The mines of Asphodol were lit by the reddish-white glow of the flame gems set in the ceiling at ten foot intervals. Long, snake-like tunnels ribbed with veins of grey rock with veins of red running through them were filled with the scrape of chisels, chipping away at the walls. Workers armed with chisels and buckets attacked the walls, prying free chunks of the strange stone. Grey powder sprayed from the walls with each thunk of the chisels, raining on and sticking to the people below.

Dust stood by himself at one of the veins of grey stone. His chisel left grooves through the rock, the familiar grinding of the metal on stone was almost soothing. He had outlined a sizeable portion of stone and was working the grooves deeper until he could pry a sizeable chunk loose. He had been at his work for hours and had hours more to go before the dinner bell would sound.

Dust was small for his fifteen years and thin besides. His pale skin and ratty cotton clothes were covered in a patina of fine, grey residue from years of digging at the walls of these tunnels. His pale hair was so full of powder it floated free with the smallest shake of his head. Like everyone and everything else in Asphodol, the fallout from the mines was a permanent feature of his life.

After hours of work, Dust managed to pull free a piece of stone bigger than his fist. He dropped it in the bucket at his feet and returned to his digging. When he filled the bucket, another worker would take it away and empty it into the larger barrows. It would then be taken away. Dust didn't know where it went or what it was for, he only knew that he had to continue to work.

Anyone who couldn't or wouldn't work...well, the Shadows took them.

The Shadows oversaw all the workers in Asphodol. They could watch through the darkness between lights and even travel through it, crossing vast distances in a single step. Some said this ability is what gave them their name.

Dust had been working in the mines for as long as he could remember. He could not remember a time before the mines; few of them did. He glanced down the line of workers, each one absorbed in their work. A few sections down, Sharp worked at his own vein of rock.

Sharp was the only friend that Dust had, if he could be called a friend. He loved to talk and would do so with anyone willing to listen to him. Dust, being a

quiet one, was all too happy to do so. Sharp told lots of strange tales. Things his Guardian had told him about other places; places with things called “plants” and open spaces with nothing above but something called a “sky”. Dust didn't believe these wild stories, but they were fun to listen to and there was precious little fun in Asphodol.

They were not working near each other today, so Dust had to content himself with the rhythmic grinding of his chisel for company.

Time passed as it always did, the day passing slowly, although it was hard to tell in the monotone light of the flame gems. Eventually, the whistle would sound and Dust would be able to put down his tools and begin the long trudge back to the caves where he lived.

But before that time came, a shriek split the air.

Tools were dropped or flung down in surprise as the workers turned from their duty to look towards the source of the sound. A woman, Dust knew her name was Shale, stood back from the wall, her hands cupped around something. Dust knew what it was she was holding. The same thing they all hoped to hold one day. The thing that kept that all at work as much as the threat of the Shadows.

Shale opened her hands, revealing her prize to the light. It was black and oily-looking, about the size of Dust's smallest finger. It had no legs and no discernible head. Its body was bulbous and soft, wiggling across her palms. The workers around Shale stared in awe as she lifted her hands to her mouth and shoved the creature in. She swallowed, gasping as it passed down her throat.

Black veins began to crawl across her neck, up toward her head and down toward her chest. They ran down her arms, pushing outward as they passed through the skin of her hands. Her face became a maze of black veins, her eyes turning black as pitch, whites and pupils swallowed by darkness.

Shale had become a Shadow.

As the transformation ended, two shapes stepped out of the darkness between the light from the flame gems. They walked toward Shale, hands extended. They had the same black veins and black eyes that Shale now bore. She took their hands, not bothering to look back at the workers around her, and stepped with them into the shadows. They vanished.

The workers slowly returned to work, shaking off the awe and fear of watching a Shadow created in their midst. It was a rare thing to see, but one often spoken of. After all, it was exactly what they each hoped to achieve one day. To find a shadowseed and ascend to the ranks of the Shadows.

The Shadows were the overseers of the mines but they had other tasks as well that none of the miners were privy to. They had privileges the miners could never dream of and powers they could not begin to fathom.

It was difficult to focus on the work after witnessing Shale's change. The speed at which it had happened and the immediacy of her departure were unnerving. Dust had always thought that if he became a Shadow he would be able to say good bye to his fellow miners, to Sharp, to his Guardian. But now, he wasn't so sure.

After another few hours of work, the dinner bell sounded. Dust turned with the rest of the miners and followed them up the tunnel toward the Cavern. They dropped their tools at the mouth of the tunnel and moved into the open space of the Cavern.

The Cavern was a massive open area amidst the caves. The roof of the Cavern was so high up that it was swallowed in darkness. Part of the space was taken up with crude tables and benches made of hacked stone. The rest of the area was designated for various tasks. One section for cooking and preparing meals, one for laundry, one for repairing or crafting tools.

Dust waited in line to receive his dinner for the day, then took it to an open space at one of the tables. The workers in the Cavern were those too old or too young for mining. They did the other menial tasks necessary to keep the miners fit for work. Dust's Guardian, Sot, was not here; he was probably among those chosen to haul water from the hot springs in one of the deepest tunnels. Sot was often chosen for such work; he was not well liked.

Dust ate his portion of dry bread and mushroom soup without appetite. The sight of Shale's transformation lingered behind his eyelids, replaying over and over each time he closed his eyes. It sickened him, even as he found it fascinating. He had never seen a shadowseed before; it was revolting. For the first time that he could remember, he worried if he would have the courage to ingest it if the time ever came.

After finishing his meal, Dust rose and left the Cavern. He took one of the old hauler's tunnels that sloped down sharply. These tunnels led to the hot springs that provided the miners with their water. It also led to Dust's favorite place.

Taking a turn away from the lit tunnels, he followed a few darkened shafts, moving by memory, until he came to a large opening lit by brilliant red light. The floor in front of the tunnel's opening fell away to reveal a vertical shaft that plunged downward. A few feet below the lip of the floor, molten rock bubbled and flowed. Liquid fire lit the open space brighter than any place Dust had ever seen. It was comforting and awe-inspiring all at once.

Dust moved away from the tunnel mouth, following the ledge a few feet to the right. Part of an old shovel lay on the ground here. Its head was half melted, but had cooled into hardened metal once more. He felt like that shovel sometimes. A half-broken thing that could still be used. It comforted him for reasons he could not explain. He sat and basked in the warmth and light. He would not have much time, but he enjoyed these stolen minutes of peace in this strange bright place.

Soon enough, too soon, he had to leave. He followed the tunnels back to the Cavern and turned left, past the dining space, following a tunnel that led to the living quarters. The quarters were nothing more than square rooms, five paces by five, cut into the walls of the tunnel. A thin sheet was pegged to the frame of the entrance to give a semblance of privacy. The inside of the room was black —no flame gems hung from the ceiling. Dust felt around the floor by the entrance until he found the small store of matches and lit one. He used it to light a small square of lightstone. The lightstone was a porous yellow rock that gave of a soft light when lit.

Sot was not here either, Dust noted, his small pallet of rags was empty. Dust settled down on his own bundle of old cloth and leaned back against the wall.

as tired as he was, he never felt comfortable sleeping until Sot returned from his work.

It wasn't long before the partition was pushed aside and Sot tottered in. He was an old man, back bent from years of labor. His dark skin had a greyish hue to it and his white hair was thin and receding back from his forehead. He had dark eyes set beneath bushy white eyebrows and his thin mouth was barely discernible through his shaggy beard. His body was all knobby bones and sharp angles with little more than skin holding it all together.

Dust could barely remember when Sot had been strong enough to work the mines. For most of his life, his guardian had been relegated to more menial tasks. Most people looked down on Sot; his weakness was cause enough for ridicule in a place so dependent on strong backs.

But to Dust, Sot was everything.

Sot was the only person who seemed to care about Dust. And not just his ability to work, but to really care about his well being. Dust would never forget that. It was one of the reasons Dust wanted to become a Shadow. He would have the power and the privilege to protect Sot, maybe even see to him having easier work.

It took Dust a moment to notice the large bruise forming on Sot's cheek. Fighting between workers was rare as the Shadows policed the tunnels meticulously. And Shadows themselves rarely dished out punishments of a physical nature. It would not do to deprive themselves of able hands.

“What happened?” Dust asked.

“Oh, nothing serious,” Sot answered easily, knowing immediately what Dust was referring to. “Lord Slade thought I ought to be moving faster. Just gave me a little slap. Nothing to get worked up over.” The old man hobbled over to his pallet and lowered himself carefully.

Slade was one of the most powerful Shadows in Asphodol. He was also the most punitive. He took any excuse to knock a worker around and seemed to take particular pleasure in it.

Dust hated Slade. Hated him in the way one hated the stones or the darkness. Useless, but no less fierce for being unsolvable.

“It wasn't much of a blow,” Sot continued, “barely even touched me. Sha's Mercy protects me.” He leaned his head back, eyes closed.

Dust hated when Sot invoked Sha or his supposed mercy. Most of the older residents of Asphodol held Sha in reverence. Their god, who gave them life. The Lord of Neth Gellin, where one day, they might dwell in bliss beneath his benevolent hand.

Younger folk, like Dust, had their doubts about Sha. Not his existence, necessarily, though none of them knew for sure. Just that nothing about their lives seemed blessed by any god.

“Best get to sleep, boy. Tomorrow comes quick.”

Dust didn't respond, he just laid down and rolled to face the wall. He knew there was no point in debating with Sot about the bruise. It wouldn't kill the old man and short of that, Sot wouldn't hear a complaint about it. He held an odd reverence for those whose sole purpose seemed to be to make their lives miserable. But again, it all came back to Sha. This was His will, and the Shadows merely enforced it.

The new day came quickly, as Sot had said, the bell tolling through the darkness to signal a return to work. Dust rose slowly, barely pulling himself up before Sot was hobbling out the doorway.

What followed was a typical day; a small meal followed by hours of chipping and digging at the veins of strange rock that lined the walls of the mineshafts. By the time the bell sounded for the midday meal, Dust was covered in the usual fallout from the mining. He hated the grey powder that clung to the miners like a second skin, getting everywhere and on everything. Of all the things to hate, however, it was a small one.

After the midday meal, Dust found himself working alongside Sharp. Most people didn't speak much while they worked, but Sharp had mastered the knack of chattering away while working. As usual, he was well into one of his strange tales within minutes.

“And they have these things called 'trees'! They're kinda like stones, except softer, and they're alive!” Sharp's prattle never bothered Dust, but soft stones that lived were too fanciful for even his patience.

“That's ridiculous.” Dust shook his head in annoyance. Tales were usually fun, but he felt that Sharp sometimes just liked to see how insane he could make his stories sound.

“I know!” Sharp didn't seem to catch Dust's waning interest and took the response for enthusiasm. “But that's how it is, I'm telling you! And Treb also says they have these green things that grow on them. They're called leaves! And sometimes, they turn colors and fall to the ground!”

Treb was Sharp's guardian and he was well known for being crazy. Sharp had told Dust, and anyone else who would listen, a number of wild stories much like this one. That water could fall from the air. That there were creatures who could be made into food. That all the people of Asphodol actually came from other worlds. Nonsense like that was common for Treb.

The day wore on like that. Dust chipping away at the wall, filling his bucket with chunks of stone. Sharp going on and on about strange, wonderful places that were full of light and miracles.

Dust was so lost in the rhythm of his work that he almost didn't notice the movement in the stone. It started as shimmer in the rock. Like a bubble formed of solid grey. As Dust clawed around it with his chisel, it grew outward. He had never seen anything like it. Finally, he set the tip of his chisel against the protrusion and pushed.

The bubble burst and a small, black shape wiggled out. Dust barely had time to drop his chisel and cup his hands around the dark shape, catching it in his upward palms.

It was a Shadowseed. A large one. Much larger than the one Shale had found. It was commonly believed that the larger the Seed, the stronger the Shadow. Dust didn't know if that was true, but it seemed plausible.

The Seed was as big as two of his thumbs pressed together. Its bulbous, wriggling body was almost weightless in his hands. He knew what he had to do, but he hesitated. It seemed so unnatural, to put this thing in his mouth and swallow.

Unnatural, but simple.

All he had to do was force it down and he would be among the most powerful figures in Asphodol. But something held him back.

“Dust, what are you—” Sharp's question cut off as he looked over Dust's shoulder and saw what sat in his cupped palms. “Woah...”

They both sat their, staring at Dust's prize. This could change everything.

“What are you waiting for, Dust?” The question was simple but also not. Dust could not explain the sense of wrongness the creature gave off, but it unnerved him.

“I know, I know,” Dust mumbled back. “Just give me a minute.”

Dust started to raise his hands to his mouth, but stopped again. His stomach turned at the thought of this creature being inside of him. He just needed a minute to gather his courage, he told himself. Just a minute to prepare himself for how everything was about to change.

“I'm sorry, Dust.”

Sharp's voice cut through Dust's thoughts right as the chisel struck his head. Dust fell to the side, his head ringing, his empty hands dropping to his side.

Dust's vision blurred, sharpened, and blurred again.

It was hard to focus on anything. His hands felt around his face and came away wet and red. What had happened?

His vision cleared slightly, resolving itself into an image of Sharp standing over him. Sharp would help him. Sharp was his friend.

Then he noticed the bloody chisel in his friend's hand. And the other hand....it held a squirming black shape. Dust barely had time to process the scene above him before Sharp squeezed his eyes shut and forced the Seed into his mouth.

The transformation seemed to occur more rapidly than Shale's had. Or perhaps Dust was just so addled he could not keep up. One moment his friend had been swallowing the strange creature. The next, a black eyed monster leered down at him, black veins craving a horrible map across his pale face. After that, the space above him was empty.

Dust spent the rest of the day lying on his pallet in his quarters. His wound had been treated with a strange paste and covered with a rag. It was not a terrible wound despite how it felt and he would be expected at work the next day.

Dust awoke to fingers prodding at his wound. He sat up with a yelp to find Sot kneeling over him. He could see the pain in the old man's eyes. Sot was concerned for his health, Dust knew. But he would also be disappointed when he learned how Dust had gotten the injury.

Sot, dear pious Sot, was always going on about the blessings of Sha. How Sha gave gifts to those who deserved them. How Sha's servants — the Shadows — were the most blessed.

And Dust had lost his chance to receive that blessing. Sot would be devastated that Dust had failed so.

“I'm sorry—” he began, but Sot waved the apology away.

“You have nothing to be sorry about, my boy. I heard all about it. A shame to be betrayed by a friend.” The old man shook his head in sadness and leaned forward again to press a damp cloth to Dust's wound. He must have pulled the old rag away to inspect it for himself. Sot had plenty of experience with injuries.

Dust ached to tell his guardian the truth. How he had been too weak, too cowardly to take the blessing. How Sharp had only struck because Dust had hesitated. But he could not bear to admit his shame to the one person who had always cared for him.

“Its not easy, boy,” Sot said, softly. “Believe me, I know how hard it can be to hold that power in your hand. To know that it is only one small action away. I know it too well.”

Dust was shocked. Sot knew already that he had the chance and missed it. “How —” but again, Sot cut him.

“Let it be, boy.” The old man smiled, weakly. “Perhaps Sha's blessings are not for the likes of us.” Dust remained silent, though questions ran through his mind. Had Sot also not been able to ingest a Seed. How did he know that Dust had failed?

He wanted to press his guardian for answers but darkness had begun to close in on him. His head fell back onto the bundle of rags that served as his pillow and sleep was upon him.

The next week passed in the usual monotonous way. Dust ate, worked, and slept. His wound improved; he no longer got dizzy and the scab on his temple was fading. He rarely had any time to talk with Sot; it seemed the old man was being pressed hard in his duties. Dust hated that, but he had no one but himself to blame for it. If he had taken the Seed, things would be different.

But he hadn't. And as Sot had said, Dust had no choice but to let it go.

After more than a week back at work, Dust returned to his quarters, exhausted and ready for sleep.

But Sot was not there and so he waited, slumped against the wall, awake. He had almost dozed off when the sound of voices and heavy feet jogged him to wakefulness.

Three men pushed through the partition, carrying a fourth between them. Dust knew immediately who the fourth was. The three men set Sot down on his pallet and left. They had no time to waste administering to someone like the old man.

Dust crawled over and examined Sot. His face was a mess of bruised, swollen flesh. His breathing was shallow and one of his arms hung at an odd angle. Dust didn't know where to begin to help his guardian. All he could think to do was cover him with the rags from his own pallet and hold the old man's hand.

In his desperation, he even offered a prayer to Sha.

It did no good that Dust could see.

He wanted to wait for Sot to awaken. To ask him who had done this, even though he was sure he knew who it was.

Slade.

It occurred to Dust that Sot might not awaken. That he might die here and now, and Dust would be left alone.

He could not bear that thought. Not after all he had done in raising Dust. His patient demeanor and his care was unusual in Asphodol and Dust didn't know what he would do without it.

He could not help Sot here. He had no medical knowledge and he did not believe that further prayers to Sha would help.

Instead, he gave in to an impulse that Sot had always suppressed. Retribution. He was already thinking of how he could do it. He realized in that moment that he had been planning this ever since Sharps betrayal. A way to punish one of the Shadows. To get some small manner of vengeance, even if it meant his death.

Dust left their quarters, walking quickly. He took the haulers' tunnels down until the flame gems stopped and followed the dark tunnels to his favorite spot. The brilliant flame-lit cave welcomed him with its warmth. He grabbed the ruined shovel for the first time, feeling its weight. It was heavy and part of the head still had a bit of an edge.

He retraced his steps to where the last of flame gems lit the meeting place between two tunnels. Without stopping to think, he leapt upward, swinging the shovel with all his strength. The blade struck the flame gem, shattering it in a burst of heat and light.

The tunnel was plunged into darkness, the next flame gem just visible fifty paces away.

It did not take long for the response Dust had been anticipating. A figure stepped out of the darkness near the flame gem, turning to face Dust. Even from this distance, Dust could tell it was Slade.

The Shadow was tall and slim with a pale, bald head riddled with black veins. Slade grinned at Dust in a way that said he was going to enjoy the pain of punishing the boy.

Dust wasted no time in turning to run down the dark tunnel. He didn't pause to make sure the Shadow was following; he knew Slade would be after him. He heard the footfalls of pursuit, confirming the guess he had made regarding the Shadow's ability to jump through the darkness. Jumping from shadow to shadow would be much more difficult if the whole tunnel was shadow.

The darkness that gave the Shadows their strange abilities would hide Dust. For a time, at least.

Dust raced along, the pounding of his pursuer ringing through the tunnel. He didn't have long before he would be caught.

But he was almost there.

He made a turn, the last turn. Just another hundred or so paces. The dim glow of the cave was coming into view.

Dust burst into the flame-lit cave, so bright no shadows could live within it. He ducked to the right and plastered himself against the rocky wall. Slade stalked into the chamber, raising a hand to his eyes and hissing at the bright light.

That momentary distraction was all Dust needed.

He stepped away from the wall and swung the shovel with all the strength he could muster.

The metal head of the shovel shattered with a dull ringing sound as it struck the back of Slade's head. It didn't do nearly the damage Dust had hoped it would.

But it did enough.

The Shadow pitched forward into the liquid flame. A gurgling, hissing scream accompanied his fall until the magma sucked him down and covered him.

Dust leaned back against the wall, panting. He had done it. He killed a Shadow.

Sot might still be dying. Dust might still be alone soon. But he had gotten his revenge at least. And he had done what no one had ever considered doing before.

He was about to walk away when he noticed movement on the ground by the edge of the pit. A small, black shape was wiggling along the edge of the pit.

Dust knew it immediately for what it was. Slade's Seed had abandoned him. And now, here it was, struggling to escape the heat and the light.

Dust bent down, picking up the Shadowseed between his thumb and forefinger. He didn't hesitate this time. He immediately stuck the creature into his mouth and swallowed.

His whole body seemed to burst aflame from the inside. His veins burned and he watched as the black veins crawled through his pale flesh. His eyesight blurred and came back sharper than ever. His whole body thrummed with energy and power.

Dust had become a Shadow.

Jak Owinsson stood upon the edge of the forest looking down on the military encampment below. He had finally made it. After two days of travel, he had found the camp of the Battlehawks; the most respected mercenary company in all of Kendar. He would finally be able to join the war and leave his boring farm life behind.

In his sixteen years of life, he had always dreamed of becoming a hero like the ones from the stories. So far, it had been an uninspiring beginning. On his two days of walking from Harnan Vale, he had encountered no bandits, no damsels in distress, not even so much as a wagon stuck in the road to start Jak on his way to herodom. But, then again, he supposed not every story had to begin with epic action and auspicious signs. At the very least he had left Harnan Vale and Erryl Crick far behind.

Not that there was anything wrong with either place, Jak supposed. It was all fine for men like his father, simple men with simple goals in simple lives. Men who wanted nothing more out of life than a farm and a family. Well, anyone who wanted such a life was welcome to it, but Jak meant to be something more. Something special.

All his life, Jak had been the biggest strongest boy in Erryl Crick, maybe even all of Harnan Vale. He routinely beat the other boys in wrestling and sparring with sticks. Even if they were not much in the way of competition, he had still shown himself to be worth more than a simple back country life. He could feel it in himself, something great waiting to come out. He knew deep down he was meant to be like one of the great stories. Maybe even as great as Cedric the Charmer himself.

And true, in all likelihood, he would not marry a princess or some high lady, but it would certainly still be better than what waited for him in Erryl Crick. His mother had had her heart set on him marrying Ethel Cooper from Tares Hill, farther up the valley. Now, Ethel was nice enough, but she was gangly as a stick figure and had hair like straw. Jak had had enough of straw for his lifetime. Plus, her teeth were crooked. No, he knew he could do better; especially once he made a name for the bards to sing.

Jak started down the hillside toward the camp. Green and white tents sat in rigid, precise lines in the fields around the hilltop that sat across from the fords of the river Wendle. A palisade surrounded the larger tents on top of the hill. Likely, that was where the officers of the company had set their command. Earthen works and a long ditch protected the rest of the camp. Open spaces were visible between sections of tents where men could gather and practice the arts of war. Jak could not wait to join them there and prove himself. He joined the line of men that stood out from the entrance to the camp; a slim bridge of earth over the ditch that led to a small breach in the earthen works. The whole point of the camp’s position here was that this was the only place to cross the Wendle for almost twenty miles in either direction.

Jak stood there for what seemed like forever. Finally, he found himself standing before a small desk of oak, behind which sat a large man with a bored expression, writing in a large ledger. When Jak reached the front of the line, the large man barely glanced up before asking for his name and his credentials. Jak tried to be bold when he spoke but found he was stammering out something about Erryl Crick and this being his first time joining a military company. The man simply gestured told the open field to his left and muttered about presenting himself to the sergeant there.

Jak walked over, a little in awe of what was going on around him. This was a real military camp. These men were soldiers, hard men who fought for glory and loyalty and their own place in the stories.

He reached the field and his awe died quickly. There must be some mistake, the men, no boys, he saw around him were not the stuff of stories. They flailed around with wooden swords and blunt spears. They barely landed blows and the ones they did land were soft and almost listless.

This was not where Jak belonged.

After asking around a bit, Jak found the sergeant, a man called Baric. He presented himself to the man and tried to sound confident about it. He was dismissed almost immediately and told to join a group that had an odd number of trainees.

Jak joined the group he had been told to join and waited with the others. None of them seemed interested in talking. Half seemed too nervous to look anywhere but their feet; the other half stared around haughtily, as if everyone else were scum under their boots. Jak hoped he did not seem like either sort. In the stories, the heroes were always confident, but no aloof. Courteous, but not shy nor meek. He stood with his shoulders back and his hands tucked into his belt, doing his best to affect an air of confident placidity.

A man soon approached them. He was a tall, lean man, with a pointed black goatee and bored looking eyes. The man was named Sint. Jak was not sure if that was his first name or his last, but it seemed to suit him somehow. He spent as little time as he could explaining the exercises they were to perform, where to find their practice weapons, and how long they were to keep at it (until they were told to stop, as it turns out). After that he simply stalked off, his mouth twisting as if finally done with some unappealing chore.

When Sint was gone, one of the other boys finally spoke, “You all know who that was, right?” He looked around expectantly at the rest of them.

“Who?” Jak asked when no one else seemed likely to do it.

“Sour Sint,” the other boy replied, staring back at Jak as though he expected the name to scare him. When Jak made no motion of recognition, the boy added, “He took four knights prisoner by himself at the battle of the Kriltop. Didn’t even ransom them, just executed them after the fighting was done.” He looked around with a leer on his face as if looking for a reaction to pounce on.

Two of the nervous looking boys paled at the mention of the act, and the first boy’s leer grew. He looked as if he was going to say something new, but another boy spoke up. This boy was almost as tall as Jak, though much heavier and not with muscle.

“Enough,” he said in a voice that was too high for such a large boy. “We had better get started or we’ll have the sergeant to worry about.”

After that, they went to one of the equipment wagons that ringed the field, donned their practice gear, and began to run through the drills. When the sergeant finally called an end to training for the day, Jak hated how relieved he was to find his assigned tent and sleep the night away.

The next week followed much the same pattern. A morning meal of hard bread and harder meat. Hours of training followed by another meal of hard bread and harder meat. More training followed until sundown, when they were allowed another meal of slightly softer bread and slightly better meat.

Jak learned more about his training mates over the course of the week. The first boy, whose name was Tef, turned out to not be as bad as he had seemed. Tef liked to talk, mostly of how his father had been a soldier and his destiny was to continue the family business of war. The fat boy, Mully, was nice enough and extremely focused on training. He worked as hard as anyone and after a week, he had lost a noticeable slice off his belly. One of the nervous boys was named Loring. He also had a father who had been a soldier, but unlike Tef, his father had hated war and raised his son to find another line of work. Unfortunately, Loring was not good at any of the trades he had tried, and finally, he had given in and joined the Battlehawks.

After a week of training, all across the training field the wild swings and soft taps had turned into, if not precise, certainly more accurate jabs and hacks. Even the more reticent of the fighters was putting weight and effort into each swing. Jak still considered himself above most of these trainees, but he was no longer certain he was the best of them. Tef was a tenacious fighter and he would often leave bruises bone deep, whether he struck armor or not. Mully, despite being large and slow, was a patient fighter who waited for the right opportunity to land a heavy-handed blow that make a man’s head ring for days. Even Loring proved himself capable of at least competency, though a lot of that had to do with the strategy of fighting that they were learning.

Jak had always thought of fighting as one man against another, a battle being made up of hundreds of these little fights. But what they were learning was different. They fought in pairs against pairs, each trainee paired with a shield mate. One would bear a large shield called a wall shield, while the other used a spear or sword from behind. The shield bearer would defend and the spearman would attack, when presented with an opportunity. The jabs and hacks they were taught were crude, if incredibly effective and easy to execute. It was not the picture of gracious sword fighting he had always pictured from the stories.

On the seventh day, Sergeant Baric began walking between groups of trainees, speaking to several of each trainees, and then moving on. When he reached Jak’s group, he watched them drill for a few minutes before pointing to Jak, Mully, Tef and Loring and motioning them aside.

“You four,” he began as soon as they were close enough to him, “are ready, or at least as ready as you’re like to be. Report to Spear Company Four before dinner.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode off to the next group.

Jak hardly listened as the other boys began to talk excitedly as they walked off the training ground. This was it, the time for Jak to begin his real story. His own legend was beginning now.

They reported to their new commanding officer, a Lieutenant named Alric, He was a man of average height, average build and above average age. His face was craggy with wrinkles, the lower half covered by a hoary thatch of a beard.

The food here was better than the fare during training, and for once the boys were happy for more. After his second plate, Tef tapped Jak on the shoulder[MW1] , jittery excitement lighting up his face.

“Come on,” he whispered, eagerly. “You’ve got to see this.”

Jak looked at Mully and Loring, wondering why Tef had singled him out. Loring was tucking into his third serving of dinner and Mully was half asleep over his mug of ale. Shrugging, Jak got up and followed Tef. They strode past the section where their company camped and toward the center of camp. They approached a campfire with a smaller circle sitting around it, but a large crowd standing around them. Jak wondered if there was some kind of fight or contest going on, but when he got closer he was even more surprised.

“Galen Greenspear!” Tef whispered again in his ear. Not that Jak needed to be told who this man was. Galen was seated across the fire from where they stood. He was a tall, well-built man, with long dark hair, flowing to his shoulders. His face was clean-shaven and his eyes glowed with merriment and confidence. This man was on of the most celebrated heroes of the last ten years. Jak had not even known that he was riding with the Battlehawks. Next to him sat a dark-skinned man with a shaved head and two sword hilts sticking up over his shoulders. There was only one man in Kendar with that shade of skin; this had to be Toren Dal. The stories said Dal had the fastest sword in all the Southern Sands.

Jak mentioned this quietly to Tef, who nodded quickly and pointed to the man on the other side of Galen. “Lowen the Loser!” Jak noticed the lion engraved on the man’s breastplate and knew Tef was right. Lowen was one of the most renowned knights in the land. Once he had been called Lowen the Lion, but his penchant for choosing the wrong side in any battle had overshadowed his own personal prowess.

Galen was in the middle of telling a tale when they arrived. As he approached the end, Jak realized it was the tale of Killian Kingkiller. A fine story about one of the best knights of the last half-century who had killed the current king, Crestor’s, father, who had been a terrible despot. Of course, the story left out how that act of heroism had sparked the current war of succession between Crestor and his brother, Polac. A minor detail anyway.

Galen had just finished the tale with the usual line of “Killian, a true hero!” when another voice spoke up from the near side of the fire.

“A fine hero, and dead before thirty, like all those other heroes.” Everyone turned their attention to the man, most of them sneering at his comment. It turned out the speaker was their own company Lieutenant, Alric. Galen did not seem at all put out by the interruption, however.

“Ah, Alric,” he said almost condescendingly, “always the same stance on these tales. Always knocking brave men for their great deeds.” He smiled around at the onlookers, as if indulging them in a shared joke.

“Its not the deeds I knock, it’s the foolhardy ways they spend their lives in the doing of those deeds that I take issue with.” Alric spoke well for such a ragged looking man. “All I mean is a little prudence would have served those men better than their eagerness to earn their place in history. I have no objection to bravery when it is called for, but foolishness will always earn my scorn.”

Galen’s smile slipped a bit at that. He seemed close to saying something biting in return, but instead, he smiled again. “Bravery when it is called for you say? And what would you know of bravery, Alric?” He looked around at the crowd again. “Alric here,” he gestured to the bearded man, “had run from more fights than any man here!” The crowd burst into laughter at that, as Alric’s face turned red.

“If I’ve run from so many fights its ’cause I’ve lived long enough to see so many.” Alric said it simply, not as a retort, but a mere statement of fact. But Galen seized on the admission.

“He does not even deny that he runs when the battle turns against him!” Galen trumpeted, smiling broadly, though the smile no longer seemed so nice. If he expected Alric to back down, he was to be disappointed.

“Aye, I’ve run,” Alric said, “when the battles were hopeless. All those heroes you love, they fought past the point of sense, past the point when the battle was unwinnable. All for a place in the songs.” He glared around the fire daring a man to call him wrong. “But I’ve also stood when the fight was hard. I held the line with Toric the Elder and Younger Toric after him. I held it with Honig himself, before he was Headless.” Some men around the fire were nodding along now, seeing the sense in what he said. Jak found it hard to disagree but he also had a hard time believing any of those heroes he had worshipped his whole life were fools.

“Yes, you held the line,” admitted Galen, standing now to look down on Alric. “And here you are, still in the line, while all those better men went on to glory and now their names are sung across the land.”

“Aye,” said Alric, standing himself, though he still had to look up to meet Galen’s eyes. “They went on. To glory and an early grave. Personally, I’d rather be late to mine.” He stared at Galen for a beat before stalking off into the night.

Once Alric was gone, Galen and his entourage moved away as well and the onlookers were left to seek their beds. Jak and Tef went back to their own tent, neither saying a word. Jak was surprised by the pensive look on Tef’s face. He’d never considered Tef to much of a thinker. They hit their cots heavily, Mully and Loring already snoring away, and fell quickly into sleep.

The dawn came fast, and the trumpet call to arms came soon after. Jak and his tent mates donned their new armor, given to them the day before, and hurried to join the ranks as they assemble along the field between the ditch and the fords of the Wendle.

The ranks of Spear Company Four found themselves along the eastern edge of the ford. The enemy ranks were already marching toward the ford on the other side of the river. There were at least several thousand. The Battlehawks fielded almost two thousand foot and another five hundred cavalries. The cavalry would not be needed unless the shieldwall failed to hold the ford. This was unlikely. It was plain to Jak that they held the better ground. They were uphill and out of the water. The enemy would have to fight uphill in muddy ground after making their way across the unsteady footing of the ford.

The battle started faster than Jak had expected. The enemy simply came on despite the unfavorable field. Jak was several lines back of the front line. It would be some time after the first clash before his line was called forward to relieve the men in front of them. The sun was rising on their right as the two front lines met. Tef was several men down the line, Mully was directly to his right, with Loring on his left as his shield mate. It was difficult to see what was happening over the head high shields of the ranks in front of his.

Time seemed to pass strangely, one minute he was standing, almost bored, and the next his rank was being called forward. The horn sound for the rotation of men came loud across the morning air and they were thrust into the front line. The fighting was almost to the water line now. The ground was all churned mud now and the enemy were right there in front of him. He relied on his training, trusting his shield mate, waiting for his openings before stabbing out with his spear. The first time it came back red he almost retched. But he reminded himself this was war, fought down his gorge and willed his stomach to stillness.

Before Jak knew it, the horn call sounded and his turn was done for now. He rotated out and allowed himself to breathe. It was hard, trying to keep his spear out of his line of sight so he would not see the gore and blood on it. His turn came again and again as morning turned into afternoon. It was not the glorious warfare he had anticipated; it was more like butchery than anything else.

Suddenly, another horn call rang out, but it was not the Battlehawks horns. It came from the east. Orders rang out for the ranks to turn east, but Jak, in his inexperience, was caught between staying to face the enemy and turning with the others. Tef was suddenly beside him turning him east. Over the rise, a long line of heavy cavalry rode down on the invested infantry of the Battlehawks.

Chaos reigned. The infantry ranks shattered. Jak found himself standing amidst the thundering horses and dying men, wondering how he had ever wanted any of this. A man standing next to him was spitted on a spear by a passing horseman, at an angle that pierced the ground and left him propped him up like a blood-covered scarecrow, his eyes goggling at the three feet of spear haft sticking out of his stomach, the light slowly leaving them.

Jak ran.

He headed for the forest to the west. The forest that would hide him as he fled toward home. He could not fight it any longer. All he wanted was to go home. He dodged horses and men, occasionally swinging his spear or throwing up his shield to protect himself; but mostly he ran.

The thundering sound of hoofbeats sounded behind Jak, seeming to follow him no matter how he zigged and zagged. At last, he turned and threw up his shield, hoping to catch the oncoming blow.

But the blow never came. The horseman flashed past him and was gone; no spear in his hand. Jak looked lowered his shield to see Alric standing in front of him, a spearpoint standing out of his chest.

“R-run, boy. Run” Alrics rasped out before falling to his knees, dead eyes still staring at Jak. If it were not for the chaos and death around him, Jak would have kept staring at Alric’s dead body, but he took the dead man’s words to heart and turned to run again.

As he ran, he saw other horrible sights. Mully dead from several gaping wounds. Loring pierced with arrows. Tef trampled into the mud; hoofprints littered his back. He saw Galen atop his horse surrounded by pikemen who eventually pulled him down and he was lost in the mud and blood. Toren Dal fighting several men at once with great skill, until a spear thrust through the knee hobbled him. He was dead seconds later. Lowen the Loser lay in the mud with blood pouring from beneath his helm. A glance over his shoulder showed the command tents on the hill being abandoned and a group of several hundred horsemen fleeing to the south.

Against all odds, Jak reached the edge of the woods, the exact spot he had been standing on when he first looked down on the camp. With a last look he turned and fled deeper into the trees. As he ran, he thought about what Alric had said about heroes, coming to the conclusion that there were Heroes and heroes. Galen was a Hero. He died young and the songs would sing of his deeds. But were those deeds any greater than Alric’s? Alric had saved his life. He was a hero. No songs would sing of that.

But Jak would always remember.

The only thing left to ponder, was what would Jak do now?

He would go home. Go home and become a farmer and live a simple life. Maybe even marry Ethel Cooper. After all, she wasn’t bad looking. Sure, she was skinny, but strong too. He’d seen her hauling water enough time to know, hadn’t he? Her hair was like straw but in the sun light it glinted like gold, didn’t it? And her teeth weren’t crooked exactly. Not even, but still charming in their way.

Yes, he would go home and live a simple, safe life.