The Green Wyvern: Volume One

By Matt Heppe

Baron Theodus of Sursival arrives at the Green Wyvern Inn to tell his life story. Each night, he returns to regale the townspeople with tales of monsters, treasure, foes, and friends. And when his story is done, he says he will leave his subjects, never to return.

To most people, the baron’s name is Bull. He is a giant of a man. They say the great warrior has never been defeated in battle, but he will tell you those tales are lies. He has come to set the record straight and promises to tell the whole story of his life: victories and losses alike.

Tonight, he will tell the tale of his road to adventure. It starts with a goblin raid that leaves Bull, his sister, and his mother as penniless refugees on a perilous journey. The trials that follow push Bull to the very edge of human endurance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Heppe
• Release date: Dec 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005594046

Matt Heppe

Matt Heppe lives in suburban Philadelphia with his wife and daughter. He teaches economics and military history, and in his free time makes traditional longbows. He is a United States Army veteran, having served in Germany and the Middle East as a UH-60 pilot. The Green Wyvern follows in the footsteps of his epic fantasy series, The Orb.

Book preview

Part One

Bull and the

Goblin Raid

Prologue

The tavern is bustling. More than usual for an early evening. It’s autumn, and the harvest is coming in, but many have left their fields and shops to be here tonight. It will be a special night.

Golden sunlight slants through tall, narrow windows and a wide-open door. It is a fine, stout building crafted of heavy river stone and oak beams from the surrounding forest. It is a large building and as strong as a manor house, or even a small keep. It has seen its share of fights, but the scars have been long healed by caring hands. The Smith family built it from a ruin three generations ago, and it is their treasure.

Inside, the space is filled by two long trestle tables and four smaller, round tables near the roaring fire. Hardly a seat is free. There is a long bar, worn smooth by all the hands that have touched it, and deeply stained by all the drinks that have been spilled upon it.

Some at the trestles are eating, but not many. The feast is yet to begin. The aroma of roasting beef and bubbling pottage fills the space, overwhelming the sweat and smoke and animal smells the hard-working people brought in with them.

Behind the bar, on the wall, is a threshal—a farmer’s flail. Or at least that is what it once was. Iron bands reinforce this flail, adding weight to the striking head. The oak staves, like the inn’s bar top, are deeply stained, but not by whiskey or strong beer. The threshal has seen a violent past. What had started its life as a farming tool has turned out to be something else entirely.

If one looks closely at the threshal, just above the leather-wrapped shaft, the words Good Morning are carved in elegant High Saladoran script.

Good Morning, indeed.

Of course, something more interesting than the famous flail adorns the mantle above the fireplace. There, glaring down at the humans and dwarves and smallfolk seated below him is the head of the wyvern Needle. It’s a fearsome thing to behold, this green-scaled, dagger-fanged beast. Less so now as it is long dead, but still…one can imagine.

The door darkens as a huge figure fills it. The man is a mountain, so tall he must duck to keep his head from striking the lintel. His clothes—a dark brown tunic and tan trousers bloused into tall boots, are plain—no better than a yeoman farmer might wear.

His boots, though, those are quality. Very tall, black leather, with turned tops, like a nobleman might wear. And around his waist he wears, as a knight should, a broad sword belt studded with a dozen silver wyvern heads.

No sword, though. The belt bears only three items of note. The least of them is a plain brown pouch with brass buckles. Well worn…not fancy at all. The man wears it in front, where one should if one knows anything about thieves and their quick hands. On his right side, there is a dagger in a fine silver-chased sheath. Not a dagger anyone might wear, mind you. It is a rondel—little more than a long steel spike with disks for guards above and below the hand. When grasped in a gauntleted fist, there’s not the merest spot uncovered by steel.

His gauntlets. They hang on his left by a leather strap. Not modern glove gauntlets with separate fingers. No, these are old fashioned mitten gauntlets. Fists of bright steel. Only a fool would think them not items of magic. They gleam with an unnatural brightness, especially from the crossed lightning bolts inlaid on the wrists.

From atop his head, the man pulls a broad-brimmed woven hat, one like the peasant farmers wear to keep the sun out of their eyes when they work the fields. It’s an odd hat, given his knight’s belt, fine boots, and enchanted gauntlets. For years it’s been the only hat anyone in the village has seen him wear.

His bared head has gone somewhat bald, but still, he wears his graying hair long and queues it at the back of his neck with a leather thong. A terrible scar descends from the top of his head and down over his right eye. It makes him look quite fierce, or would if his eyes weren’t so happy, and a broad smile didn’t peek out from behind a thick beard.

Bull! the people shout in a disordered chorus as they realize he’s arrived.

His smile broadens, and he gives them a wave. Full house, he says. I didn’t think there’d be so many of you.

He walks towards the bar, grimacing at first. He limps slightly on each right step, but still moves confidently for a man of his size and years. He claps a few men on the shoulder and nods in greeting to the ladies as he approaches his well-worn stool at the bar.

So many, indeed, he says as he settles himself. Your porter, Mikhel. A long tale deserves a dark brew.

Chapter One

That’s good stuff, Mikhel. Nothing compares. Good brew. Cheers. Cheers to all of you. Drink up. It will be a long night.

So you’ve all come to hear my story? Well, I’ll tell you, much of what you’ve heard is a bag of lies. No, I didn’t get my name by winning a tug of war with a bull. No, it didn’t come from head-butting one either.

Heh, this little scar on my head came from something else entirely. I’ll tell you about it, don’t worry. It comes later in the story, though.

This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to tell you my story from beginning to end. I’ll tell you the whole thing and leave nothing out. I’ll tell you the truth of it, every word, the best as I can remember, at least.

I’ll come back every night…it’s a long story, mind you. I’ll come back every night and sit on my stool and drink Mikhel’s fine porter and tell you my tale. And on the last night, I’ll finish my tale and head up to the keep and sleep one last night in my fine bed.

The very next morning, I’ll rise and head for Landomere, where I’ll spend the rest of my days with my sweet Eloralyn.

Now there, I don’t wish to hear any complaints. I don’t want to see any downturned faces. It’s been a good life. I love this town more than any place in Helna’s green world. I love you all as well. I love you dearly. But every tale comes to an end, and so comes the end of my story as well. So I’ll tell you my story, the truth of it, and you can remember me by it.

That’s good stuff, Mikhel. Have I told you enough times how much I like your porter? No, I won’t pay you more for it. Just keep it topped off.

So, where do I start? At the very beginning? What do I know of it? I was a giant baby, they say. I don’t remember that bit. My mother, Helna keep her, was a large woman—strong and tall. A lesser woman couldn’t have passed such a big baby as me, they say.

I was big the moment I was born, and I just kept getting bigger. Well, until a few years ago. I might have lost a handwidth or so. Still taller than you lot, though.

Who remembers what happened when they were a babe? Not I. I remember a mother and father who loved me dearly. Yes, they were stern and strong, but they were also loving and wise. I remember my sister coming along a few years after me. She was a tall one as well. I hope she’ll come home to see me off before my tale is done.

What do I remember of my childhood? I remember it didn’t take long for people to start calling me names. They called me ogre, and urias, giant and monster. They called me stupid as well, for I never could learn my letters, and I learned to speak later than most. I still don’t know my letters today. They said I was either an idiot or cursed. I don’t know. I met a sage once who said it was just an affliction some suffer from. I don’t see the letters the way some do, she said. I don’t know the truth of it. But what I do know is that it was a torment for a young child to be taunted so.

The bullying ended when I was ten. Not because I learned how to read, but because by ten I was as big as a full-grown man. You want to know why they call me Bull? It’s simple. It’s because I’m big. Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s all there is to it. To the point, it’s hard to bully a boy who’s a head taller than you.

Now, I’d been in a fair number of scrapes up to that point and had given as well as I’d taken even though some of my taunters were bigger than me at the time. My father, a man hard as nails—a man-at-arms before he’d married and bought his big farm—didn’t believe in fighting my battles for me. In fact, he taught me to fight, thinking every man needed to be able to fight for hearth and home.

My mother, though, a follower of Helna, didn’t see it the same way. She taught me to avoid the fight if I could. That Helna’s way was the way of peace. Her lessons were harder to follow than my father’s. It’s hard to keep peace on your mind when two boys have you pinned in the mud and are drumming on your face.

Just after my tenth birthday, I turned the tables on two of my tormenters. They caught me alone in the village and came for me. I broke the first one’s nose with a punch that sent him sprawling. He sprang to his feet and turned tail. I caught the other one and threw him to the ground. And then I was on him. I sat on his chest and pounded his face for a turn. It was an ugly thing what I did to that boy. I might have caused him some permanent harm if two of father’s workers hadn't come along and pulled me off.

I wanted to kill him, I tell you. I wanted revenge for years of torment. Father saw the danger then. He saw how big I was and knew how big I’d become. He and my mother feared I’d become a monster worse than those who’d tormented me.

My parents sat me down and told me I was a child no more. I was only ten, mind you. They said that I would no longer be allowed to wander off when my chores were done. That I’d have a man’s responsibilities and that I’d do a man’s work.

They set me to task learning the trades of the farm. I learned to plow and to make rope. I learned the basics of smithing. I learned carpentry and masonry, not with the intention that I’d ever master one of them, but knowing that if I was to manage a large farm with many workers, I’d have to know somewhat of what the workers were doing.

My mother taught me weaving and planting. She showed me how to sew a tight stitch and to craft things of leather. Women’s tasks? Bah, knowing how to sew has served me as well as knowing how to loose an arrow. Don’t laugh. It’s true.

My father also took to training me at arms with full seriousness. Why, you ask? Didn’t it make me even more dangerous? More likely to kill someone? Not the way my father taught me. He’d been a sergeant in the Ducal Guard. When he trained me at arms, he gave me the gift of discipline.

My mother may have followed Helna, but my father was a devotee of Forsvar. Forsvar, the God of Storms. The God of War. But also, The Protector. We train at war so that we can defend those who are unable to defend themselves. My father taught me to be a disciplined fighter. To think as an honorable man. To know that Forsvar wanted me to be a defender.

Yes, my father’s lessons made me deadly, but they also made me less dangerous. Trust me, it makes sense. And it worked until I turned fourteen.

The tormenting had ended, as I said. I was too big. I was a man. And my parents kept me too busy to get into trouble. I even became friends with some of those who’d troubled me before. Not all, but some. It takes too much effort to carry a grudge forever. And Helna tells us that we should forgive. That’s what my mother taught me, and that’s what I did.

One last story of my youth until I get to the heart of the tale—the adventures you’ve all come to hear. One last story that gets to the stupidity of rage.

It happened when I was fourteen. I was walking home from Master Cooper’s shop after paying for a half a dozen new barrels. I remember the day well.

In the middle of the village, we had an inn. Well, not much of one. Nothing like the Green Wyvern, here. My mother had warned me to stay well clear of it. To her mind, nothing good ever came from an inn—just drunk men and wasted coin. Now, I’d been there a few times with my father. He did business with passing merchants there from time to time. But I didn’t see much reason to spend my time there, as my mother’s food was better and she brewed a much better ale.

But as I passed, I heard a shout, a girl’s shout from behind the inn. Let’s be clear, the village was as safe a place as one could imagine. The people there were good followers of Forsvar. A woman didn’t need an escort and could walk from one end of the village to the other without a man saying the merest untoward thing to her.

So when I heard that shout, I thought perhaps someone had fallen or was hurt. I didn’t think to find what I did.

I ran behind the inn, and there I saw my sister. She was there with Ana Miller. But they weren’t alone. Sir Pelham’s sons were there as well. The younger, Squire Chelm, had his arms around Ana Miller from behind, holding her back. It was her shout I’d heard.

Squire Fedel had my sister. He had her pressed against the wall of the inn, his hand over her mouth and his other hand groping at her kirtle.

You know my sister, all of you. You know that if such a thing happened today, she’d have drawn a blade on him. She’s tall and strong and brave. But back then she was just twelve, and although big for her age, she was no match for a fifteen-year-old squire.

Fedel saw me only at the last moment. He ducked enough so that my fist only made a glancing blow with his temple. Enough, though, to knock him to the dirt.

He sprang to his feet, a good dagger in his hand. Well, I took it from him and broke his arm. Easy as that.

That was a mistake, though. If I’d only knocked him flat, that would be one thing. If I’d only taken his dagger, well, no great issue. But in my rage, I broke his arm. And that couldn’t be overlooked.

Sir Pelham, his father, couldn’t execute me. I was too young. He could punish my father, though. The sins of the son cast their shadow on the father, so the Priests of Forsvar tell us.

Pelham could have killed my father. It was in his right, by the law. But my father was Pelham’s most prosperous yeoman farmer. An important man, for a commoner. A man who’d served in the Ducal Guard.

So Pelham, in front of the gathered village, had half my father’s hand cut off. The last two fingers of his good right hand.

And good Sir Pelham told my mother that if I ever showed his family any disrespect again, my sister would serve Pelham’s family in the manor house. He’d make her Squire Fedel’s servant. We knew where he was going. He was not offering her a kindness.

My friends, anger can be your friend. It can give you strength. It can be a tool. But rage, rage is your enemy. Rage will betray you.

My father was disappointed in me. Not because I’d defended my sister. He praised me for that. He was disappointed because I’d lost control. I felt it deeply. I wanted nothing more than my father’s respect. He was a hero to me. And every time I saw his half hand, I felt shame again.

Lord Pelham hadn’t taken half his hand…I had.

My mother, she thanked me for what I’d done, protecting my sister. I’d done the right thing standing up for her honor. But why did violence have to be the first option? I remember her shaking her head. My very presence would have forced the Pelhams into retreat. They might be lords, but that didn’t give them the right to touch a woman. If I’d confronted him with words alone, he would have had to withdraw.

The shame changed me. I became quieter. I devoted myself to work and training. I wanted to redeem myself in my parents’ eyes. I wanted to make up for the pain I’d caused my father.

My sister and I were closer than ever. To Enna, I was a hero. But I felt guilty when I was near her as well. She became a prisoner of our farm. It was a big farm, mind you, but still a prison. Mother wouldn’t risk her going out alone again for fear of what might happen.

I don’t want you to think we never left the farm. We did, on occasion, but always with our mother or father present.

So that was my life for the next three years. I worked as hard as a man can work. It was by no means a bad life. I loved my family and our farm. Our workers were good folk, and I had friends who would come and visit. It was a good life.

Hard work and staying out of trouble were the focus of my life. I was seventeen and should have been thinking about marriage as well, but there seemed to be little time for such things. I was fond of Ana Miller, and we would dance together at the festivals. Perhaps we would have married. I’m sure we would have if things hadn’t changed.

And so now I’ll take a drink in the memory of sweet Ana Miller, who didn’t deserve the fate that came to her.

And on that sad note, I’ll start my tale in earnest. Let me warn you, if you’ve come for a happy story, well, that is only part of it. It is an equal measure of pain and suffering. Glory has a price.

Chapter Two

I was seventeen and had gone out to the south field to remove a stump. The tree—a glorious oak—had stood in the field and been a pain in the arse since the ground had first been plowed.

My mother had taken a shining to the giant oak and refused to let anyone cut it down. Her head was filled with dreams of Landomere. She even named my sister, Enna, after Hadde of Landomere’s daughter. And to my mother, the tree was a giant Landomeri oak.

Well, the storm of ninety-eight took that oak down, and mother was devastated. The wood was milled and became an addition to our house, among other things, but the stump, it stayed out there for years, too big a task for anyone to take on. So I made it my job to remove it.

It was the earliest days of spring, just before the planting. The air was cold, but the sun was warm. I’d worn a quilted coat out to the fields but had shucked it and my overtunic as well.

With axe, shovel, and mattock, I’d gone to battle with that old stump. I hated that thing, how it caused the nice furrows to twist and bend around it. I’d take it out, and our field would, for the first time in my memory, look like a proper field.

The stump had been partially pulled out of the ground when the tree fell. Maybe two-thirds of it was still underground. So I took my shovel and dug around the rest, taking my axe and mattock to the roots when they got in my way. It was hot work and dirty.

At midday, Enna came out and brought me my meal. You’re a mess there, Bull. Dirty from head to toe, she said as she walked up. Now, take your rest and have something to eat.

The hole I’d dug around the stump was so deep I had to look up to see her. I’m as hungry as a bear in spring, I said.

And you eat as much. Why didn’t you come to the house?

I’m not leaving this stump until I’m done, I said, climbing out.

Finish soon, then. We’re going to the Millers to eat tonight. And make sure you leave time to clean up. Ana will be there.

I know. She lives there, I said. The height of wit I was.

Oh, you know what I mean, Enna said. She turns sixteen, you know. She placed her basket on the ground and filled a wooden bowl with water so that I might wash up a bit. You should ask her to marry you. Her parents would approve. Mother and Father would as well. They’ve said as much.

I’ll ask her when I turn eighteen, I said as I washed my hands. When they were clean, or near enough as they were going to get, I splashed some water onto my face. My sister looked on and grimaced as I dried myself with a rough linen towel. Perhaps I hadn’t washed as well as I should have.

Why wait? she asked. You’re old enough, both of you.

I dove into the basket. Warm bread, hard cheese, good sausage. I devoured it all. By stuffing my face, I saved myself from making a reply.

Why hadn’t I proposed to Ana already? Fear, I suppose. I was just seventeen. I might have towered over other men, but inside I was just a kid. Or that’s how I felt when it came to women.

Enna looked past me, and I saw her face fall. Turning, I saw two riders approaching across our field. I felt my cheeks flush as I recognized Squire Fedel and his brother, Squire Chelm, riding towards us. They had a third horse behind them, a hind tied across the horse’s back.

Dromost take them, I said.

Be good, Bull, Enna warned.

I pulled my overtunic on, covering my dirty shirt, and stood, my sister beside me. My axe was still in the pit. Perhaps it was better that way, as I’d never forgiven Fedel and his brother for the offense they’d given my sister and Ana.

The brothers were dressed for hunting, both in buckskin tunics and bear fur cloaks. They wore longswords at their waists and had crossbows strapped to their saddles.

Good day to you, Cow, Fedel said to me as they rode up to us. And to you, as well, Enna of Bernby. You look quite fetching today.

Good day to you, my lords, Enna said, giving them a proper curtsy.

No greeting from you, Cow? Fedel said to me, his face hardening. I am your lord, and you are my vassal. Show the respect that is due.

Your father is lord here, Squire Fedel, I said. And I think it odd you ask for respect when you give so little.

What’s wrong, Cow? Is it because I call you a cow? You know why, don’t you. He glanced at his brother with a sly grin. It’s because you’re so stoooopid.

I knew not to rise to his bait, but I could hardly restrain myself. I clenched my fists, and I know that my face flushed. Enna put a hand on my arm.

How are your reading lessons going? Fedel asked. His hand rested casually on his sword hilt. He and his brother were not full-grown men, but they were strong enough to wield their swords, and I knew that Sir Pelham and his valet-at-arms drilled them in preparation for knighthood.

Chelm, did you know that you can’t be a yeoman if you can’t read? Fedel asked his brother. It is the law in Salador. A shame that Cow is too stooooopid to read.

How I wanted to pull him from his horse and pound his smug face. But I knew better. It wasn’t that they were mounted and bore swords. I knew what would happen to my family if I laid hands upon him.

Your father will make an exception, Enna said. He respects our father.

Maybe less respect than he used to, Fedel said, holding up three fingers. Half a hand less.

Chelm laughed outright at that.

Fedel leaned forward in his saddle. And while our lord father might make an exception, I won’t. And I will one day be lord here.

Perhaps if Mistress Enna does you a favor, you might be better disposed towards their family, Chelm said, making a rude gesture with his hand.

I took a step forward at that, but Enna grabbed me fiercely by the arm. Now, there’s no way she could have held me back, but she pinched my arm so hard that the pain brought me to my senses.

Fedel showed three inches of steel as his horse backstepped. Try me, Cow. I’ll end you, my father will end your father, and your sister, well, we know her fate.

Does your father know you speak this way? Enna asked. A knight is a just protector of their vassals. Forsvar demands it.

Forsvar put the blood of lords into our veins, commoner, Fedel said. Remember it.

We mean no disrespect to you or your father, Enna said.

This sport grows boring, brother, Chelm said. And the air grows cold. Let’s return to the manor and feast upon this hind tonight. Father will be pleased with our hunt.

Pray that my father lives a long life, Fedel said as he turned his horse. He waved his hand to encompass our farm. I can easily find more loyal vassals to live here.

With that, they rode off.

I will kill him, I said—foolish words from an angry young man.

No, you won’t, Enna replied. Mother and Father taught you better. You’re a good man, Bull.

Stay clear of them, Enna. I don’t want you to come to harm.

Do I have a choice? she said, making a face. If it’s up to Mother and Father, I’ll never leave this farm.

You’ll marry and have a good life.

Enna shook her head at that. Then, as she gathered her things together, she said, Don’t be late. And wash up! With those words, she departed for our house. They were nearly the last words I ever heard pass her lips.

I jumped back in my hole and took up my shovel. I tell you I drove it so hard into the dirt that I snapped the shaft and cut my arm. I uttered such a string of oaths, angry at what I’d done, but angrier still at the two lordlings who flaunted their power over us.

So I bound my wound with the dirty towel and went back to work. I’ve attacked men with less ferocity than I did that stump. I’m surprised I didn’t snap the handle of the axe or the mattock the way I did the shovel.

I worked the afternoon away. Dusk came early, and it was just barely spring, mind you. I knew my family was waiting, but victory was close. When I heaved up on the stump, it rocked to and fro. I had only a few roots left to cut.

Dromost take it, I thought. I’d had enough of cutting away roots. I put my back against the stump, and with all my might, I heaved against it. This was the stump of an ancient tree. It was a monster, and it didn’t want to move. But I’d had enough of it. I’d had enough of Chelm and Fedel.

And, although I was afraid to ask for her hand, I wanted to see Ana.

Sweat drenched my brow, and my muscles shook with the effort, but with a series of loud cracks, those last roots broke, and the stump fell free. And nearly killed me, I joke you not. For when the roots snapped, the whole thing fell back and almost pinned me underneath. I just barely jumped free.

But it was done. Exhausted, breathing like a bellows, I sat down in that hole, looking at the enemy I’d just conquered. I’d bring our mules out in the morning and pull the stump out of the hole and drag it off the field, but for the day, I was done.

That’s when I heard the wolves. A whole chorus of them off to the south. It caused a shiver to run down my spine. Was it fear? A bit. Wolves can take a man alone, but they rarely came very close. It was the sound. Is there anything more mournful than the howl of a wolf?

It got me going, though. I picked up my tools, including the broken shovel, and headed for home. I was halfway across the field when the sound of the wolves came again. More of them now. And from the hills to the east as well.

Do you think less of me that I picked up my pace? Do you want to believe that Lord Bull never felt fear? Ha! Pray you never feel the fear I’ve felt in my life.

I was an arrowflight from home when the alarm sounded—horns blaring from the village proper and a bell ringing from the manor tower on the hill.

I ran. The alarm hadn't sounded for years. And even then, it had been for a lost child. Perhaps the wolves had spooked me. I had no reason to suspect any great danger, but I ran for our house as if the pack was on my heels.

My father was in the yard, shouting orders to our farmhands, telling them to bring in the cows from the pasture. When he saw me, he said, Arm yourself, boy!

I asked him what was happening, and his only reply was, Arm yourself!

I knew better than to ask again, even though I was desperate to know what was amiss. As I passed him, he took my wood axe from my hand and headed for the barn.

Come here, Theodus, my mother called from the doorway. I dumped the rest of the tools by the door and walked in. My sister was there, standing by the table with my armor laid out and waiting.

By armor, I mean my aketon. Eight layers of quilted linen sewn into a long coat was all I had. All I was permitted under the law. I had leather greaves reinforced with iron bands and gauntlets of the same construction. My helmet was a simple steel skullcap with a leather aventail.

No shield. My father had taught me to fight with polearms, the way he’d been armed when he served in the Ducal Guard.

I paused at the door, frozen in place by a lifelong fear of my mother’s wrath at tracking mud onto the floor. We were yeomen, you understand, not serfs who lived on floors of thresh-covered dirt.

Get to it! Mother said, pointing to the table. No time to waste.

I ran to the table, and Enna helped me with my aketon. What’s happening? I asked again, still dying to know what was going on.

It doesn’t matter what’s happening, Mother said. When the alarm sounds, you arm. We’ll find out soon enough.

She was worried, I could tell. When little Sal had gone missing, only one horn had sounded. This was many…and the wolves.

I tied the laces of my aketon as my sister wrapped my greaves around my shins and fastened them. Mother ran out into the yard, saying she’d be right back. I pulled on my arming cap and ducked my head so that Enna could put my helmet on. I let her do up the buckle under my chin.

I pulled on one gauntlet, and Enna helped me with the other. Just then, someone outside screamed out in pain or fear. I thought only of my father and mother and charged out the door, deaf to my sister’s warnings.

It was chaos in the yard. There were a half dozen cows there, wild-eyed and running rampant, wolves amongst them. Not gray wolves mind you, but wargs. The kind that goblins use for mounts. I saw my father and two of his men near the barn. Old Gern raised his flail and brought it down on some unseen foe. My mother stood nearby, shouting out a warning and pointing.

Goblin! she called out.

And then I saw one. Short, bow-legged, and long-armed, with a boar snout and tusks and beady eyes. I knew they lived far off south and east of our village, but I’d never seen one before. Bah, I knew what it was the instant I laid eyes on it.

The goblin turned at my mother’s cry and charged her. It was then that I realized I’d run out of the house unarmed, my spear leaning against the wall.

I’m a big man, and some make the mistake of thinking that I am slow. And maybe I have lost a step in my old age, but back then I was fast, especially for my size. Now, goblins have terrible vision. And so focused was it on my mother that it never saw me coming.

I seized the goblin and, in one motion, raised it above my head and slammed it to the ground. It bounced once and lay still.

Run, Mother! To the house!

The goblin had held a spear, little more than a javelin, and I snatched it up. As I looked up, I saw my father bring his axe down upon a wolf’s back. It died with a terrible yelp.

Run for the house! he shouted to the farmhands standing nearby.

Delf turned and ran. He only made it three strides before an iron dart struck him in the head, felling him.

For a moment, I was frozen at the sight of him. Even now, I remember it as if time slowed down. He seemed to fall forever, his eyes wide and wild and a dart half-buried in his skull.

A goblin raced by on wolfback, leaping over Delf’s body in a single bound. The goblin reached into a pouch and drew out another dart.

I raised my spear to cast but lost sight of the goblin as a panicked cow blocked my view.

Old Gern and my father ran for the house, fending off wolves as they fled, but then a cow slammed into Gern, knocking him sprawling. My father stopped to help him, but as he reached for his old friend, a thrown dart struck Father in the shoulder.

I charged. As I ran towards them, a wolf leaped upon Gern, tearing at his throat. Father, swung his axe one-handed, striking the wolf but only wounding it. There just was too little strength in his half hand. For a moment, though, he drove the wolf back.

I hurled my spear at the wolf, impaling it through its haunches. Howling, it ran off, taking my goblin spear with it.

More wolves and goblins approached. I stared down at Gern, not knowing what to do. I remember it so clearly, the blood pouring from his neck and down his tunic.

I knelt to pick him up even though he was doomed. I couldn’t leave him there. The soldier in me now knows that it was a foolish thing to do. But as it was, leaning down saved my life.

That blasted goblin threw another dart, and it clanged off the top of my helm. A moment before and it would have hit me in the face. Still, it rocked me back on my heels.

The wolf rider charged us. I just stood there like the oaf I was, staring as he came for me. The goblin had a short, curved sword in one hand, and his other held a small buckler.

Father, the dart still in his shoulder, swung his axe one-handed at the goblin. It was a strong swing that took the goblin in the shield, knocking him off his wolf and to the dirt.

The wolf kept coming, though. It launched itself at me from several strides away. I put my head and shoulder down and steeled myself against the blow. I tell you that wolf bounced off me as if it had struck a wall. Before it could recover, I gave it a tremendous kick that sent it sprawling.

More goblins closed on us. The cows were gone now, fled or dead, and only Father and I still stood in the yard facing the raiders. We weren’t going to make it to the house, at least not without a fight. In the moment I had before they were on us, I picked up Old Gern’s threshal.

He gave me a nod. Yes, he was still alive, that tough old goat. He knew he was a dead man, but he wanted me to send those goblins to Dromost. And so I did.

There was no finesse in it, friends. No skill, despite all my father had tried to teach me. I swung that flail as hard as I could and crushed skulls and broke backs. I shattered shields and limbs alike.

My father and I fought back to back. We fought like heroes. We’d put down four goblins and half as many wolves before they realized they’d bitten off more than they could chew. They stood back then and threw darts and javelins at us.

Go, Father! I shouted. I stood between him and the goblins, shielding him so that he could run for the house.

My sister, may all the gods bless her, stood at the door. All the while we’d fought, she’d shot our hunting crossbow at the raiders, wounding and killing several. And there she still stood, holding the door so that we might escape.

Goblin darts struck me one after another. How many, I don’t know. My aketon saved my life a score of times that day. I took a dozen wounds, but none of them deep.

None but the loss of my father.

My father ran. He had no choice. He wore no armor and could stand with me no longer. From around the corner, hidden in the dusk dark, a wolf attacked.

Father struck it with his axe, but his half hand betrayed him, and he lost his weapon. Then the wolf bit Father’s leg and dragged him to his knees.

The goblins, cowards that they are, saw him there, unarmored and defenseless, and turned their darts on him. One after another, the darts stuck him, until he fell face first in the dirt of his own yard.

Chapter Three

Goblins are vile, savage beasts. They aren’t stupid, though. They saw the broken bodies of their companions. They saw little gain in charging me. They stayed clear and threw their darts, but none stopped me from dragging my father into our house, where my mother and sister slammed the door and barred it behind us.

I leaned against the wall, my chest heaving. I still gripped my flail, expecting the goblins to try and break the door, but one heartbeat became a dozen, and a dozen became a hundred, and yet they never came.

All the while, my sister stood near me, her crossbow held ready, aimed at the door. Her eyes darted from the door to me to our father on the floor. Mother was there with him, his head in her lap. His eyes were open and staring. She held a precious healing elixir in her hand but didn’t use it. No minor potion would save him. My father was dead.

She placed the elixir on the floor, kissed him gently, and closed his eyes. I could only watch, frozen by the door. There on the floor was my hero, growing by the moment colder in death. The man who’d taught me everything I knew about being a man. And never was there a better man than him.

A drink to my father, Thedran of Bernby, who stands at the right hand of Forsvar. May the God of Storms find me worthy to join him one day.

We heard screams in the distance. Cries of animals and women and men alike. Well, what could we do? Should I rush out and fight again? Try and save them? Part of me said I should. But another said that I should stay with my mother and sister and protect them.

I stayed. And I tell you honestly that I was afraid. So afraid that my hands shook. It is strange, though. During the fight, I hadn’t been afraid. There’d been no time for it. I’d thought only of my father and Old Gern. But after that, safe behind stone walls and a stout door, only then did I begin to shake. Only then did I have time to think about what had passed and what was likely to come.

How long did we stay there, listening to the fighting outside? It seemed an eternity. After a time, Enna put down the crossbow and came to me and bound up the worst of my wounds. They hurt far more after the fighting than when I’d taken them.

When the bleeding had been staunched, we knelt by my father, mourning him. I with my flail at my side and Enna with the crossbow close at hand.

I expected at any moment the goblins might come crashing in. They never attempted it, though, not even so much as turning the door handle. Nor did I hear them at the back door or any window.

You ask why? I don’t know. Easier to attack others than to break into our stout home of heavy river stone, I suppose. Instead, I heard thunks on the roof. I thought they might have climbed up there so went up to investigate. I was wrong. I saw smoke seeping through the shingles in some places, and fire in others. They’d tossed torches and pitch bombs on the roof.

There was no way to fight the fire from within. What do we do, Mother? I asked. Remember, I was just seventeen. Old enough to be called a man, but without the experience of a man. How many goblins had I killed? Five? More? But still, I looked to my mother to know what to do.

She looked at me, with my father’s head still on her lap. We will fight, she said.

I remember that moment as if it happened just heartbeats ago. My mother, follower of Helna she might be, had steel in her heart. Do not confuse love of peace with weakness.

But Mother knew there could be no peace with the goblins. There could be no surrender, either. Everyone knew that goblins took no prisoners. We all knew what they did with the dead.

Smoke billowed in the rafters. We heard the roar of the fire upstairs. We will wait, Mother said, as she gently laid my father’s head on the floor and gave him one last kiss. And when we can wait no longer, we will rush out of this house and show the goblins what we are made of.

Something crashed upstairs. The noise of the fire became so loud we could hear nothing outside. We didn’t dare open the shutters to look out for fear the goblins would hurl their iron darts and javelins through.

Mother went to the door and took up father’s boar spear. Then she paused and took her heavy, quilted coat from beside the door, and despite the heat, put it on over her saffron kirtle. She had Enna do the same. It isn’t an aketon, Mother said, but it will help. Enna slung her satchel of bolts over her shoulder and hefted her crossbow.

There wasn’t a place on me that didn’t hurt as I rose, but I took my flail and stood with Mother at the door.

I will go first, I said. Fight your way free and run. I will try to hold them.

You are a brave bull, Theodus, Mother said, but there will be no running. The wolves will chase us down. We are going out there to take as many with us as we can. Let’s leave less of them to attack the next village.

I looked to my sister, and her eyes were bright with tears. Still, she nodded and said, I am with you.

We felt the heat of the fire overhead. The smoke sank lower and lower. It would do no good to wait until it choked us.

Are you ready? I asked.

Mother gripped her spear. She had no training with it, but she was a big, strong woman. She would fight. And my sister was a better shot than I with a crossbow. We would make the goblins pay.

I love you both, Mother said. Now go.

I threw the bar from the door and yanked it open. The sun had fallen, and the sky was full dark, but the yard was well lit by the inferno that was our home.

I charged out the door, my flail held high. Mother was right with me. I ran six strides, then six more, and no darts flew out of the shadows. There were no wolf cries.

There was fire everywhere. Our barn was engulfed. Not far away, the whole village burned, as did every farm. And in the light of all those fires, no figures moved.

I ran across the yard, my mother and sister behind me. We stopped at the edge of the firelight.

They’re gone, Enna said.

We don’t know that, Mother replied. We must hide.

The field, I said. In the shadow of the old stump.

Mother nodded, and we ran. At every moment, I expected to hear the howl of pursuing wolves. We ran together, all three of us looking over our shoulders and stumbling our way across the winter fields.

We leaped into the hole I’d dug and lay there, chests heaving, doing our best to remain silent. What a terrible sight it was when I lifted my head over the edge of the pit and looked back towards the burning village that had been my home my entire life.

So many dead! At the moment, we didn’t know if any had survived, but we knew…we knew it was terrible.

The goblins were gone. We debated running farther from the village, but it was a moonless night, and we finally decided that it would be too dangerous stumbling through the dark.

We huddled together in the shadow of that massive stump for the entire night. I don’t think any of us slept, despite our exhaustion. My story nearly ended there, for we nearly froze to death. What a fortuitous thing it was that my mother had Enna and herself put on their coats.

Gods, that night lasted an eternity.

We left our hiding place soon after dawn. None of us wanted to return to the village. We knew what waited for us. No, not goblins and wolves. They were gone. We were sure of that. It was the dead who waited for us.

The fires were out, but a heavy pall of smoke hung over the village. It mixed with the fog so that we could barely see more than ten strides ahead of us.

The ruins of our house loomed out of the darkness. The stone walls still stood, but the structure had collapsed within. We knelt outside, and Mother said a prayer to Helna. The house had become our father’s final resting place—his funeral pyre.

Gern and Delf’s bodies lay with the wolf and goblin dead in the space between the house and the barn. Their bodies had been looted, and there were no weapons to be found. At least our farmhands hadn’t been butchered, a mercy that wasn’t extended to those who lived in the village center.

Shall I tell you of the horror that we found there? The goblins killed everyone and every animal. Are there any children here? Send them out, for they won’t want to hear this.

Goblins, like the wild boars they’re descended from, will eat anything, but they love the taste of human flesh. And so, as we walked through the village, we found the butchered bodies of friends and neighbors. And those they didn’t butcher for meat, they mutilated for fun.

I walked through the nightmare, and it seemed it would never end.

We found no goblin dead beyond our farm, not at least until we got to the smithy. There we found a half dozen and a huge beast we thought might be a bugbear or an ogre. Well, we didn’t know it at the time, because we’d never seen one, but I can tell you now that it was a bugbear, for I’ve seen plenty since.

Who had killed them? Want to guess? It was Squire Fedel and his brother. Maybe Bilfor Smith and his dog had helped because we found their bodies there as well.

I think it was Squire Fedel who had done the most harm to them. The bugbear and two goblins lay crumpled around his dead warhorse. Master Bilfor and Squire Chelm’s bodies were some way off.

It wasn’t just the location of the dead that told me that Fedel had done the greatest harm. It was what the goblins had done to him after they’d killed him.

They’d taken special care to mutilate his body. They’d flayed him and broken every bone in his body, or that’s the way it looked, and I looked none too closely. I think, maybe, that he wasn’t dead when they took him. I think they did much of what they did while he was still alive.

The body was a ruin. I only knew that it was him because they’d taken his head and stuck it on a fence post, more or less intact.

Squire Fedel, who had been so disgraceful in his treatment of my sister. Who had taunted me in such a vicious manner. I’d wanted nothing more than to pound him into dust. But there I was, standing in front of his head. He who had charged down from the safety of the manor house to take on an enemy too numerous to defeat.

Yes, he was an ass. In the end, though, he knew his duty. He died for his vassals.

Speaking of the manor…the fog had cleared somewhat, although the smoke still hung over the village, close to the ground. Still, I could see the manor house perched on the hill above the village, and from what I could see, it hadn’t burned. The stables and outbuildings near it had, sure enough, but the manor itself looked untouched.

I pointed this out to my mother, and she said that we should go there, but we would stop at the Miller’s house on our way. Their stout house with its big water wheel sat astride the stream that separated Sir Pelham’s demesne from the village proper.

I’d held out some hope that Wilem Miller and his extended family might have held off the goblins, but while the big water wheel still turned, the roof of the mill was gone, and smoke stains rose from every window.

We went there anyway, hoping against hope that they might have survived. Despite my fatigue, I ran the last half arrowflight, so anxious was I for Ana’s well-being.

I ran past a dead goblin on the road, his head split in two by a sword stroke from above. Had he been the first to fall to Squire Fedel as he rode down from the manor? There was another just off the track to the Miller’s, a hunting bolt in its chest.

The momentary hope I felt at the sight of the dead goblins disappeared the instant I saw the still form of a woman near the burnt-out millhouse.

Am I a horrible person for hoping that it was not Ana but one of her sisters or even her mother? Because that’s what went through my mind at that moment. I thought of my Ana. I thought of myself and what I wanted.

Did I come here and tell you that I was a hero? That I was a perfect man? No, I didn’t. Because I’m not. I’ve tried to be a good man. I’ve tried my best, but sometimes I’ve failed.

I didn’t want to go closer to that body. It wasn’t…the body wasn’t whole. I could tell that even from forty strides. I didn’t want to see Ana that way.

Enna ran past me. I called out for her to stop, but she didn’t. She loved Ana as much as I, or more, I think. They were fast friends their whole lives.

Enna didn’t make it to the body. She collapsed as if struck by a poleaxe five strides away. I thought for a moment she’d been hit by some missile from a hidden foe, but then I heard her sob and knew the truth of it.

I ran to Enna and put my arm around her. Only then did I look up and see poor Ana there. The goblins had butchered her for meat.

Dromost take them! Every one! There are many Creatures of Akinos in the world. I have friends among them. Thad Ashwood worked on my father’s farm and taught me to speak Rigarian. He was smallfolk, half my height and full-grown, but he was a good man. I’ve known many dwelkin, dwarves most of you know them by, and they are good solid folk.

But what was Akinos thinking when he created the unluks, who became the goblins? They say it’s not right to judge a whole folk by what a few do. But by the gods, how can I help myself after seeing what they did to my poor Ana?

Some folk learn to be evil. Human, dwarves, smallfolk. It doesn’t matter. Some learn to be good. I’ve met varcolac who are stout and true souls. But I tell you, the goblins are born to be evil, and I will never, ever forgive them for what they did to Ana and my father and the good people of Bernby.

And now I sit for a moment and finish my drink and think of a poor girl whose life was so horribly taken. Ana Miller, you deserved far better. I’ve saved many folks from harm in my years, but I couldn’t save you.

Chapter Four

I wouldn’t go on until we’d given Ana a proper burial. Neither would my sister. I’d like to say we did the same for everyone in the village, but we didn’t.

I wouldn’t leave Ana behind and let the crows come and pick her bones clean. I wouldn’t let the worms eat her flesh. So we built a pyre, crying the entire time. I’m not ashamed to say it.

When we lit the pyre, we prayed to Forsvar and Helna that Ana might find peace, and then the three of us headed up the hill towards the manor. It was a short climb—less than an arrowflight. We found no more dead along the path, neither man nor goblin.

The goblins had been here, though. They’d burned down the stable and the outbuildings, but the manor itself was untouched.

What could they have done? The drawbridge over the dry moat was up. The walls were sheer and tall. The goblins had no stone-throwers. No, they didn’t come to our village to capture it. They came to raid. They came to pillage.

If the manor hadn’t been taken, then surely there must have been someone inside. We’d only seen the two squires in the village. Where was Sir Pelham? Where were the sheriff and Pelham’s other hired men? Where was Lady Bernby? We shouted and shouted, but no one ever came.

How were we to know there were only ghosts inside? No, not living spirits! Just dead bodies. I found out later—much later—that Sir Pelham was found dead, hanging from the rafters of his great hall. His lady wife and daughter were dead, by his sword, at least that’s what they say. And the others…the sheriff and the staff? There weren’t many to start with, but they were gone. I never found out where.

Why did Sir Pelham do it? Could he not live with the dishonor of his failure as a knight? It’s a sacred oath a knight swears—a sacred bond. The common folk serve the lord, but the lord, in turn, protects them. And he had failed that…horribly.

And what of his sons? Had Pelham sent them out to fight the goblins? Or had they done it on their own? And where were the others? Had they sortied with the squires and been killed? Or run off?

I don’t know, and I’ve given up ever knowing. What I do know is that they failed us. The squires, young men, they tried at least. May Dromost feast on Pelham’s soul.

Why didn’t we climb into the manor? Ha! Now there’s a lark. The first window large enough for a person to fit through was on the third story. From the base of the dry moat to the nearest window was fifteen strides. There wasn’t a ladder