Lord Haldon was a stout man in life. His kingdom called him, affectionately, The Log, on account of his sturdiness and might. His body was square in shape, and his arms and legs were so thick that he waddled more than walked when he took his daily stroll about the kingdom. It was even said that there were a few failed assassination attempts, thwarted not by his royal guard but simply by the thickness of his skin and the strength of his arm.

  It may have been said, in a fairer world, that his brains were sacrificed to make up for his brawn, but nothing could be further from the truth. Lord Haldon was an incredible student, a favorite of his teachers and tutors, and oftentimes he would sit at the tops of his classes far away from those beneath him. His favorite subjects were history and arithmetic, and so when he received the crown from his father on the day of his death he was not only strong enough to seize it, but smart enough to keep it as well. And from his rule came an age of peace that lasted for nearly thirty years.

  There was no joy greater to the Lord of the East than the day his son, Gillion, was born. His wife had labored long and hard for a night and a day, and when Gillion had finally broken free of the prison of his mother’s womb, he let out a cry that rattled the shutters and shook the Earth. At least, that’s what it seemed like to Lord Haldon. Nothing would be the same for him after. He had found the love of his life that day, the greatest love a man could find: a father’s love for his son. And he would do anything he could to keep Gillion safe.

  At least, that’s how it was told to Gillion, in a study far, far away from his father’s castle. Gillion’s tutors enjoyed him well enough, but he was no great star like his father was. They’d tell him that, again and again, you are nothing like your father was, why can’t you be more like him? And he supposed it was true. He took after his mother more than his father. His body, at the time, was slender and fragile, and he didn’t take to fencing as well as his father had. He liked study, he supposed, but he was never as intelligent or capable as his father, and his tutors let him know that fact with every passing day. This day was no different.

  “Gillion.” Sir Bradbury said, slamming his thin switch on the desk in front of the young boy. “Recite the Riddle of Arms.”

  “Uh…” Gillion stammered. He had been busy looking out the side window to his left, staring at the far white countryside of snow and frost. This winter wasn’t particularly harsh, just cold enough for it to snow and for the snow to keep, but not so cold as to kill quickly. It made the whole world feel magical to him, like the trees had hidden beneath a white blanket. “The Riddle of Arms…”

  Silence filled the room as Gillion struggled to remember the old words that had been recited to him a thousand times. His eyes shot to the bookcase sitting just behind his elderly tutor, reading their spines as if he could find some divine inspiration in the lettering. He watched the fire roar in the stone and metal fireplace to his right. He searched the wrinkles in his tutor’s face, tracing every inch of its aged, sagging appearance before finally, Gillion gave up.

  “I don’t know.” Gillion crossed his arms and slouched over onto the desk. “Do you always gotta ask me this stuff?”

  Sir Bradbury raised the switch and quickly whipped it into the back of Gillions neck, causing the young boy to wince and suck in air through his teeth. “Language, your highness. We’ve spoken about your diction numerous times. Repeat what you said back to me, but do it properly.”

  Gillion furrowed his brow and rubbed the back of his neck. “Fine. ‘I do not know, sir. Why must you always ask me such difficult questions?’” The pain was still there, lingering just on the surface of his skin.

  “Difficult? Hardly.” Sir Bradbury said, chuckling to himself. “The Riddle of Arms is the last thing Blackened Death will ask us upon our deaths. If we cannot remember what the Riddle actually is, how will we ever hope to answer it? Every man of the kingdom must know it.” Sir Bradbury gave Gillion another swift whipping, this time on the knuckles. “The fact that you do not shows me that you’re very far behind your peers.”

  “I know it, old man.” Gillion said. “I just have to remember it.”

  He thought again for a time, watching his tutor pace back and forth, back and forth in his poofy pants and long sleeves. He always hated the way the nobility dressed. Would he have to dress the same when he attended court?

  “The Riddle of Arms, as spoken from the chattering jaw of Blackened Death to the men of the East. ‘Who now has the strength to guide them, their shivering bones and trembling hearts? Who now has the strength to lead them, their empty stomachs and riddled skin? Who now has the strength to arm them, their hungering hands and restless arms? When the dawn of day breaks, and dusk of night comes, who now will have the strength to see it through, when no man under the sun can claim him?’”

  Sir Bradbury stopped, turning to look at Gillion. “And the final line?”

  Gillion looked down. “I’m… sorry, sir. I can’t seem to recall it.”

  “Gillion.” Sir Bradbury huffed, setting his switch down on the stone top of the fireplace counter. He turned to look at Gillion, the young, skinny boy who resembled his delicate mother more than his stronger father. The boy who was the disappointment of the east, the boy who would inherit these lands and more, if he were allowed to. “The final line is this, Gillion: ‘Who then will have the strength of arms to survive?’”

  Gillion splashed up out of the water, flailing as if he were about to drown. He gasped for air, reaching up toward anything, toward some handhold that he could use to survive, but then realized that he was only shoulder-deep. He sighed, caught his breath, and slowly walked back toward the edge of the large wooden bathing pool he currently sat in.

  He had fallen asleep in the bath tub. Pondfall’s public bathhouse had heated water for those that were willing to pay, and Gillion had saved a few coins on his travels for moments like these. Steam rose up around him as he pushed his way back to the edge, turning his back toward the wall and bringing his elbows up to support him. He found a good position, a half-sit half-crouch in the water that allowed him to submerge himself up to his neck, and he soaked there for a while, almost drifting off again in that small, private room where he bathed. He half opened his eyes, looking to the fading sunlight outside through a small slit-like window that sat about five feet above him. Little wisps of clouds were visible in the distance, and the darkness that was now enveloping the world made the interior of this private, heated bath that much more cozy. He could melt into the water if he wanted to.

  How long are you going to stay in there? Amorada asked. Gillion had propped her up against the wall closest to the bathtub.

  “As long as it continues to feel good.” Gillion said. His words were slow and unfocused now. It had been a long time since Gillion, son of Lord Haldon, had felt luxury like this. He’d have to eat a little lighter tonight, but it was worth it. “You could come in too, you know.”

  Touch me with that filthy water and I’ll cut off your hands. Amorada snapped back. Besides, I’m a woman, aren’t I? A bit uncouth to bathe with a woman you haven’t married.

  “A woman? Amorada, you're a sword.” Gillion answered back. “Besides, you knew and loved my father. If anything, you’re like an aunt to me. Maybe a grandmother even. Did you belong to my grandfather?”

  Lord Hallion's hands never held me. I did not exist in the times of your grandfather. Amorada buzzed angrily. And I am a woman. Also a sword, yes, but still a woman.

  “How peculiar.” Gillion said. His mind went back to that girl at the Littani camp, the one that had made him laugh. He thought of her black hair and white smile, then thought of his demeanor upon meeting her. Unfriendly, to say the least. “Say, Amorada, is there any peculiar way I am supposed to talk to women?”

  Why do you ask? Someone on the mind?

  “That woman. Anice. I feel I was too unfriendly to her, but I spoke to her the same way I speak to everyone. The same way I speak to you.” Gillion scratched the back of his head, trying to articulate what was on his mind. “She seemed offended by it. I don’t know. Maybe if I–”

  “Excuse me, sir?” A feminine voice called out from behind the closed door. “Did you call for me?”

  The bath attendant knocked on the door lightly, causing Gillion to freeze. “Er, no! Thank you!”

  “Are you sure, sir? I thought I heard talking!”

  “I’m certain! Leave! Now!”

  “Alright, alright! No need to yell!” She said, shuffling off from behind the door.

  Gillion let out a sigh of relief, turning back to Amorada and huffing. “You see what I mean, Amorada? I chased that girl off, didn’t I?”

  It’s not that you’re trying to be rude, Gillion, but it comes off that way. Amorada glowing gently from beneath the black cloth. With most people, your size and appearance are enough to scare them, and so they never call out your demeanor. That woman saw through it.

  Gillion nervously splashed around in the water, listening intently to Amorada’s words.

  So, she didn’t see the Vagrant, she saw the princeling. And she knew to call him out. It’s nothing to fuss over.

  “You think my appearance is frightening?” Gillion asked. He reached under his chin and scratched the thick bush of hair that grew there.

  Undoubtedly. But it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a good wash and an even better shave.

  Gillion lifted himself up and out of the water, then walked over to the door the attendant had knocked on. He opened it slightly, only enough to peek, then called out. “Attendant! Are my clothes washed and ready?”

  “Yes sir!” She called out. “Would you like them brought to you?”

  “Yes! And a razor!”

  Gillion spent the rest of the evening shaving in front of the bathhouse mirror. His technique was lost, it seemed, perhaps it had run away when he first stepped into the wilderness, but his hands could remember what the action had once felt like. He spent around an hour carving the years off of his face, letting the hair fall into thick clumps on the wet ground as he continued to slice hair after hair off of his cheeks and chin. By the time he was finished the sun had almost fully set, and he stared at himself in the mirror by candlelight.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He was an easterner through and through, it seemed. With the dirt rubbed off of his face he was much paler than the folks in Pondfall, even after all of his years in the wild. His hair was still as dark as it had always been, but where it once was caked in mud and dirt it now shined and glistened as the flickering candlelight made the shadows dance on his face. He was much older than he remembered being. There were wrinkles in places that he hadn’t seen in a decade, and his angular features seemed sharper now, more jagged now that time had had its way with him.

  You look like your father. Amorada said.

  He studied his face closely, turning left and right. Did he really look like his father? It was hard to believe.

  His eyes flicked to the slit-like window, where raised voices and flickering light had caught his attention. Were they yelling?

  He stepped out of the private bath and walked down the hallway, clad in his freshly washed clothing. They were still old, admittedly, and ripped in some places, but with the dirt washed off of them they returned to some of their former glory. The deep blacks of his clothes were now actually black instead of a dark shade of brown, and the greens that had faded into the grime were at least now present. He felt like a new man.

  The end of the hallway opened up into a larger lobby, where the bath attendant and the rest of her family were standing near the doorway. The attendant that had helped him, a young girl with red hair and freckled skin, looked back fearfully at him.

  “What’s wrong?” He asked, stepping out of the hallway and toward the family. He stepped around the wooden furniture and many seats they had set up for their guests. “Speak.”

  “It’s the townsfolk, sir.” The girl said, stepping to the side. The rest of her family followed suit, spying the sword on his hip and eyeing it warily. “They’re marching.”

  Gillion pushed past the family and stepped outside, coming face to face with a passing mob of furious, screaming villagers. They carried with them burning torches and sharpened farm equipment, some even brought their cows, as they marched down the street toward the southern end of town. At their head was an elder in a horse-drawn cart, yelling to the villagers, screaming at the tops of his lungs to kill the ‘filthy southerners’ for taking their children, and Gillion stared aghast.

  “People!” Gillion called out, only receiving the attention of a few. “Where goes you?!”

  One of them split off from the group, stopping a few feet away from Gillion as the rest of the crowd continued forward. She was a woman with ginger hair tied messily into a bandana, with a white apron covering her dress and a pained expression on her face. Glistening tears fell from her eyes as she stared daggers at the vagrant in front of her.

  “Vagrant.” Marda started. “Do you know?”

  “Do I… know what?” He asked, stepping up to her and looking down toward her arms. Where was her infant? “Marda, where is your child?”

  She stared up at him with eyes turned red and a trembling lower lip. Her brow was lifted into a look of worry and surprise, and a constant hiccuping escaped her lips as she tried to stop her sobbing. “His name was Florin. After his father.” She said, trembling. She cupped her face in her hands, sobbing even harder as she spoke.

  “‘Was?’” Gillion asked. He put a hand reassuringly on her shoulder, then turned toward the crowd.

  Gillion walked forward, exceeding their pace and passing each man, woman, and even child that was amongst their ranks. Furrowed brows, stretched lips, fire in their eyes. He continued forward, passing them until finally pulling up to their front. They were speeding their way to the Littani caravan, it seemed, now that they had reached the end of town, and they knew nothing of peace at that moment. Their minds were of fire and blood, and Gillion knew that it would spell trouble if they were to reach the southerners’ camp.

  He yanked Amorada from her sheath and jogged forward a few paces, before spinning around on his heel and entering a fencing stance against the incoming crowd. He planted himself there, digging the balls of his feet into the soft grass and mud, and he screamed at the top of his lungs.

  “HALT!” He screamed, causing the elder at the front of the mob to signal the others to slow down. He took a deep breath and continued. “You will not shed blood here tonight, Pondfall.”

  “Blood has already been shed, Vagrant!” The elder, a man who Gillion remembered as Alquin, screamed from his seat on the cart. “More children have been taken, and you have done nothing! Leave our path or be trampled!”

  “Any who advance will be cut down!” Gillion screamed, holding Amorada forward. The men at the front of the crowd faltered, and Alquin went white as he saw the sword. “Who will approach first?!”

  “We will kill you before you can kill us!” Alquin screamed.

  “Indeed!” Gillion took a step forward, causing the men in the front ranks of the mob to flinch. “But a lot of you will die! This I guarantee!”

  A hushed silence had fallen over the crowd now, their crackling torches being the only sound present as the easterner stared down this angry mob of villagers.

  “Why do you stop us?! We only seek our children!” A man from the crowd yelled.

  “A good question, citizen!” Alquin said, smiling. “Why stop us, Vagrant? Do you have ties to Littani scum? Mixed blood perhaps?”

  “I stop you because I know the Littani have not taken your children! Do you not remember? A monster lurks in the trees!”

  “I have had men scour the trees for such a beast!” Alquin responded, rising from his seated position on the cart. The old man was much fatter when standing, if that were even possible, and he wore on each hand a large leather glove that stretched halfway up his arms. He carried a perfectly polished silver blade in his right hand, and he kept his left hand pinned behind his back. “And they have found nothing! No sign of such a creature!”

  Gillion furrowed his brow in thought, still standing in his hardened position. “How many?”

  “What?” The elder asked.

  “How many children have been taken?”

  “Five.” Alquin said. He snapped his fingers, calling up one of the townsfolk. “List them, citizen.”

  The man cleared his throat. “Marda’s boy, Florin, I believe. Breta’s daughter, Vitil. Young lass by the name of Camola, and two other girls, Wallan, and infant Heartha.”

  Camola?

  “And nobody saw this?” Gillion asked. “Nobody at all?”

  “None whatsoever!” Alquin said, dismissively waving the man back into the crowd. “No sign! No proof! No evidence! It is as you said, Vagrant! Old Song trickery!” The elder was almost giddy when he spoke, and a grin had crawled its way across his face. Gillion felt nauseous when looking at him. “So leave our path and go back to your trees!”

  “Why are you so happy, elder? Excited to burn the innocent?”

  “So you are on their side! Men, kill this Vagrant!” Alquin said, gesturing for the people around him to approach. None did. “Have your spines left your backs?! Kill him, men!”

  “I am on your children’s side! If you kill that caravan, we will never find them!” Gillion took another step forward, causing the front line to once again shrink back. If they wanted to, the crowd could rush Gillion, take his blade and club him to death. One or two of them might die, sure, but there was no way for him to fight and win against an entire town, even if he wanted to. He just needed to stall them. “A day!”

  Alquin leaned over his cart, chins dangling from under his head. “A day?”

  “Give me one day!” Gillion screamed, facing the crowd now instead of the Elder. “One day to find your children! If I fail, then burn the Littani! But I need them to aid me on my journey, or you’ll never see your children again!”

  Alquin turned to the crowd, who had lowered their weapons. “More children could be taken in a day, Vagrant. And who’s to say you won’t warn the Littani, and have them running for the hills?”

  “You have no other option! When you burn the Littani tonight, and when you find that there is no sign of your children amongst them, then there will be no more hope!” Gillion took another step forward. “One day more! After that, revenge can be yours. What say you?!”

  Gillion watched warily as the townsfolk shuffled in place, murmuring to each other. What would he do if they decided to storm him? What would he do if they decided to kill the Littani anyway, despite their innocence? The truth of the matter was that there was truly nothing he could do. Even with a magic sword, Gillion, Son of Lord Haldon, was powerless against an army of grieved townsfolk.

  The moment brought him back to that day on the battlefield, where he faced down the Immortal King’s armies on the fields of Galadon. That day he trembled in the saddle, his eyes filled with tears, and his grip on his reins was loose and weak. Was he shaking now? He gripped Amorada harder, glancing between the mob in front of him and the stars overhead. Too often his destiny was decided under their glittering gaze.

  “What say you!” Gillion yelled, demanding an answer from Alquin. The elder flinched at the shout, moving backward in his cart and almost growling as he did so.

  “Fine, Vagrant! One day to find the children. All of them! If you fail, we burn the Littani.” Alquin waved his hand and the mob let out a cry of disappointment. Alquin hushed them with a look. “We will return at the same time tomorrow night, weapons drawn. The Littani will have their innocence proven, or they will burn. Fair, Vagrant?”

  “Fair.” Gillion said, relaxing his shoulders.

  He sheathed Amorada and watched in relief as the townsfolk slowly made their way back to their homes. With the crowd slowly dispersing, Gillion turned to the south, where he could see the flickering lights of the Littani caravan in the distance. What were they doing now? Did they sleep at night like everyone else, did they drink and make merry, all the while Pondfall sought to burn and kill them? A strange thing indeed, he found, to be so far from home. He looked back up to the stars twinkling overhead, then back down to the treeline in the distance, where the gentle breeze blew the evergreens this way and that. The townsfolk had chosen a peaceful night to become violent. Then again, whatever was taking the children had also chosen peaceful nights.

  He turned back to Pondfall, and let out a yelp when he looked down and saw Marda standing right before him.

  “Marda!”

  “Where do you come from, Vagrant?” She said. Her face was worn and tired, and the deep bags that had formed under her eyes seemed to sag even lower now that the tears had finally stopped. “What land do you hail from? What is your flag?”

  Gillion stared down at her. What could he say? He had no flag anymore, no land to claim as his own, no great banner to fly over his head. What his kingdom once was is now no longer, and every day that passes since the Immortal King’s conquering puts more distance between him and what was one his birthright.

  “My homeland no longer exists in the way it once did. I have no flag or banner.” Gillion looked eastward. “But my country once existed near the fields of Galadon, in the east, in the shadow of the Eternal Storm. Bruttariol, it was called. Yes. Bruttariol.”

  “Easterner.” She said, grabbing his arm and yanking him closer. “Swear it to whatever gods you follow that you will find my son by tomorrow. Swear it to the gods of the east, and upon your country, wherever it may be now.”

  Gillion closed his eyes and huffed. “We easterners did not worship any gods. They had forsaken us in the Eternal Storm and we built our nations without them.” Gillion shook off her grip and turned to march toward the forest. It was there that he had agreed to meet up with Anice, when the sun rose and the light would be there to guide them. “But I will swear it to Blackened Death all the same.”

  Gillion unsheathed Amorada once more, holding her aloft in the moonlight.

  “Old Song, hear this now my greatest oath. By my honor and whatever honor my country has left, I swear I will bring back Florin, Camola, Vitil, Wallan, and Heartha, so they might sleep in their beds again when the journey is through. If I fail, may Blackened Death take me in his burnt, chattering jaw.” Gillion lowered his sword and turned back to Marda, who stared up at him exhaustedly. “I swear to you, Marda, I will do everything in my power to bring your child back.”

  Marda nodded and turned around, shambling down the path back to her home. Tomorrow, Gillion would face the forest he came from, and he would face that great, large-handed spawn of Old Song who took his mule and the children of Pondfall. Tonight was peaceful, it seemed, but Gillion could feel none of that. The creature had taken Camola. He had already broken one oath to the town, and he would die if he broke another. He shook where he stood.

  "Amorada." He said. "I made a promise to the Old Song just now."

  That you did. She said. I hope you knew what you were doing.

  "I am the son of Lord Haldon. His blood must run in my veins, however little of it there is." Gillion sheathed Amorada and started forward. "Tomorrow we will see the quality of that blood. Tomorrow, we will see if I deserve to carry my name."