Johan ducked a high-blowing swing from a sword aimed at his throat. He rolled through the blood-soaked mud and sprung back to his feet. He raised his heavy oaken shield to brace for another strike. “How did this happen?” His mind turned to his love, Celeste. “We’ve been at peace for nearly ten years.”

  An arrow pierced the flesh of his shoulder; sharp pain shot through his arm as if it were lightning. The shield fell away, but the axe deflected, grazing the sturdy surface of the wood. The man before him spun around to parry an incoming strike from the side, before returning his sights on Johan.

  Johan fell to his knees as another arrow pinned his back. He stared into the distance, beyond the hairless man with lightning streaks across his scalp and flames charred into his cheeks. Johan saw his home in flames. Smoke clung to the air above the village. His men were fighting for their lives. “How could we have let this happen?”

  He tucked his head and rolled again, snapping off the arrow in his back. Marcus stepped in front, knocking the assailant back.

  “Ryan!” Intense worry filled his mind.

  He sprinted to the open gate of his village wishing his faithful companion, Thunder, hadn't taken a spear when the battle began. His chest heaved as the air painfully entered his lungs. He spun in horror, taking in dreadful scenes of his village. The bodies of countless men, women, and children lay scattered all around as his gaze drifted towards his home. It was burning. “Noooooo!” he shouted as he blocked a spear hell-bent on spilling his innards. He slashed the attacker with a downward slice, turned his sword and cut off his head.

  “JOOOOHAAAAN!” came a long, near-endless cry from behind.

  Johan turned to see the bald man from before throwing something at him, then grasping his twin axes and spinning them with his hands; his eyes wide; his tongue drawn out. “Former Chief of my new fortress.”

  Johan stepped sideways as Marcus's head rolled past. “You bastard!” he shouted before charging the man.

  His strikes were like a serpent, but the man just smiled and laughed as he effortlessly parried with his axes. An arrow found itself in Johan's leg, causing him to stumble.

  “Ryan.” His thoughts turned to a whisper as his son re-entered his mind. As he saw the axe cleaving downward in slow motion, his thoughts trailed back to five days past. The axe was nearer now. He was back on the small hill beside the road. Johan smiled as the axe came down; all he saw was a boy, his son, lying on his back carelessly, fast asleep, holding a fishing pole.

  ******

  Five days prior

  A young boy sat alone on the riverbank, clutching a fishing pole fashioned from a sturdy stick and lengths of twine. Ryan loved to fish. He would often sit for hours, lost in the rhythm of the water, while he awaited his father’s return. Today was the day, and he was determined to be the first to offer a greeting.

  His excitement had chased away sleep the night before, and he had eventually dozed off in the afternoon warmth. He awoke with a start as the line snapped taut, nearly wrenching the stick from his hands. Gritting his teeth, he pulled hard, hoisting a shimmering fish from the stream.

  "That’ll make a fine supper, my boy," a deep voice rumbled behind him.

  Ryan spun around, a grin splitting his face. His father was drawing closer, dusty from the road but wearing a familiar smile. The boy leapt to his feet, dropping his rod and leaving the fish to flop on the grass as he threw himself into his father’s outstretched arms.

  "I missed you, Father," Ryan whispered into the man’s shoulder.

  "And I, you," Johan replied, nuzzling the boy’s forehead with his own.

  The man carried Ryan back to the discarded rod and set him down gently.

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  "Fish with me, Father," the boy urged. "Mother doesn't expect you until nightfall. We have plenty of time."

  Johan gazed across the horizon toward their village. "How many have you caught?"

  "Only three," Ryan admitted sheepishly.

  "Well, that will never do. I suppose we should secure a few more for the pot."

  Ryan beamed. "I brought one for you, too." He pointed to a second stick rigged with a bone hook, then opened a small wooden box. "And I brought worms."

  The late summer sun hung heavy and golden over the riverbank. They sat together until past midday, the wind whispering through the tall grass. Finally, Johan stood. "It’s time we head home."

  They gathered their gear and trekked back to the road where the horse and wagon waited. Johan had spent weeks traveling, trading the early harvest and village wares. Now, the wagon groaned under the weight of new goods—strange tools, fine fabrics, and curiosities that set Ryan’s imagination alight.

  "Climb in the back," Johan said. "Your mother is likely pacing the floor by now."

  As the wagon creaked into motion, Ryan looked back at the empty road. "Father? Where are the other wagons?"

  Johan had departed with five wagons; he was returning with eleven and the promise of more. In his haste to see his family, he had broken camp before dawn, leaving the main caravan behind. "They’ll be along shortly," he assured his son.

  They rolled down the well-worn road toward the village. Because it was harvest season, the massive main gates stood open. Twin stone towers flanked the entrance, connected by a rampart that topped a wall of stone and timber—a simple defense Johan liked to say was "three horses high and held together by mud and hope."

  Inside, the village was a bustle of activity. Stone and timber houses with thatched roofs lined the main road, their chimneys venting plumes of sweet woodsmoke. They headed for the largest home near the center. It was the residence of the Chief.

  Johan’s heart swelled when he saw Celeste. She was hanging wash to dry, but she froze as the wagon approached. As her son had done earlier, she dropped the linens and ran. Johan leapt from the bench before the horses had fully stopped, catching her in a fierce embrace and lifting her off the ground. He had been gone a full moon’s cycle, and the ache of absence finally vanished.

  "Johan. You’ve come back to me," she breathed.

  "Always, my Celeste," he replied, kissing her with the hunger of a man who had been away too long.

  "Mama, look! We brought fish!" Ryan shouted, proudly hoisting a leather cord strung with half a dozen trout.

  Celeste wiped joyful tears from her eyes, laughing. "So I see, Ryan. Well done."

  Johan handed the fish to his wife and turned to his son, his expression shifting to that of a leader. "Ring the bells, Ryan. Gather the people."

  The boy sprinted to the nearest tower. Moments later, three long, resonant peals echoed through the valley. As the villagers assembled, Johan stood tall before them.

  "I have returned!" he announced. "The villages of Teton and Hallow send their thanks. Your wares fetched a high price, and I have brought all you asked for—and more."

  The crowd erupted in cheers. Johan raised a hand for silence. "The tanners have sent sacks of leather and requested more of our craftwork. The plainsmen sent eight sacks of wool in exchange for our winter garments." He caught the eyes of the loom-maidens and seamsters. "We are blessed by your talents."

  Another cheer rose, louder this time.

  "And from the Crescent Mountains," Johan added with a wink, "ten barrels of ale and two casks of whiskey. They ask only that we grow extra barley come spring!"

  The village roared. "The rest of the caravan arrives by nightfall," Johan shouted over the noise. "Store what we have, prepare the long tables, and light the fires. Tonight, we feast!"

  After the initial excitement died down, Johan drove the wagon toward the rear of the village. Their home sat in the shadow of the Twin Peaks, where a cold river wound through the mountain pass. Near the base of the northern peak lay a deep cavern that acted as the village storehouse.

  "Greetings, Steffen," Johan called out to the lookout stationed in the carved watch-post above the cave.

  Steffen signaled the gatekeepers. With a groan of heavy chains and the rhythmic clip-clop of mules turning the internal cogs, the massive iron gate, forged in the dwarven lands generations ago, began to rise.

  As he waited, Johan reflected on the peace they enjoyed. For five generations, the land of Tenroha had been quiet. The era of warring chiefs and bloody conquests for power had faded into history, replaced by the prosperity of trade. There were still bandits in the wilds, but they were a dying breed. He smiled, flicked the reins, and drove into the cool darkness of the mountain.

  By the time the wagon was emptied and the horses stabled, the sun was dipping below the peaks. Johan returned home to find Celeste and Ryan already eating.

  "We saved you the biggest one, Father," Ryan said, handing him a wooden plate. Johan took it gratefully, the simple meal of fresh fish tasting better than any merchant’s banquet.

  As twilight took hold, Johan began his nightly rounds. He walked to the main gate and called up to the sentries. "Any sign of the caravan?"

  "No, my lord," a voice called back from the ramparts.

  "The light is failing," Johan muttered. "Send out two riders to greet them. If they’ve made camp, I want to know where."

  "Aye, my lord."

  Two riders galloped out just as the great wooden gates began their slow, laboring close. Johan watched them disappear into the dusk.

  "As late as it is, they’ve likely hunkered down for the night," Johan said to the watchman. "I’ll send food up from the feast so you don't miss the celebration."

  "Greatly appreciated, my lord!"

  Johan turned back toward the lights of the village, but a small, nagging shadow of unease lingered in his mind as the gates thudded shut behind him.