Chapter 6
No one moved. It was as if the entire square of people had frozen in time. Not even the wind dared breathe. The recruiters fanned open in three straight lines of three, their captain a head taller and twice as broad as the men milling around in the square. Their tabards were crisp as new leaves and blazed blue against the brown slush, silver trim catching the dull shimmer of pre-winter sun. The red of the eagle on their helmets was a bloody slash, garish and designed to be seen at a hundred paces. It should have been ridiculous, almost laughable. But no one was laughing.
The first to flinch was the old man at the honey stall. He jerked back as if stung, but his knees buckled and he simply sat down, legs folding under him. The woman at the wool cart cupped her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and squeezed, lips moving but not a sound as she murmured a prayer, either for mercy, or for invisibility.
Everyone knew what these men were. Wyrnhollow hadn’t drawn Dominion attention in over fifty years and had silently fallen off up-to-date maps, yet even the children could recite the stories. Recruiters only arrived when bodies were needed, and the Endless War demanded more lives to feed it. They weren’t cruel, not exactly, but they always left broken families in their wake.
They stopped in the very center of the square. Their leader’s boots clicked together with a wet smack. The other men followed suit, huddling in a tight cluster around their leader. All were grim-faced, each one wearing the same stony mask of the practiced boredom of men who had done this same unpleasant task far too many times.
It was Talla who made the first move. She stepped out from behind the bread cart, pulling her skirt straight, jaw set to granite.
The captain smiled. His teeth were yellow, but his voice was smooth as old glass. “Good day to you.”
Talla did not return the smile. “Sir,” she said. “What is it that brings the Dominion to Wyrnhollow?”
He glanced around as if the answer might be found among the gaping villagers. “Obligation,” he said. “Patriotism. Duty. The same virtues that keep this fine village going, no doubt.” The men behind him chuckled, but it was not a friendly sound.
Talla dipped her chin. “We have no problems here, sir. No heretics. No dissidents. You can ask any of—”
He lifted a hand to quiet her.
“No heretics or dissidents, yes. But that is not all. We discovered recently that our conscription quotas for your village are… far below normal.” He said as he smiled.
Giving her time to digest that, he looked around the village with palpable contempt.
“Do all your people who leave this charming backwater cause such a nuisance to the fine, law-abiding citizens of Crosshaven? One certainly did. I’m afraid he didn’t appreciate the beating we gave him.”
The men behind him laughed.
“Rusk, you damned fool!” Talla hissed under her breath. “May you face Jac’s wrath. You’ve doomed us all.”
“The Luminarch Dominion is at war, Matron. And the Dominion needs soldiers.”
She watched him smirk and unroll a parchment he kept on his belt loop, then he held it up for all to see, letting the red ribbons flap. “Effective immediately, Wyrnhollow is to provide twelve able-bodied men or boys for induction into the blessed armies of the Luminarch Dominion. Failure to comply will be considered a dereliction of faith and a betrayal of the Stillight itself.”
A low moan rose from the crowd, and a woman began to cry openly, unabashedly. Talla recognized the voice of the weaver’s wife, mother of three sons.
The leader waited for the sound to die away. It took some time. When at last the whimpers were no more, he resumed. “I am Captain Houlis. My men and I will remain in your village until the quota is met. We’ll take rooms at your tavern, and you’ll provide our meals, as the law requires. You have three days to give us your soldiers. Failure to meet these requirements, and we will choose and take at our discretion. Questions?”
Talla said, “Twelve is too many. We are already on the brink of starvation, and we need the help of every strong man within this village to keep us afloat this coming winter. Please take mercy on us.”
Houlis rolled the parchment with exaggerated care. “Numbers are numbers. Every village says the same. We all must serve, Matron.”
She took a step toward him, voice low so only he would hear. “If you take that many, this village dies. There won’t be a spring planting. No one will last through another winter.”
He regarded her with a measure of curiosity, as if she were a particularly strange fungus. “If you do not comply,” he replied, just as quietly, “you will all be hanged or put to the sword. Old law, but still enforced. If you have doubts, there’s a hovel twenty leagues or so from here that can… illuminate you.” He raised his voice so all could hear. “We will post up near your temple until sundown. Bring us your volunteers then. If the quota is not met, we will convene there again at dawn. Anyone who tries to run will be hunted down and forced to join, be it man, woman, or child. Anyone who helps them run will share their fate. Thus is the law. Do we understand one another?”
No one answered. A few people nodded.
“Excellent!” He clapped his hands together. “I suggest you all get your affairs in order. And please, for my sake, make your decisions quickly. I would like to leave your quaint home sooner rather than later.”
The circle broke. Houlis and his men strode straight through the square towards the temple courtyard, not bothering to avoid puddles or people. They left footprints in the slush, a blue-and-silver wake of melted hope.
Talla watched them go, hands balled so tightly at her sides that her fingers went white.
From somewhere behind her, a trembling voice asked, “What do we do?”
Talla didn’t answer right away. She looked up at the sky, searching. There was nothing there but blue and gray, and the pale smear of sun.
“We do as we’ve always done,” she said at last. “We endure.”
But as she said it, she knew it was a lie. This would be the end of them.
The square was emptier than it had ever been. All afternoon, most of Wyrnhollow had found a reason to be somewhere else. But when the bell in the old temple tolled, marking the sun’s descent on the horizon, mothers and fathers had come anyway, dragging sons and daughters in their wake. The recruiters were still at their posts, with two on the steps of the temple, two at either end of the courtyard, and the rest clustered around Captain Houlis, who held the scroll in one gloved hand like a sacred text. He watched them with the patience of a butcher who knows his livestock have nowhere to run. He did not bother to quiet the square. The silence did that for him.
He raised the scroll and called out the names of the volunteers who had approached him earlier to sign their names for recruitment.
“Elias Tern.”
A boy of sixteen hugged his mother before stumbling forward, his face pale as cheese. His mother grasped at his sleeve, desperate to hold on. He looked painfully small beside the recruiter waiting to claim him.
“Rudic Mirne.”
A man in his twenties, big and thick, his muscles rippling from a lifetime of hauling barrels, but he trembled all the same. He went to the recruiter with his head bowed.
One by one, the names went up, and the lives of their families came down. Some men wept. Some simply stared ahead, dead-eyed, as if already imagining themselves corpses on some hellish field. The youngest was a boy named Tel, only fourteen. When his name was called, his mother sobbed and screamed as she clung to her husband’s coat. His father could only watch, helpless, as he clung to his desperate wife and three other smaller children.
“Take care of her, Father.” His voice trembled as he looked at his sobbing mother.
When the ninth name was called, something shifted in the crowd. Talla felt it first, a hardening at the back of her neck. She scanned the faces, searching for the source. Then came the tenth name. A middle-aged man stepped forward. His wife crumpled into the mud with a meaty smack, screaming his name. Talla’s eyes found the crowd at the edge of the square, found a lone figure forcing his way through the masses, and her breath caught.
Theron.
He didn’t run. He didn’t even hurry. He simply walked with his hands tucked in his pockets, the battered coat draped over him like a borrowed skin. The crowd opened for him, uneasy, uncertain. He paid them no mind.
When Houlis read the eleventh name, Theron reached the front of the crowd. He planted his feet at the base of the steps, lifted his chin, and said, “That’s enough.”
The words hung in the square, louder than the bell had been. Houlis looked down, brows rising.
“You have business?” he asked. The tone was mocking, but beneath it, a flicker of caution. Even the arrogant Dominion captain could tell this was not an ordinary interruption.
Theron’s voice was quiet, but it carried. “Wyrnhollow cannot give you these men,” he said. “You know that. If you take them, Wyrnhollow dies.”
Houlis pursed his lips. “We all must sacrifice for the Dominion. If you have an issue with the law, take it up with your local Brightwardens at Crosshaven. Recruitment officers such as ourselves need not worry themselves about your livelihood.”
Theron nodded, as if he’d expected the answer. “Section twelve, code seventeen of the Luminarch Charter,” he said. “If a village cannot meet its quota with fresh men without impeding the village’s survival, an experienced veteran may be substituted at a ratio of one to ten. That means you need only two of these men.” He held up two fingers. “In addition to myself.”
A murmur rippled through the square. Even the recruiters shifted their weight, glancing at each other. A weasel-faced man with a scar over his eye opened his mouth to argue but shut it again when Captain Houlis shot him a warning look.
Dropping his smile for a moment, the mask of confidence slipping just enough to reveal the animal beneath, Houlis eyed Theron from head to toe before letting out a deep, braying laugh.
“You?”
He glanced at his men as if to confirm the joke. “You can’t be over thirty years old, so you can’t possibly be an ‘experienced veteran.’ More like a deserter. For Jac’s sake, man, you look like a scarecrow. By that very particular and ancient code, I require a seasoned veteran, not a hermit who has never held a sword or spear.”
“I’ve held both sword and spear,” Theron said.
The recruiter bared his yellowed teeth. “That so?” He looked at his men again. “Any of you believe this slip of a man?”
There was a brief silence, then laughter. Ugly, forced. Even some villagers joined in, not out of malice but from the simple desperation of wanting to be on the winning side of a joke with the recruitment officers.
Theron didn’t move. His face stayed blank, unreadable.
Houlis stepped down the stairs, bringing himself level with Theron. “Here’s how it is, friend,” he said, voice low enough that only Theron and those closest could hear. “I’m here to fill a quota. I don’t care about your village, your crops, or your lives. If you want to throw yourself in the mud, be my guest. But if you try to start something, I’ll put you down myself.” He tapped the hilt of his sword for emphasis.
Theron did not flinch. “The law is the law.”
Houlis looked around, seemingly unsure about what to do next. “Alright then,” he said. “Let’s see you prove it. Let’s see this mighty ‘veteran soldier’ prove to us all that he is worth ten men!”
The square went quiet. He motioned to the smallest of his men, a doughy-faced youth named Ferris. “Give him a spear. Let’s see what the scarecrow can do.”
The crowd formed a circle, pressing in shoulder to shoulder, villagers and recruiters alike, several now holding lit torches. Some laughed, others whispered prayers, while the rest watched silently, their expressions unreadable.
At the front stood Talla, her face pale with fear, but her eyes holding a flicker of hope.
Theron accepted the spear offered by the small recruiter and tested its weight in his hands. It was heavier than he remembered, the wood slick with old sweat. He spun it once, getting the balance, then pointed the tip towards the sky.
Houlis called out, “Ferris here is the worst Dominion soldier with a spear I’ve ever seen. If you can’t beat him, I’ll have you flogged for wasting my time.”
Ferris grinned, his spear low and ready. The circle formed, boots stamping in the mud to make an arena.
As the two men squared off, Talla moved her way over to stand directly behind Theron. She hissed his name: “What are you doing?”
He didn’t look back. “What I can.”
She shook her head. “You’re still weak. Where were you all day?”
“Sure am, but it’s alright,” he said, turning to smile at her. “I’ve been in the forest one last time. I left a buck and a brace of rabbits at the butcher’s shop.”
Talla clenched her fists, wanting to say more, but she saw the way Theron’s knuckles whitened on the haft and the focus burning in his eyes. He was more alive now than she had ever seen him.
“Even on your last day with us, you bring us food,” she said, shaking her head.
Theron nodded and looked back towards Ferris just in time as the soldier jabbed first, the move clumsy but quick. Theron spun, letting the tip slice past his ribs, and jabbed back, catching Ferris in his armored thigh. The crowd gasped as the soldier stumbled.
“Lucky,” a soldier spat. Ferris lashed the spear around, and Theron barely blocked, the shock rattling up his arm. He pivoted on the balls of his feet, eyes locked on the man’s face. Ferris lunged again, overconfident, leaving openings Theron could exploit. Smaller, weaker, but faster, Theron struck where the soldier least expected.
Ferris’s anger flared, and Theron let him rush. At the last second, he stepped aside, swinging the shaft into Ferris’s gut, then pivoted and swept the man’s legs out from under him. Ferris crashed down, mud spraying across his face, and Theron pressed the spear tip to his throat.
“Yield,” he said, soft but firm.
Ferris spat. “Never.” He batted the spear tip aside and heaved upward, catching Theron off-balance, and both men tumbled into the mud, limbs flailing, curses tearing from their mouths. The spears clattered across the ground, Ferris’s landing closer to Theron. Both scrambled, hands slipping in the slick mud, but Ferris reached his weapon first. With a savage twist, he swung the butt of the spear backward, striking Theron across the temple. The wet, cracking impact made the crowd gasp and sent a jolt of pain blinding Theron for a heartbeat.
Blood blurred his vision, dripping into his eyes and stinging. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and saw Ferris pushing to his feet, spear raised for the killing blow. Time slowed, the crowd holding its breath, and Theron’s mind snapped into action. He scooped up a handful of mud and flung it into Ferris’s eyes. The soldier staggered, blinded, swearing as he clawed at his face.
Theron didn’t hesitate. He sprang to his feet, seized Ferris in a brutal grab, and drove a knee into the soft meat of his belly. Ferris grunted, doubled over, and Theron twisted the spear free. With a swift, practiced motion, he pressed the tip hard against Ferris’s throat, feeling the warmth of sweat and fear under his fingers.
Every eye in the square was on them, silent, frozen. This time, when Theron said, “Yield,” his voice carried no question, no hesitation, only the absolute certainty of someone who had claimed victory and would not be denied.
Ferris coughed, choking, then managed a gurgling, “I yield.”
The square exploded. Recruiters hollered. Villagers cheered. Some just stared, stunned. Houlis watched it all with a strange, appraising look.
Theron turned slowly. He wiped the blood from his face and leaned heavily on the spear. He turned to Houlis.
“You said ten go free. Will you honor it?”
The captain was silent for a long moment. “By Jac, man. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Not yet. Now we see if you can hold a sword as well as a stick.”
Theron nodded, expecting it, then stumbled back to the far edge of the circle, dropping the spear as he went. Hands reached out to his shoulders, some to confirm that the man they had known for years was truly doing this, others to offer a quiet touch of luck or gratitude.
Talla caught his arm when he swayed. “You idiot,” she whispered. “You’re going to get yourself killed. What are you trying to prove?”
“That I can do it,” Theron said. His breath steamed in the cold air. “That I still know how to fight.”
He let her steady him for a moment, then pulled away and asked a villager for a drink from the canteen he carried.
Behind them, the recruiters dragged Ferris back to the circle, laughter and insults spilling from their mouths as they mocked him for his defeat.
“You should have run,” Talla said, speaking again. “You could have gotten away. Or you could have just left this morning, and none of this would be your problem.”
He shook his head. “I won’t let this village die. Besides, this is better.” His demeanor hardened, carrying that ancient weight once more. “This will get me where I need to go faster than my original plan. I want this. Trust me.” His eyes twinkled as he winked at her.
She tried to speak, but no words would come. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him, just for a moment, holding tight.
When she let go, Theron’s eyes were fixed on the circle where Houlis stood.
“Now, he fights me. And why not make things interesting? If he wins, I take only him and leave your pathetic home alone for five years.” He bared his teeth. “If he loses, he dies, and I take my twelve men, plus an additional five for my trouble.”
A gasp went through the crowd. Mothers pulled children tight against their skirts. Someone sobbed.
Houlis unsheathed his sword, the metallic ring harsh in the cold. “Do you accept, Theron?”
Theron nodded, voice a whisper. “I do.”
A soldier handed Theron his blade, dull and battered. He weighed it in his hand, spun it a few times, and fixed his gaze on Houlis.
The captain slowly stepped wide around him, loose and easy, shoulders rolling with each step. He was a showman, no question, and he wanted to make sure everyone knew it.
Theron held his ground. His breath came in slow clouds, each one smaller than the last.
The fight began with a quick feint from Houlis, one Theron didn’t fall for. The captain followed immediately with flicking cuts and probing stabs, testing every angle. Theron parried, each block measured and careful to conserve his strength, letting Houlis’s attacks carry their own force. The older man pressed relentlessly, blade snapping left and right, never still, always moving, always smiling. He was fast. Too fast. Better than Theron remembered from any Dominion officer he had seen before.
They circled, Houlis slashing high to force Theron to parry above his head, then kicking out to catch him in the knee and send him sprawling in the mud. The crowd roared, some in laughter, some in disgust. Villagers pressed forward, torn between cheering their own and fearing what would happen if Theron lost.
Theron rolled, just missing a killing thrust, and came up spitting mud. His movements were stiff, a fraction slower than they should have been. Houlis gave him no quarter, raining blows down on him and driving him backward until his heels slammed against the stone edge of the steps. Every strike reminded Theron of how long it had been since he’d fought like this.
“You tired, scarecrow?” Houlis jeered, voice oily and cruel. “Should’ve stayed quiet!”
Theron made no reply. He let Houlis get too close. Waited until the man over-committed to a two-handed swing. Then he ducked under the blade, pivoted and drove the pommel of his own sword hard into Houlis’s wrist. The captain’s hold loosened. Theron twisted, driving his blade up, catching the inside of Houlis’s arm and wrenching hard. The sword clattered on the ground.
The captain cried out, and then he laughed, low and throaty. “Not bad,” he said. “But I’m not finished.”
He reached out barehanded, seizing Theron around the back of the neck and hauling him down. They grappled in the frozen mud, boots skidding on ice, blades forgotten. Houlis went for his windpipe, but Theron twisted, claws raking across the man’s face, leaving angry, bloody tracks.
The fight became a blur of motion, each strike measured, each roll calculated. Theron’s movements, stiff and uncertain at first, regained fluidity with every hit, every grapple. He found the rhythm, the edge of instinct honed over years, and Houlis’s attacks began to miss, slow and telegraphed against a man coming back into his element.
Theron snatched his dropped sword, swinging with precision now, hacking at Houlis’s side and back. The armored man howled and released him, staggering backward. Theron rose, blade aloft, steady, every movement controlled, inevitable.
Houlis clutched his side, panting, eyes wild. He spat blood into the mud, and then, shockingly, raised his hands in defeat.
“Fast for a scarecrow,” he gasped.
Theron did not move. He waited. He let the moment hang there, heavy and terrible.
And then he tossed the sword at Houlis’s feet and turned away, limping back towards the now silent square. For a moment, no one knew what to do. The villagers and soldiers just stared in silence, mouths agape.
It was the captain himself who ended the tension. He hauled himself upright, a ruin of blood and hatred, and roared, “He wins! One man, one recruit. Fair is fair.”
The crowd exploded. The villagers first, then even some soldiers, who’d never seen their captain lose a fight, let alone to a half-dead peasant.
Talla shoved through the crowd and seized Theron by the shoulders. “You mad bastard,” she whispered, tears coming down her cheeks. “You did it. You saved us.”
He smiled tiredly, a crooked and battered thing. “Just barely.”
She hugged him close and hard, the blood and stink of him meaning nothing. “You saved us,” she repeated.
He let her. “I just hope it sticks.”
The recruiters withdrew to the tavern, Houlis bringing up the rear. He glanced back once, locking eyes with Theron. In that look was a promise: I’ll remember this. I’ll remember you.
Theron didn’t look away.
Houlis shouted, “We leave at dawn!”
Theron stayed in the temple courtyard, breathing in the night chill, feeling cold and pain and relief all at once. In front of him, the village roused, voices ringing out at first timid, then jubilant.
He looked at Talla and saw worry still etched on her face, and gave her a small, tired nod.
The following morning, Houlis found Theron on the tavern porch, binding battered ribs with a strip of torn shirt. The captain moved slowly, one arm pressed to his side where Theron’s blade had left a dark purple welt. He grinned, teeth showing like a fiend.
“You ready, scarecrow?” he rasped.
Theron looked up, face unreadable. “What now?”
“Now you come with us,” Houlis said. “You once again belong to the Luminarch Dominion. Assuming your story holds any truth.”
Theron merely grunted.
The captain tilted his head, studying him. “Did you really fight in the War? Were you discharged? Wounded?”
Theron said nothing. He finished tying off the bandage and rose to his feet.
Houlis laughed, a genuine, almost delighted sound. “You know, when I saw you the first time, I thought you were just another miserable peasant. But there’s something else in you. Something cold.” He leaned in close, breath steaming with hatred. “I don’t know what it is, and I don’t care. Just don’t embarrass me on the road, or I’ll finish what I started.”
Theron nodded. “Understood.”
They walked into the square. The other recruiters followed, packs slung, weapons gleaming. The villagers lined the street in silence, the previous night’s revelry a forgotten thing. Wordless, they watched as Theron put on his battered coat, slung a pack over his shoulder, and joined the end of the line.
Talla was there, arms folded over her chest. She grabbed Theron’s sleeve as he passed.
“You could run,” she told him again.
He smiled and shook his head. “This is better.”
She blinked back tears, not willing to cry. “Will you ever come back?”
He ached to lie, to give her the comfort of a promise he could not keep. But the words stuck in his throat, heavy with the truth he had carried too long. “No,” he said at last, the admission scraping out like broken glass. “I don’t think I’ll be able to.”
She shut her eyes and then squeezed his arm, fierce and sudden. “Thank you. For everything.”
He hesitated again, then hugged her, awkward, brief, but honest. When he stepped back, tears streaked her cheeks, and his own face burned. Houlis barked a command and the recruiters moved, boots pounding the frozen road. Theron fell in at the rear, head down, steps slow but deliberate.
As he passed the last house, he glanced back. The entire village was there, crouched along the lane. Old men, children, women with hands raw from years of work. They watched him go in silence. Faces were solemn, eyes bright with something like awe. Once, they would have ignored him. Now, they marked his passing as if it meant everything.
Theron felt a flicker of something he had not felt in years. Perhaps this was what he had wanted all along.
He reached under his shirt and closed his hand around his medallion, the weight of the metal comforting him. Ahead, the world loomed, vast and unforgiving, yet strangely full of promise. His boots sank into the frost as he moved forward, each step deliberate, each breath steady. The path stretched on. Shadows crept between the trees, and the wind bit at his face. He did not look back again. The village, the people, the life he had known these last years, faded into the distance. He carried them with him, quiet and certain, into what came next.