do desperate things.”

“And desperate things are often foolish,” Brindle put in. “Meaning that we may have the opportunity to crush them here and now.”

The conversation continued, but Perios tuned it out. “You called for us, General?”

Kermdal nodded. “Several members of the garrison have fled into the surrounding towns and villages. I was hoping you would track them down for me.”

“Of course,” Perios said. He motioned with his head to the door, and his squad turned to leave.

“Would you like a regiment to accompany you?” Kermdal asked. He knew the answer, but asked out of courtesy.

“Send them to the northwest,” Perios said, not looking back. “I’ll go northeast.” He pushed the door open and led the way into the scorched street. Together, the four made their way to open air stables that the army was using.

“Captain Perios!” called Crogan Nubber, the horsemaster, as they approached. He was inside the stable, cleaning a hoof, but set the job down and came to the fence.

“Nubber,” Perios said, nodding in return. “Is my horse ready?”

“All four are ready to go!” Nubber said, smiling and showing the large gap where his two bottom teeth should’ve been. “They’re around back, though.”

Perios nodded his affirmation, then guided the others around the fence, to where their mounts waited. “We should be back by tomorrow at the latest,” he told the boys watching the horses. “Make sure Nubber knows that.”

“We will!” they chimed, but Perios was already wheeling away, toward the northeast gate. The group left, riding hard. Esteban called for a halt only a half-hour into the ride. “Tracks,” he said. He slid down from his horse, and began to lead the way into the forest.

They hiked for hours, until Esteban called for quiet. “We’re getting close. The prints are fresh here.”

“There’s a house up ahead,” Leonard noted.

“Habish, Leonard, flank around. Esteban, come with me,” Perios ordered, sneaking forward. They approached a small clearing that held a cabin.

The tracks lead directly to that house,” Esteban said. Perios nodded, then stepped directly into the clearing, in plain sight.

“What’s he doing?” Habish asked incredulously. “He’s going to get shot!”

The door burst open, and a man dressed in the Tuleen colors and holding a bow stood in it the entrance. “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll kill you.”

“Harsh words,” Perios said. “You don’t even know who I am.”

“Of course I do! You’re Perios, the Consuming Fire! It’ll be my pleasure to kill you.”

Perios considered. “Consuming Fire. I do like that title.” He pulled out his sword. “Go for it, old man,” he sneered.

The guard fired. Perios dodged, but it was too close for Esteban’s comfort. He moved forward, getting ready to rush across the yard and kill the archer himself.

“You mock my skill,” Perios said, taking steps forward. Nervous now, the archer fumbled, trying to get an arrow on the bow. He did, and fired. But it was a weak shot, and barely penetrated Perios’ arm. The scratch was painful, but far from debilitating.

“Fortunately, that’s not my sword arm,” Perios hissed, bringing the blade up and running the man through. From inside the house, a woman screamed. Perios withdrew his sword and stepped over the body. “Good evening, ma’am,” he said. “How can I help you tonight?”

“You beast!” she screamed. “That was my brother!”

“Pity,” Perios said. He pulled the arrow out, grabbing a towel from by the stove and holding it against the wound. “If he hadn’t been a Tuleen, I might have let him live.”

“Beast!” she said, charging. Perios dropped the sword, and grabbed her. She struggled, but even injured, she was no match. Perios held her down, whistling for his squad. They converged, carefully watching the treeline to make sure no one else was watching.

“Now, ma’am,” Perios continued, “I’ll be happy to spare your life. All that is required is to swear allegiance to the Ishtan Federation.”

“Never!” she screamed, spitting on him.

Perios looked at her with cold eyes. “Wrong choice.” He motioned with his head. “Bring some rope, please.”

“This isn’t necessary,” Habish muttered.

“It is,” Perios replied, his voice broaching no argument. “Now, give me the rope.”

Once the rope was procured, he bound the woman, dragging her upright by her hair. “They call me the Consuming Fire,” he said, his voice still as cold as a winter’s morning. “I suppose I should live up to the name.”

Dragging the woman to the wall, he looped the rope around a beam and tied it so that she was unable to free herself. He then returned to the stove, grabbing the grate and pulling it free. With swift stroke of the poker, he pulled the burning brands into the middle of the room.

“It won’t be quick,” Perios said, turning to the woman. “I can promise you that much.” Then, with quick strides, he left the building, his team following behind. Habish paused before leaving, but shook his head and joined the others.

And so the fame, and fear, of Perios, the Consuming Fire, spread. Smaller cities, instead of putting up a fight, or evacuating, surrendered after hearing that Perios was descending on them. Larger cities were left in ruins.

Fire became Perios’ signature. He would dip his blade into oil before beginning a battle and light it. Just to see the burning blade was enough for many soldier to break rank and run. Those that stayed faced not only Perios, but the entire army that came behind.

Ishtan dove further and further into Tuleen’s territory. Several times, it looked like Tuleen would surrender, but they continually brought back more reserves, or found a new area to retreat to.

Finally, General Kermdal called Perios and his squad into his war room, and pointed to a massive black circle on the map. “We might be able to end this war, in one more battle.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Habish muttered. He had long since grown sick of war, and only fought now because of his loyalty to Perios. Besides that, one of the many ‘last battles’ had been near his childhood home. Like many other places, it was no more.

Leonard jabbed him in the ribs and Esteban glared, but Perios and Kermdal hadn’t noticed. “Gonnicksburg?” Perios asked. “You want us to attack the most fortified city in Tuleen?” He studied Kermdal’s face. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not. If we take Gonnicksburg, it’ll be the same as controlling all of Tuleen. The war will fundamentally be over.”

Perios sighed. “I suppose there’s no way around it, then. What’s your plan?”

“Glad you asked,” Kermdal said. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

As before, Perios and his squad left before the main encampment. They rode through the night, the shadows playing tricks on their eyes. “The Forest of Knull,” Perios said as they rode. “They say spirits live here to toy with human minds.”

“I can understand why,” Esteban said, blinking his eyes. “I could have sworn I just saw my mother standing there.”

“And my home,” Habish said. “Before it was destroyed.”

Perios tried to ignore the shape of the misty darkness, but in his mind’s eye, he saw the shapes twist into faces and forms – people from his past, the cities he had burned, men and women he had killed.

“What is this?” Leonard said, slowing his horse. “It’s as if it’s calling me to something.”

“Continue riding, men,” Perios called. “We have a schedule to keep.”

Leonard snapped out of his stupor and began to ride again. In only a few minutes, the desire to stop and follow the shadows had faded, as had the apparitions themselves.

“I never want to ride through there again,” he said softly.

“Nor do I,” Habish said. “Something in that place… It is not natural.”

“Come,” Perios said derisively, “Next you’re going to be talking about Ellyat. Let’s leave the myths at home, shall we?”

“If even seasoned soldiers as we are shaken by walking through the Forests of Knull,” Habish murmured, “How dreadful must it be?”

Perios sighed, but it was not a sigh of resignation, but one of annoyance. He didn’t want to admit it, but the sights he had seen had made him relive all of the actions he had taken over the years. What he had seen, what he had done – it was all weighing on his shoulders like never before. “We have a city to capture,” he said finally. “Let’s go.”

“Very well,” Leonard said. They rode on, their minds occupied with the things they had seen and felt.

As night turned into morning, they came into sight of Gonnicksburg. Thick walls, nearly twenty feet high, surrounded the town. The walls were further protected by a thick moat that wrapped around the city.

“How is it that the walls are round?” Habish asked. “Aren’t these sort of places usually squares?”

“Typically, yes,” Perios said, eyeing the walls and moat. “But Gonnicksburg was originally built by a group of warriors from across the sea, where all cities have rounded walls.”

Habish grunted in reply. He hadn’t actually cared, but was just thinking out loud.

“Do we begin, then?” Esteban asked.

“Yes,” Perios said, then punched Esteban in the face. His fair skin was soon speckled with red. “Did I break your nose?” Perios asked.

“Don’t think so,” Esteban said, grinning. It faded when Perios kicked him in the side of the head.

After a little more beating, Perios nodded. “We’re ready. Mount up!”

The squad mounted, and Esteban took the lead, riding toward Gonnicksburg as fast as he could. Perios spurred his horse after the fleeing man, trying his best to capture him. Esteban had been given the better horse, however, and he continued to draw away.

“He wears the Tuleen colors well,” Leonard commented, pulling past Perios. “Good selection.”

Perios snorted a laugh. “I’ll tell the tailors.” He looked up at the walls. “Keep going for just a little more. The archers are getting ready.”

“And they can actually shoot,” Habish added.

They rode on, Esteban shooting towards the gatehouse. The portcullis opened, and a group of ten knights appeared. All wore glistening armor and carried wickedly sharp lances.

“That’s our cue,” Perios said, pulling his horse around. “Fall back!”

Meanwhile, in the city, Esteban was taken to the infirmary, where he gave his report. “I was riding with the 52nd Legion. They were captured by the Ishtans. I only escaped because I was out scouting.”

It was true. The 52nd Legion had been wiped out only a few days earlier. And scouts had escaped – but not for long. Even though his story was credible, he was still placed under guard as the military found the records to ensure he was who he said he was. Esteban didn’t mind though. In fact, it made his job even easier.

The day passed slowly, and Esteban began to make friends with his guard. They joked about the destruction of the Ishtan Federation, discussed going home after the war and their families.

Once night fell, and the surgeons had left for the night, Esteban rose from his bed. “I need to ease my system,” he said, rubbing his stomach in a meaningful way.

“Of course,” his guard said, laughing. “Right this way.”

Esteban let himself be led down to the lavatories, memorizing the details of the infirmary. Once there, Esteban grabbed the guard’s neck. Before he could cry out, his windpipe was crushed. Esteban dragged the body into the bathroom and began to exchange his clothes.

Now dressed as a guard, he hauled the body back into his room, laying it down under the sheets to give the appearance that Esteban had fallen asleep. Once he was finished, Esteban took to the stairs, leaving the infirmary and heading to the armory.

In a few minutes, his job was finished, and he left, on his way to the next building. After visiting the barracks, he wound his way through the city until he came to the gatehouse.

“No time like the present,” he said, taking a torch from the wall beside him. He touched it to the pitch he had been spreading behind him, and the flame scurried off.

Esteban began to count. When he hit thirty, the barracks exploded into flames. At fifty, the armory followed. Men began to run towards the burning buildings, but Esteban turned the other way.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said to the men guarding the portcullis, “I’m going to need to open that.”

“Who are you?” one of them asked, drawing a sword.

Esteban grinned, though they couldn’t see it. Then, without a word, he attacked.

Perios watched the fire burst from above the walls. He grinned, glancing behind him at the army, hidden in the trees and darkness. “Warriors of the Ishtan Federation!” he roared, “To battle!” He touched his oil-streaked sword to a passing torch-bearer, then spurred his horse forward. As he approached Gonnicksburg, his trepidation mounted. The gates weren’t open yet, and he could see archers on the wall.

“Sir?” someone riding beside him asked.

“We keep riding!” Perios roared. “The gates will open!”

Then there it was – the creaking of chains, and the portcullis began to rise. Slowly, but surely, it lifted high enough for Perios to pass under. A roar went up from the Ishtan Federation, and they swept into Gonnicksburg.

“It’s a good day!” Esteban roared as the crowd passed. He pulled out his sword again and joined them, surging into the city. Behind them, Ishtan’s trebuchets and catapults began to fire their deadly missiles – heavy rocks and massive pots of burning pitch and oil, both of which caused destruction wherever they landed.

Immediately, the fighting was fierce and thick. There were no tactics, no showing off, only skill against skill, brute strength against brute strength. Perios led the first wave, cutting down man after man, heading for the large structure in the middle of the town. His burning blade was no longer on fire, having been quenched by the countless gallons of blood he had spilled. But it continued to carve a bloody path through the soldiers of Gonnicksburg.

Around him, men were struck down by arrows, fired from on the wall. “Bring those men down!” Perios roared, but no one could hear him over the din. So, instead, he pulled his horse around and headed for the stairs himself.

Esteban, Habish and Leonard saw him go, and turned to follow, only to be caught by a squadron of Tuleen soldiers. Habish raised his hammers, and Esteban and Leonard crouched into a fighter’s stance. Then they charged together.

The squadron never had a chance, though they fought bravely. One by one, they fell to the weapons of Perios’ squad. As soon as the last one fell, they continued to run towards the stairs.

On top of the wall, Perios was performing a macabre dance, spinning from one archer to another, running them through or just pushing them off into the burning barracks below. As Habish watched, he finished off the last one, and turned to look over the city. He lifted his sword and spear in exultant glory. The lights of the fire danced in his face, and he roared in a primal way. He had never risen higher than this, he knew. It was the moment of pure bliss. “The Consuming Fire,” Habish said, his heart dropping. He did not know if it would be possible to bring his captain back to the strong, dependable man that he had first met. This man was filled with rage and pride. As he contemplated, Habish slew another Tuleen soldier that approached.

Unbeknownst to any of them, however, an Ishtan catapult had let loose a massive rock directly for where Perios stood. And even as he exulted in his own glory, it struck the wall behind him, shattering the rock he stood on.

Perios stumbled, but there was nowhere to regain his footing. He tumbled forward, and to the horrified eyes of his squad, fell directly into the burning barracks.

Without addressing each other, the three ran towards the flames, uncaring of the brilliant heat. Habish led the way, bursting through the burning door with his hammer. Flames licked around them, but they heedlessly ran through them, to where Perios lay groaning on the floor.

He had landed on the roof, which had collapsed under him. He now lay on the burning shingles, his clothes already alight. “Pull him off!” Esteban yelled, taking in a lung full of smoke. He coughed as he exhaled, reaching down to pick up the fallen leader.

“We need to get out of here,” Habish called. He took Perios from Esteban, throwing him over one shoulder. “Lead the way.”

Esteban ran toward the door, Habish directly behind, and Leonard bringing up the rear. Esteban burst through, and ran forward, directly onto the pike of a Tuleen soldier. Both the soldier and Esteban’s eyes’ went wide with shock. Esteban dropped his sword, and gripped the pikeshaft, staring at his lifeblood pouring from his body.

With his free hand, Habish swung his hammer, slaying the pikeman with ease. Leonard knelt and checked Esteban’s pulse. “He’s gone,” he said shortly.

Habish let out a curse, but turned away. It was a dangerous occupation to be a soldier. Esteban Villith knew the risks, just as they all did. They began to run again, careful not to jostle their captain too much. More Tuleen soldiers appeared in front of them, and Leonard sprang forward, pulling out his swordstaff. He stabbed left and right, clearing a path for Habish, who continued to swing one handed, pushing through the massive crowd.

A group was closing in from behind, and Leonard turned. “Keep going! I’ll hold them off!”

A horn of the Ishtan Federation sounded. It filled Habish’s heart with dread. “They call for a retreat?” he shouted, demanding answers.

“Reinforcements have arrived to support Tuleen,” another Ishtan Federation soldier yelled back, running for the door themselves. “We’ve been caught in a pincer movement.”

“The entire city was a massive trap,” Habish said quietly. He glanced behind him, and saw Leonard holding back a group of nearly twenty men. He opened his mouth, about to call for his friend to run, when a sword took Leonard through the side. He fell, still trying to fight, until another soldier lifted a sword to finish him.

Habish didn’t stay to watch Leonard Cathgard fall. Instead, he turned and ran for the portcullis. The Tuleenians were trying to take it back, but Habish wouldn’t let them. He lifted Perios to the passing horsemen. “Take this man to safety!” he shouted, hoping someone would notice.

Finally, one of them stopped and lifted Perios onto his horse. Perios’ eyes opened slightly, and Habish nodded toward him. “Live for us, commander. You go and you live your life. Live it to the fullest, for us.”

Then he turned and lifted his hammer in both hands. The horseman rode off. The last Perios saw of Habish Tuddle, he was sending men flying through the air, his hammer swinging like that of a man of myth. Then darkness overtook his vision.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” It was the first words that Perios had tried to speak.

“Your squad? Yes.”

“Then I failed them.” Perios coughed. “All four of us, we were explosions waiting to happen. Destruction – no. Obliteration. They thought we were obliteration with direction.”

“You need to rest, Perios. You’re talking nonsense.”

Perios’ eyes sprang open. “It’s not nonsense. It’s truth. We were obliteration incarnate, directed at the Tuleenians. But you can’t control obliteration, not for long.” His eyes caught the eyes of the surgeon. “So it is any wonder that we ended up destroying ourselves?” He closed his eyes. “If you throw a jar of pitch too close to yourself, you’ll burn along with your enemies.” There was a pause, and then, quietly, Perios finished, “No matter what you try to do, obliteration always ends up without direction.”

Then he was quiet, and refused to talk again.

Three weeks later, a man walked from a surgeon’s tent. He was once a brilliant commander, a ruthless killer, and the leader of the greatest squad in the Ishtan Federation. But now, his army was defeated, his squad killed, and he was left with nothing.

The soldiers of a losing army watched him go. He was bent over, his body wrapped in a massive cloak. One of them called to him. “You there! Sir, where you at Gonnicksburg?”

His voice was raspy. “Yes. I was.”

“You’re the Consuming Fire, aren’t you?” the soldier asked.

The man looked him in the eye. His face was still scabbed, parts wrapped in bandages. His eyes were bloodshot, giving him a crazed look. “Perios is dead,” the man replied. “My name is Cathgard Villith Tuddle.”

With that, the man who carried the names of his dead comrades turned away and limped out of the camp. The dawn spread crimson flames across the horizon, and Cathgard Villith Tuddle cursed. A dawn of a new life was rising – and it was not one he looked forward to.

Part the Third: The Darkness and the Moon

The bartender cast his gaze toward the dim corner. There, nearly hidden in the darkness, sat the same man who had occupied the corner every day that week. And when he was not in his corner, the bartender had found him in the stable next door.

He was well-built – not stocky like the bartender, but well-muscled, like a farmer or a soldier. And judging by the scars, he had spent significant time on the front lines.

The bartender wasn’t going to kick the man out – he had seen what happened to people left to the streets – but it didn’t mean that he wasn’t nervous with having a mindless sot in his residence daily. The man looked, and smelled, like he hadn’t bathed in at least a month, and his clothes were in even worse condition. The bartender had begun watering his drinks down to lower the alcohol content, but didn’t know what he was going to do once the man was sober.

“What have you seen?” the bartender asked quietly. His brother had been a soldier once – to watch him crawl out of his despair had been heartbreaking, and that was surrounded by a loving family. This man, he had no one, as far as the bartender could see.

If the bartender could see into the man’s soul, he would have seen grief beyond belief. Regret like the ocean, eroding the shores of sanity. The man hoped that the alcohol would be a barrier island, holding back the relentless waves. But it was instead a rushing wind, pushing the water even harder against him.

How he wished he could go back and change his choices. How he wished he had stayed and become a farmer, just like everyone else in his village. Everything had been taken from him.

Ah, in those days of youth. Of idle fantasy, where he would marry the one he loved and live happily forever.

“Of course I love you, Lant,” he hears her say in his mind, “I couldn’t have asked for a better brother than you.”

How those words burned him. Another memory, unbidden, rises to his mind, only to be choked by a swallow of ale. Avoid the thoughts, he thinks to himself, and then they’ll pass away, like desperate dreams in the night. Fill the cry of anger with the call of whiskey. Whatever it takes, just to hide away.

His name – Lant. How he misses that name. It’s a name of youth and innocence. “Smile at the west,” his mother’s voice calls to him. “Because even when sunset brings night, you can be sure that the day will come again.”

His mother. Another regret – another draw of ale. What happened to her, he wonders? Is she still alive? Was that night the last…? He refuses to think of it, and instead focuses on downing another cup.

“Welcome to the Ishtan Federation,” he hears in his brain. He had gone there, running from his regret. Trying not to think about her. It was on her wedding night, of all times. He had left town, running… He takes another sip, hiding his thoughts.

“Call me Perios,” his own voice mocks him. So hubristic – thinking he could lay his old life down and exchange it for a new one. It had worked, but not for long.

A figure appears in his mind’s eye, a massively built man. “My name’s Habish. Nice to meet you, Perios.” Always respectful, Habish.

“I’m Leonard. And that’s Esteban.” Two more men, closer to his own size. Both equally dangerous. “You’re our new captain, correct?” They had trusted him with their lives.

A city, alight with fire. The warrior known as Perios exulting in the kill, roaring his victory. The image is mirrored, but this time, the warrior is struck from behind and falls from the wall, into a burning building. A squad, giving their life for him.

“Live for us, Commander,” Habish says, turning away to face his death. “Live your life to the fullest.”

Now, instead of drinking, the man throws out his arm, sweeping the nearly empty cup off the table. The sharp crack of pewter shattering startles the other patrons, and the bartender’s eyes narrow at the offensive party.

The man, once a youthful innocent, then a soulless killer – twice broken, but only partially rebuilt – buried his face in his arms and wept.

The bartender wiped his brow. “I tell you, I don’t know what to do with him.” The man he was talking to, a massively built man, wearing a thick, dark grey shirt, covered in a mottled cloak, nodded sympathetically. “My heart breaks for him, of course, but I can’t very well leave him in the corner for much longer. Especially not after that outburst yesterday.”

“Would you like me talk to him?” the man said. “Sometimes, just getting to the heart of the issue and dealing with it destroys whatever hold alcohol has on a man.”

The bartender sighed. “Would you mind? I don’t dare ask you do anything you don’t want to, but it would be such a relief. I know you’re far more skilled at that than me.”

“I’d be happy to,” the large man replied. He took another sip of his drink – nothing too strong, but enough to give him a touch of warmth after his travels – then pushed away from the counter.

He walked across the large room, his presence imposing, yet somehow comforting. The regulars knew him, as he often stopped in on his travels. A few nodded as he walked past, noticing the determined step and focused attention. As he sat down, the besotted man across the table looked up, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused.

“Hello,” the grey-clad man said, compassion in his voice. “What’s your name?”

The man only grunted in response, turning his attention back to the ale-filled tankard in front of him.

“Nice to meet you,” the big man said pleasantly. “I’m Durman. Where do you come from?”

At the name, the man paused, but then began to move again, slowly taking a sip from his tankard. As he did so, Durman noticed the necklace hanging over the filthy shirt. The carefully carved crescent moon, partially burnt, struck a chord in his memory, but he couldn’t place where exactly it came from.

The man set the tankard down loudly. “I’m from far away,” he said, so quietly that Durman nearly missed it.

“I can tell,” Durman replied, still cheerful, though thoughtful. “You look like you’ve seen a lot.” His eyes flickered to the crescent, then back at the man’s face.

The man grunted again, his bloodshot eyes catching Durman’s clear ones. Through the still-healing wounds and ragged beard, Durman caught sight of something familiar. Even as placid and unflappable as he was, Durman couldn’t stop the hiss of surprise that spat through his lips.

“Lant?” he said, shocked. “Wha… How are you here?”

The man startled at the name, his drunken mind trying to figure out how this massive lumberjack knew it. “How do you know that name?” he demanded, pushing himself onto unsteady feet.

“I’m Durman,” the big man replied. “I knew you a long time ago, Lant. We were friends.”

“Lant… Lant’s dead!” the drunken man spat. “Perios is dead! I’m-” he teetered, but caught himself and haltingly roared, “I’m Cathgard Villith Tuddle!” The declaration finished, he reached down for his cup, but found it in the hand of Durman. “Give that here,” he said, reaching for the cup.

Durman pushed his hand away. “You’ve had enough, Lant, or Cathgard, or whatever you call yourself now.”

“Give me my cup,” Cathgard threated, “Or I’ll kill you.”

“You don’t have the brains to even wound me,” Durman replied casually. Cathgard screamed a curse, then threw himself at Durman, who remained seated. With one strong hand, he calmly redirected Cathgard away from himself and toward an empty table. Then, setting the tankard down, he stood up and faced the drunken assailant. Cathgard was stumbling towards him, but all of his fighting skill had vanished, along with his inhibitions.

Durman stepped to the side, grabbing Cathgard’s arm and twisted it behind his back. Using the drunk’s own momentum, he pushed him to the ground and pinned him. “Excuse me,” he called to the barkeep, “Do you think that there’s a room I could put this fine gentleman in?”

It had been three days since Cathgard Villith Tuddle had enjoyed the taste and embrace of alcohol. He sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed. He heard the deadbolt push open and the door’s hinges squeak.

“Good morning, Lant.” It was Durman’s voice.

“That’s not my name,” he replied. “Call me Tuddle.”

“That doesn’t really seem to fit you,” Durman commented. There was a clink as he set something on the nearby table.

“Am I allowed to leave today?” Tuddle asked.

“Possibly,” Durman replied. “Where are you planning on going?”

“Anywhere but this cursed room.”

There was a smile in Durman’s voice as he replied, “You’re welcome to come with me. A friend of mine seems to be having some issues with werewolves.”

“There are no such things,” Tuddle said.

“Not in the mythical sense, no. But these aren’t your typical wolves,” Durman explained. “The Borad Peaks are known for containing wolves the size of ponies. The locals call them werewolves. In your schooling, they might have called them apex alphas.”

Tuddle grunted, his eyes still closed.

“In any case, if you’re interested, you’re welcome to come and hunt with me,” Durman continued. “I could use someone with your level of skill with a sword.”

When Tuddle gave no acknowledgement, Durman sighed. “Open your eyes, please.”

Tuddle opened his eyes to find a sword being offered to him, hilt first. He recoiled, scrambling away and flailing into the nearby bed. “Get that thing away from me!” he shouted. “I never want to touch the filthy thing again!”

Durman calmly put the sword aside. “All right,” he agreed. “In that case, I suppose hunting werewolves might not be the best option. But you still need to do something. Come on.”

Reaching out a hand, he pulled Tuddle to his feet. “Where are we going?” Tuddle asked, annoyed. He pushed Durman’s arm away, and the big man took a step back.

“We’re going to take a walk around the town,” Durman replied. “Find something for you to do.”

“If you were my friend,” Tuddle said, “You’d let me find something to drink.”

“You can try,” Durman said, pushing the door open. “But I think you’ll find all the vendors reluctant to give you anything.”

Tuddle continued to grumble as they walked down the stairs, but he could tell Durman was tuning him out. He was led into the burning light of the mid-afternoon sun, blinking as he followed the massive figure down the dirt road.

“How about a merchant?” Durman asked, motioning to a vendor’s stall.

“I hate trying to sell things to people,” Tuddle replied.

“Not a barkeep,” Durman muttered to himself. “We just need you to find something useful to put your time into. It’ll help you recover.”

“What if I don’t want to recover?” Tuddle muttered under his breath. He was relieved to see that Durman hadn’t noticed. He paused in front of one of the shops. “What about this?” he asked.

Durman looked at the sign. “Huh,” he commented. “A cobbler. Not my first guess, but if it seems interesting to you, let’s give it a go.” He studied Tuddle, who gave him an innocent expression. “There’s no alcohol in there, if that’s what you’re hoping for,” he finally said.

Tuddle shook his head. “No. I just think that… Shoes are important.”

Durman gave him another appraising look. “Sure. Well, let’s go in.”

“So, you’re just going to leave me?” Tuddle asked, angrily.

“I knew I couldn’t stay forever,” Durman said. “I have other business to attend to.”

“Is that all I am to you?” Tuddle asked. “Business?”

“No,” Durman said sternly. “You’re my friend. Do you remember why I gave you that necklace?”

“It was a reminder of walking through the hard times together, like the moon does throughout the night,” Tuddle said. “Which is exactly what you’re not doing!”

“I gave you one variation on the proverb,” Durman said. “Here’s another, fuller one. Which is better, the sun or moon? The moon, for it walks through the dark with you. And when it cannot shine its face, it leaves the stars in its place.” He sighed. “I can’t let the werewolves have free reign of Stocking. Someone’s gotta take care of them, and I’m the best equipped to do the job. So I’m leaving my friend to walk with you until I can come back.”

Tuddle spat in the dirt. “Maybe you shouldn’t even come back.”

“Is that what you really want?” Durman asked. “And tell me honestly.”

Tuddle was silent, but finally said grudgingly, “No.”

“I didn’t think so,” Durman replied. “I’ll be back in a few weeks at most.”

“But who’s going to stop me from going back to the bar?” Tuddle asked. “I’ve been dry for five days, and I don’t want to go back. But there’s so many towns in walking distance… What if…”

“You’re going to stop you,” Durman replied. “I can’t do it, your friends can’t do it, none of us can. Only you can.”

The other man seemed to be grasping for words he couldn’t find. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough,” he finally said.

“Perhaps it’s crazy,” Durman said, “but decide to be strong enough. Decide that you won’t break.” He paused. “You keep looking for the day that you’ll be strong enough. That strength starts today, Tuddle.”

Tuddle sighed. “It’s definitely crazy.” He caught Durman’s eye. “But I’ll try.”

“Good,” Durman said. “That’s all I ask.” He pulled himself onto his horse.

Tuddle turned back to the shop, letting out a long sigh. The next few weeks were going to extremely long.

“And how is he?” Durman asked, taking a sip from his canteen.

“Very good, overall,” Kurt replied, scratching his thick beard. “He actually bought a bottle five days ago, but gave it to me before drinking any. Didn’t even have to ask him.”

Durman nodded. “That’s good.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Kurt replied. “I’ve walked with a lot of drunks in my time, Durman. But this man… No one has ever done anything like that.”

“Lant – Tuddle – is looking for something to pour his strength into,” Durman explained. “He’s done it before, and he does it again now. It’ll keep him going for a while.”

“But not forever,” Kurt said. “No matter how strong a man is, his will only goes so far.”

“Purposes are stronger than the will,” Durman commented. “Perhaps it’s best if we give him one of those.”

Kurt grunted. “I’ll never understand half of what you say, Durman.” He shook his head, taking another drink from his canteen. “When are you going to see him?”

Durman scratched his head, looking at the town again. “Tomorrow, I think.”

Kurt nodded. “That’ll be good. He’ll be at the shop for most of the day.”

“I’ll look there, then,” Durman nodded.

The dull thwack of the mallet greeted Durman as he pushed open the door. “Durman!” rang out Tuddle’s deep voice. “Welcome back!”

“It’s good to be back,” Durman said, looking around the room. “You’ve made yourself at home, it appears.”

Tuddle laughed. It was no longer a laugh of twisted regret and pain, but one of hearty joy. Durman’s heart swelled at the sound. “I’ve tried my best,” Tuddle said, coming from around his worktable. “I’m far from being good at this, but I do my best.”

Durman took a glance at the table. “Just started, I see,” he said, motioning to the lump of leather and cloth.

Tuddle laughed again. “No,” he said. “I’ve been working on that for the past week.”

Durman cast a glance in his direction. “You seem happy about that.”

“I don’t know,” Tuddle said. “It’s just relaxing, I guess. Even if I can’t cobble worth a darn.” He grinned, as if expecting Durman to laugh. When he didn’t, he explained, “Darning is sewing. Usually with socks, or so I’ve been told.” Durman nodded slowly. “And cobbling is with shoes. And both go on…” Tuddle trailed off, coughing awkwardly as Durman quietly nodded again. “In any case, did you take care of the werewolves?”

“Yes,” Durman said. “It took a while, but they’re cleared out now.”

“Good,” Tuddle said. “Very good.”

“And you’ve been doing well?” Durman asked. “No slip-ups?”

“Well,” Tuddle said, “I did buy a bottle a few days ago. But I didn’t drink any. You can ask Kurt.”

“I believe you,” Durman said.

“So, how long are you here for?” Tuddle asked.

“Only a few days,” Durman said. “There’s a situation in Tuleen that needs my attention.”

“Tuleen?” Tuddle asked with interest. “Whereabouts?”

“Do you know Gonnicksburg?” Durman asked.

A shudder ran through Tuddle’s body. “Yes, I know the place.”

“It’s about two days south of there,” Durman said. He ignored the visible reaction.

There was a pregnant pause, then Tuddle finally said, “Could I ask you a favor?”

Durman nodded slowly, but it was different this time.

The seasons were changing again. The spring was still holding on, and continued to sprinkle its light rain across Tuddle’s back as he looked toward the city. He couldn’t get any closer – the guilt was too strong – but he was able to look at it with an unflinching gaze.

A figure appeared from the gate, wrapped in his usual mottled cloak. Tuddle pulled himself into the saddle as Durman drew closer, but found that he still couldn’t ride closer to him. Instead, he waited for his friend.

“I have bad news,” Durman said, motioning to his saddlebags. Tuddle could see the handle of a warhammer sticking out of one of them, and a swordstaff was hanging on the flanks of the stallion. “I couldn’t find the sword and shield.” As Tuddle nodded absently, Durman unstrapped the bag and handed it over to Tuddle, who held it reverently.

He unwrapped it, eyeing the massive hammerhead. “It’s his,” he said. “And don’t worry about the others. All of these weapons were one in a million to find.”

Durman noted the tears in Tuddle’s eyes, and waited for him to regain his composure before handing the swordstaff over. Tuddle ran his fingers up and down the length of the wood, feeling the smooth grip. “It’s been so long, yet not long enough,” he said. He looked up. “Thank you, Durman.”

“Of course,” the big man replied. “Now, come. It’s a long trek to our next stop.”

Westvale had changed since Tuddle had last seen it’s streets. The buildings were taller, and more people crowded into the streets with them. Durman wound his way through them, leading the way to a massive lumber mill. “Ashder owns this place?” he asked, surprised.

“No,” Durman laughed. “He just works here.”

As they pushed into the mill, they were greeted with shouts of surprise and laughter. “Durman!” a deep voice shouted, and a thickset man with a massive moustache walked down from where he had been examining a pile of beams.

“Garrid!” Durman replied, his ever-present smile splitting his face. “Good to see you again!”

“And you,” Garrid replied. “What brings you our way?”

“I was wondering if Ashder was here,” Durman asked.

Garrid shook his head. “I’m afraid not. He and his wife went to over to… to…”

“Ashbur Village?” Tuddle asked.

“Yes!” Garrid said. “And you are?”

“I’m Tuddle,” he replied. “It’s nice to meet you.” He sighed. “I was hoping to see him.”

“If you’d like, you can get to the ferry,” Garrid said. “We have a lumber barge leaving in just a few minutes. It’ll make the trip a little easier, anyway.”

“A ferry?” Tuddle asked. “But there’s no water around here.”

“We had to find a way to get lumber to Nelson faster than it was going overland,” Garrid explained, “so we put a canal in. It cuts down on time and effort.”

Tuddle nodded absently. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it hadn’t been this. The innovation and advancement was a lot to take in. He followed his friend out of the building and down to the pier, where a large boat sat, laden with thick beams. Durman leapt aboard without flinching, and immediately struck up a conversation with the captain. Tuddle, on the other hand, nervously climbed on board, his legs tightening involuntarily as the boat moved underneath him.

After a few minutes, he found his water legs and began to enjoy the ride. On either side, ferrymen walked along a grooved surface, poles in the water. There were four of them on either side, which, at first, didn’t seem to be enough. However, once they got up to speed, four seemed to be too many.

The ride, while still long, was significantly shorter than any time that Tuddle had taken it. They arrived at the Ashbur Village pier in the midafternoon, where a new crew boarded. Tuddle looked around the place he used to call home and found himself completely and utterly lost.

“Do you know your way around?” Tuddle asked Durman.

“I’ve never been here,” he responded. “I was hoping you would know.”

Tuddle pointed. “Well, I think I recognize that building. Let’s go there first.”

Durman followed as Tuddle wove his way through the streets. Finally, they stood in front of a tall building with a high, peaked roof. “This was the headman’s house,” Tuddle said. “Which means that we’re not too far from Cassia’s old house. She might be there.”

He set off again. Now, he could see that there weren’t too many changes to the buildings. They had been fixed up and repainted, but not changed. His mental map came flooding back, and he had to stop himself from sprinting away and leaving Durman in the dust.

In just a few minutes, he was standing in front of the old cottage. While Durman waited at the bottom of the steps, Tuddle knocked on the door. It was pulled open by a woman with gray hair. It took Tuddle a moment to recognize Cassia’s mother.

“Excuse me,” he said, realizing that she didn’t recognize him, “But is Ashder here?”

“Well, yes,” she said. “And who are you?”

“I’m with Durman. We’re old friends of his,” Tuddle said. He motioned to the massive man at the bottom of the stairs, who waved with a friendly smile.

“I’ll be right back,” Cassia’s mother said, and she turned away.

“I’d join you up there,” Durman commented to Tuddle, “But I believe that I would break that tiny porch.”

Ashder came to the door, his face brightening when he saw Durman. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Visiting with a friend,” Durman said. “I thought I’d stop by.”

“And remind me your name?” Ashder asked Tuddle. “I’m sure I’ve seen you before.”

“Most people call me Tuddle,” Tuddle replied. “And I think we’ve run into each other once or twice.”

“Dada!” came a small voice. Tuddle’s heart stopped when he saw a little girl come running from in the house. She was about three years old by his estimation, and looked the picture of Cassia when she was younger.

“Yes, Syl?” Ashder asked, leaning over to pick her up.

“Mama’s looking for you. She said Lant’s being a problem.”

The name felt like a punch in the gut. “L-lant?” Tuddle asked, his heart thudding.

“My son,” Ashder said. “He was just born a few months ago.”

“C-could I see him?” Tuddle asked, his tongue becoming thick in his mouth, and his throat becoming dry. “I had a friend named Lant many years ago.”

Ashder laughed, not noticing Tuddle’s unusual pallor. “I wonder if it’s the same friend. He was like Cassia’s brother. I’ve never seen a woman better taken care of by someone outside of the family.” He shook his head. “He disappeared the night of our wedding, as if he had just been waiting for someone to take her into their protection. I wonder sometimes if he was just a guardian angel, sent to watch over her childhood.” He turned around and waved for them to follow. “In any case, allow me to introduce you to my beautiful family. Though I’m afraid Lant won’t be too happy.”

Tuddle looked around the front room as he passed. Very little had changed, even in the years he had been absent. They passed into one of the back rooms, where Cassia and her parents were trying to calm a squalling baby.

“Here, let me take him,” Ashder offered, trading children with his wife. He began to rock the screaming infant, but Lant refused to be consoled.

Cassia noticed the two men. “Durman!” she said, smiling. “So nice to see you.” She examined the other man. “And you are?” she asked.

“I’m Tuddle,” Tuddle replied. His heart was sinking. Even Cassia, his best friend from his childhood, didn’t recognize him.

“You’re so familiar,” Cassia said, half-rising. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I don’t think so,” Tuddle replied. He looked at the crying baby again. “I think we’ve come at a bad time.”

“Yes,” Durman agreed. “Perhaps we’ll see you later, Ashder.”

Ashder gave them a little nod, dismissing them from the room. As they left, Tuddle heard Cassia’s father, Bap, comment, “He does look familiar, doesn’t he?”

Outside again, Tuddle led the way down the side streets and alleys to his mother’s house. He remained quiet, and inwardly thanked Durman for not speaking as they walked.

Once in sight of building, Tuddle froze. “I don’t know I’m ready for this,” he said.

“If you keep looking for when you’re going to be strong,” Durman said quietly, putting a hand on Tuddle’s shoulder “then today is that day.”

Tuddle nodded. “Wait here for me,” he said, then stepped determinedly toward the house. He rapped on the door, which was opened by a stooped, white-haired woman. Tuddle’s heart stopped as he looked into the warm eyes of his mother.

“H-hi,” he said. “Uh, I’m-”

He was cut off as his mother threw her arms around him. “I know who you are, Lant,” she said, holding him as tight as she could. Tuddle wrapped his arms around her frail body, trying to hold her close without crushing her. “My beautiful son,” his mother whispered. Her tears rolled down her cheeks and onto his neck, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that his tears were tracking a nearly identical course.

“My beautiful mother,” Tuddle whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

“Well,” his mother quietly said, “you’re home now.”

The moon lit the small field, shedding its light on the muscular man quietly digging. At the edge of the field, an even larger man stood watching, saying nothing. A slight woman stood next to him, similarly respectful of what was happening.

The grave was shallow, but it suited Tuddle’s needs. Carefully, he knelt and laid Habish’s warhammer in the soft dirt, clinging to the handle one last time before severing connection and standing up. Beside it, a mound of fresh earth covered the place that he had laid Leonard’s swordstaff. Esteban’s grave was physically empty, but memories filled nonetheless.

At the head of each grave was a marker. Estaban Villith – The Courage of Lions was in You. Leonard Cathgard – a truer brother was never known. Habish Tuddle – It is for you that Life is Lived.

Tuddle reverently took a spadesful of dirt, throwing it lightly over the massive hammerhead. As each shovelful fell, he felt something in his heart. These three friends – these brothers – had been lost to him. But now he could put them to rest forever. It was a painful feeling, but not like it had been to lose them the first time. It was final, but did not have to brief. Here, in this moment, under the moon, he could take all the time that he needed.

As Tuddle put the last of the dirt onto the top of the grave, his eyes drifted to a fourth marker, only a little further away. Latarin Soden, Loving Husband and Father. Even Without You, I Will Smile at the West.

Tuddle walked back to Durman and his mother, pausing to take a final look at the four graves. “When I die,” he said softly, “Bury me here. With my father and with my brothers.”

Then he turned and walked into the darkness of the night – the moon, as always, walking with him.

Postlude

The only sound to be heard was the pop of a log as the flames wrapped around it. The night had grown late, but none of the listeners had grown tired.

Banestor looked at the innkeeper with new respect and awe. “You were the Consuming Fire?” he asked. “I’ve heard stories, but I always thought he had died in the war.”

“Perios did die,” Cathgard Villith Tuddle said. He looked up at the large man sitting next to Deno. Durman smiled back, obviously happy that he no longer needed to be the sole keeper of Tuddle’s life story. “All of the rage I had during that time,” Tuddle said, looking back at Ban, then around the room, “it left me after Gonnicksburg. And after I buried my brothers, we left again. It was shortly after I came here and started working as an innkeeper.” He chuckled. “Then, just like he did with me, Durman brought another lost soul here,” he said, nodding at Deno. “And the rest is history.”

Deno smiled at the memory. “And you became one of the stars that walked through the dark with me,” he said, his lips quirking into a brief smile.

“Wait,” Ban said, sitting back and studying Durman. “Where did you come from?”

Durman’s face broke into a grin as he looked back at the irrepressible boy. “It’s late, Ban,” he said, indicating the darkness outside. “That story will have to wait for another night.”

Though he grumbled, Banestor knew he was right, standing to his feet and stretching in that lazy way people do when they’re getting ready to sleep. The other men followed suit, except Tuddle, who turned back to tend the fire.

Lant, Perios, Tuddle – call him what you wanted, the innkeeper knew who he was now. No longer broken, and no longer shackled to his past, surrounded by more brothers than he could have hoped for, he was content. His inn had become a place of light in dark nights, a guiding star to walk with those who couldn’t see.

And for that, Tuddle was grateful.