The village burned. Despite the frigid Lowland climate, the air in the town square was as hot as a forge. The air felt thick. Thick with acrid smoke that blotted out the stars. Thick with deafening sound. War cries, death rattles, and screams for help melded and congealed together into a constant, thunderous roar. A roar like the call of some fell creature that had crawled up from the deepest frozen pits of Hell. Garban stood in the center of it, the blood dripping off the blade of his sword a mirror to the tears dripping down his face. He should have charged bellowing deeper into the fray, but instead he stood frozen in the eye of the chaos and destruction. Louder than the screams, more suffocating than the smoke, a question echoed inside his head: What had he become? What had he become?

  Garban jolted awake, covered in cold sweat. The dreams weren’t new, but when they came the shame weighed on him even harder. If that were even possible. The weight of it sat on his chest like an anvil and seemed to drive him down into his straw mattress in a way that made him fear he would never rise. Would it ever leave him?

  With an effort, Garban sat up and buried his head in his large, callused hands. He ran his hands over his arms, as if he could brush off the tattoos that covered them. His Legend, his great deeds of strength and honor. He scoffed at the thought of it. He had no honor, and what good was strength without it? He swallowed a cry of anger and despair. He wouldn’t wake Alef. The two of them had a hard day of work ahead of them. No need to ruin the lad’s sleep. However, there was no chance that he would be able to get back to sleep himself. Not when he’d had the dreams return to haunt him. So instead he slowly drug himself out of bed, pulled on a shirt to cover his Legend, and padded out to the hearth to stoke the fire.

  The floorboards of the small cottage creaked underneath Garban’s feet, but Alef was a deep sleeper. He’d have to be. Try as he might, Garban wasn’t much for walking softly. A few embers still glowed from last night’s fire. Garban piled kindling on top of them and slowly coaxed the embers into a small blaze. As the smoke hit his nostrils he felt a pang of guilt, a reminder of the dreams, his burnt and bloody past. No. He didn’t guess the shame would ever leave him. He wasn’t even sure that it should.

  Alef was gently shaken awake, the earthy smell of smoke from the hearth welcoming him into consciousness. His pa was softly shaking him by the arm. “Time to get up. We have work to do lad.” His pa rumbled in his deep baritone voice. It was still dark, the glow of the candles from the other room barely outlining Pa’s broad shoulders. Alef groaned and rolled over towards the wall and away from his father. Garban was having none of it and heaved him out of bed and onto his feet by the grip he had on Alef’s arm. He clapped the boy on the pack and said “Come on Ale, the porridge is almost ready. Let’s not let it burn.”

  Even though it was dark, Alef could hear the smile in his voice. Even though Alef hated the cold mornings, he couldn’t help but smile himself.

  The two of them sat at the small table in the main room of the cottage, enjoying the warmth of the hearth and tolerating their bowls of porridge. Neither said much. Garban was a quiet man and seemed to be doubly so this morning. Alef didn’t mind. Pa would speak when he had something to say. Besides, Alef often enjoyed his father’s silent presence as much as their conversations. There was something steady and comforting about Garban. Being around him was like being in the shade of an old oak tree, like the ones on the edge of the frosty wilds. Wide branches to take shelter in and deep roots to hold firm even when the wind howled its loudest.

  As they finished their breakfast the sun began to shine through the wooden shutters of the cottage and Garban got up from the table to sharpen his axe and look over their other tools for the day's work. Following his father’s lead, Alef began to do the same. At thirteen he was one of the youngest of the woodsmen, but he sharpened his smaller axe with deft, practiced movements. Garban had been teaching him the skills and habits of a woodsman since he was able to walk and they were second nature by now. The two of them pulled on their heavy boots and wool coats, some of a woodsmen’s most prized possessions. Almost as much as their axes, truth be told. Didn’t matter how sharp your axe was if you died from the chill. That’s what Garban was always saying at least. They worked on the edge of the frozen Wilds, far from the Spring of Old Magic at Ulbrigant that warmed the land. Still, Alef thought his father was a bit over cautious anyway.

  Lastly, Garban grabbed the old spear next to the doorway of the cottage. “Maybe we’ll get lucky today. Fergus said elk have been spotted near our neck of the woods.” Garban said to Alef with a shrug. Alef knew the truth though. As the woodsmen began to work closer and closer to the edge of the Wilds, encounters with the creatures living there had begun to increase.

  The common belief was that the creatures that stalked the mists of the Wilds were those who had been outside of the borders of Durmagos when the Old Magic had been pulled within the earth long ago. The people outside of Durmagos had been twisted and corrupted when the Old Magic was buried. Why the Spirit of the Earth had seen fit to do that, and why the land of Durmagos had been spared, no one really knew. What they did know was, the last remaining Spring of Old Magic in the center of their lands protected them. It kept the land warm and habitable, right up to the edge of the Wilds where the temperature plummeted and the creatures roamed. Still, it was a good idea to be cautious out next to the verge of Durmagos. And, again, Garban was nothing if not cautious.

  With their preparations for the day complete Alef and Garban left the cottage and began walking towards the forest. They could see woodsmen from the town beginning to trickle out in the same direction as well and before too long they had joined the main group. Fergus, the leader of the company of woodsmen, greeted them, slapping Garban on the back and nodding at Alef. Fergus was outgoing and had good relationships with all the men on his crew. He was slightly older than Garban, with some grey creeping in at the temples of his shaggy sandy blonde hair and around the chin of his short cropped beard. He wasn’t the biggest of the men, he was average height with long, sinewy limbs hardened from countless hours swinging an axe. Even though he wasn’t imposing, he had an easy charm that caused men to naturally follow his lead.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Morning boys.” He said, his characteristic grin plastered across his face despite the early hour and the cold. “Good t’see you as always. Say, Garban, did you hear that the Trials are coming up? Planning on competing this time ‘round? Good opportunity to have your Legend added to and whatnot.” Fergus slapped at his shoulders, where his Legend, the story of his most noteworthy deeds, would be tattooed. Garban’s shoulders stiffened noticeably at the comment.

  The Trials happened every three years in most major villages and were an opportunity for men of the area to prove their mettle. It was quite the event, with the main competitions being in feats of strength and unarmed combat. The Trials were officiated and presided over by the town Scribe and the winner of each competition would have their victory added onto their Legend. It was quite the incentive, getting something added to your Legend. It was an official record of your greatest deeds of strength and honor, permanently written on your skin by a Scribe, a teacher of the old ways who was known and respected by everyone. Most often you had to bring in a trophy or witness of your deed and a Scribe could still turn you away if they thought the act wasn’t worthy of breaking out the ink. Winning the Trials was different. It assured an addition to your Legend. Not an opportunity to be overlooked.

  “Of course I know the Trials are coming up. This is the year for them. And, no. I don’t plan on participating in them. As I’m sure you guessed.” Garban bristled. Garban liked Fergus. Alef knew it. They often had dinner with Fergus and his wife, and Fergus was probably one of Garban’s only real friends. But the men couldn’t be more different. Of course physically Garban was about a full head taller than Fergus and he was almost twice as broad, but that was true of Garban when compared to most Lowlanders. It was more that Garban wanted nothing more than to mind his own business and to have others mind theirs, and Fergus was a little more curious. He often tried to stick his nose into Garban’s business.

  It wasn’t surprising really. Alef and Garban were a bit different from the rest of the village folk. Garban seemed to be a highlander, a citizen of the fortress city Ulbrigant that guarded the Spring of Old Magic. People who lived near the Spring tended to be big, bigger than the lowlanders at least, and Garban was definitely big. He wasn’t abnormally tall for a highlander, but he was broad and thick, built more like a keg of mead than a man. Some said he looked like a bear someone had gone and ripped the pelt off of. He never talked about where he had come from. He never denied being a highlander, as there wasn’t much point in it, but he never elaborated when asked.

  Additionally, Garban wasn’t married. That was odd for a man his age with a child. He always told Alef that the lad’s mother had caught ill and died when Alef was very young. Just like where he was from, Garban was tight lipped about Alef’s mother. Which wasn’t too odd for him. He was tight lipped almost as a rule. He would just tell Alef that his mother was a kind woman, and that he didn’t ever plan on remarrying. Garban spent most of his time that he wasn’t working tucked up in their cabin, so the idea of him finding someone to marry was a bit comical to Alef.

  So they were different. A little reclusive, a little mysterious. Not hugely, but enough. Things that are different are bound to make people curious. Which was probably why Garban put up with Fergus’s prodding.

  Of course Fergus wasn’t satisfied with Garban’s brusque answer. He gave Garban a rough but affable smack on the shoulder and said “But why not? I’m sure you’d have a good shot at winning at the feats of strength, and even if you’re not too speedy nobody is going to be able to take a clobbering from you. You’ve got some of the Old in you. Easy to see. Why not put it to good use?”

  “Because Alef and I enjoy our life just fine the way it is. Because I don’t need any ink or recognition from a Scribe or anyone else to live how I want. Because I don’t have anything to prove.” Garban’s tone was even, but Alef could sense a little bit of exasperation seeping into his voice. It seemed like Fergus could too.

  “Alright,” he sighed, throwing his hands up in attrition. “Land knows I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life. You wouldn’t listen even if I was. You know me. Just curious is all.”

  Garban grunted in acknowledgement and then stayed silent. Fergus shifted his attention to Alef and the two of them talked for the rest of their trek out into the forest where they would be working for the day.

  When they got to the site of their work for the day their crew fell into a well practiced routine. The more senior woodsmen would fell a tree and Alef and the younger lads would delimb it. At the end of the day a few ox drawn sledges would come and drag away their feelings from the day. Alef found a sort of comfort in the work. The thumping cadence of axe into wood all around was like the voice of an old friend. The well worn haft of his axe felt at home in his hands. When he first started to come out with Garban his hands had been soft. They had blistered from swinging the axe and cracked from the cold. Now they were rough like his pa’s and he took pride in that. It was hard work, most of the men were sweating despite the cold and some even shed their heavy wool coats after a few hours. It was also mindless once you got into a rhythm, which wasn’t really bad at all.

  Swing, thud, swing, thud, swing.

  It gave Alef time to think, and curiosity began to bubble up in him like a simmering stew. So when midday break came and he and Garban sat to eat their lunch together, he had some questions for him.

  “Why won’t you compete in the Trials, Pa?” He asked. The question had been churning in his head all day. Garban had kind of answered the question when Fergus had asked that morning, but Alef could tell there was more to Garban’s reasoning than what he had said earlier.

  Garban’s shoulders sagged noticeably at Alef’s question. “You too lad?” he muttered sullenly. He sighed out a deep breath and straightened up, as if bracing himself for the conversation before he continued. “If I entered the Trials and won, what would I get? Some extra weight to my name? Feats added to my Legend? I don’t care about those things. I don’t have any big dreams of climbing to the top of the heap. I just want to be your father.”

  As he said that last part he looked up at Alef and the lad could see a sad smile peaking through the tangled mess of his beard. Alef opened his mouth to ask more questions but Garban cut him off. “Alef, I’m sorry if my reasons don’t make sense to you, but I’m decided. I’ve been decided. I don’t want to be pestered about it any more, by you or Fergus. Will you honor my wishes?”

  Alef still felt like Garban’s explanation left some of his reasons out, but he decided that now didn’t seem the time to pressure. There was an edge to Garban’s voice that he was unfamiliar with. Garban rarely ever broke his calm demeanor, but the conversation had obviously upset him. So the two sat in silence while they finished their lunch. Not quite the amicable, comforting silence from the morning. It was a cold silence, like a thin sheet of ice upon a lake. If you ventured out onto it, it may shatter in unpleasant and unexpected ways. Alef could sense the tension as their break ended and they picked up their axes, but he was too nervous to step out into it. So the silence continued.