A storm is coming.

Roric yawned, leaning on the rough bark. The great oak's canopy swayed in the late summer wind, letting through glimpses of sunlight.

Spjaldir, his native village, lay in the most western region of the Duchy of Guhrien. The kid spent the majority of his days on the nearby hill, a lonely mound adorned by a single, old tree. The view was clear in every direction up there, from the Steppes to the mountains of the South, but most of the times Roric just kept his eyes closed, enjoying the breeze and the sound of the cicadas.

For as long as he could remember, that hill had been his most beloved place. It was a shelter from the fuss of the village, and the top of a world he didn't know yet. Someday he would have left for sure, the child repeated to himself. He would have lived free from any rules, traveling across many lands and seeing all of them. Or at least, that was what his dreams were mainly about.

A deep rumble from the clouds in the distance brought him back to reality. Without any rush he stood up, gazed upon that beautiful sight one last time and started heading back.

Spjaldir was surrounded by crops, a typical aspect of that region. Roughly a hundred people lived there, for the greater part farmers with a simple and practical nature. The community followed the rhythm of the seasons, preparing the whole year for the usual harsh winter. Those months were so cold and miserable to make the peasants way more interested in having a good harvest than harboring grudges against each other. No matter what they did, in the end the Drukh was bound to come.

A freezing wind, a merciless scourge whose very origins were shrouded in legend. Roric had heard a story from one of the elders, of the ancient times when Guhrien was covered by bountiful forests and its people worshipped the spirits of the land. The Barbarians who roamed the barren plains of the West, however, were envious. They summoned their gods, who called the Drukh from the sky. Year after year, the wind swept the woods away, forcing the population to grow farms in order to survive. The great oak on the hill, the last survivor of those days, kept watch over the village. If it had died, it was said, Spjaldir would have met the same fate.

Roric didn't believe in those tales but was very conscious of the Steppes and their dwellers. The wilderness of the West extended as far as the eye could see. In the past he had wondered where it started exactly, but his father had ensured him that the village lay many miles away from its border. For what the people of Spjaldir could know they were just bare lands, where nothing could grow, and only the Barbarians had the guts to live in such an unfriendly place.

***

On his way home Roric came in view of the Strong Plough, the inn located in the center of Spjaldir. It was the main meeting spot for the farmers, who already crowded the place because of the incoming rain. Between a jug of wine and another, the workers talked about the harvest and the festival that marked its end, clearly their favorite moment of the year.

From Roric’s point of view, his fellow villagers were the main reason behind his frequent trips to the hill. On one side they could be funny and friendly, great people to have around, but on the other they were also able to be shallow, insensitive, even rude at times.

"Roric!" yelled one of the patrons, guzzling just outside of the tavern. "Still drifting all alone, boy?"

"Hello, mister Hars," the kid greeted him, reluctantly. "I was just taking a walk."

Hars chuckled, sipping the content of his glass. That man was one of his father's friends, his least favorite people, with all their you'll have to be a farmer, someday and you'll have to work the fields to feed your family. In Spjaldir, everyone had to respect a perpetual, everlasting, upsetting cycle. Roric was only ten, but often felt like his fate was already sealed. It was something he simply couldn’t accept.

Why do they treat me like that? Why can't I do what I want?

"Getting a bit too old for this nonsense, aren't ya?" continued Hars, with a cocky tone. "Next spring is your tenth. Time to grow up and get off your butt."

The child grumbled. "Like I had any choice."

"Come on, don't make that face! Even small hands can handle the sickle," the man joked. "Just stop slacking on that hill and concentrate on the real stuff."

"I don't go there to slack, I..." Roric stopped, realizing that reasoning with a drunkard like Hars was just impossible. "Anyway, I won't become a farmer! Ever!"

A resounding laughter erupted from the customers of the Plough.

"What will you try then, kid? The lumberjack?" Hars mocked him. "Talking with you is like telling wheat to grow in vines. A total waste of time."

Even more people made fun of Roric as he walked away from the inn with his head bowed. They would have forgotten about it within the next round of wine, but it still hurt.

"Dream while you still can, Roric!"

"Listen to your old man, Roric!"

"Life is hard work, Roric!"

The child sighed. He had his good reasons to despise their attitude.

***

Roric's parents owned a small house near the millstone, a short distance from there. A delicious smell reached his nose right as he entered the garden, a clear sign that his mother was cooking dinner.

"I'm home," he announced, getting inside.

In the summer their door was usually left open, so that the air could flow freely. Even though the heat wasn't oppressive like in the previous weeks, having a cool place to stay was always pleasant. In the shade, Roric's mother was cutting vegetables and throwing them into a steamy pot. When he entered the main room the woman glared in his direction, pulling a strand of dark hair away from her sweaty face.

"What a shock," she said, crossing her arms into an inquiring pose. "I thought you'd put down roots next to the damn tree by now."

The kid didn't answer, cursing her formidable insight. The way his mother always figured out his moves was annoying, but not really new. She had grown so upset that he went outside of the village alone that lately had started doing it in secret, using playing with the others as an excuse. There were few kids of Roric's age in Spjaldir, and he couldn't say to be close to any of them. The lack of friends had never been an issue for him, however. He was a bit of a loner, fond of nature and quiet, ready to sneak out every time nobody kept watch on him.

Like she could understand what he was thinking, the woman went on, "You know that I don't like this habit of yours. Even more after what happened to that poor-"

"Sedhi," said the child, stepping in. "But he was over ten miles from here!"

Sedhi. Roric remembered it well. The whole village did.

He was one of the miller's sons, and their neighbour. Dreaming of glorious adventures, inspired by the stories of old, on the day of his fourteenth birthday the boy had posted a dramatic farewell letter on the door of his house and headed East. His tale had abruptly met its end after just an hour or so, when he had stumbled upon some bandits. The roads of the Duchy weren't the safest, because the land was too vast for the nobles to keep it guarded, and Sedhi didn't know how common such an encounter could be for a lonely traveler.

His father had stormed out of the village right after reading the message, searching for his son, but all he had been able to find were his remains, stripped of all belongings and tossed away in a ditch. Sedhi was no more.

"It doesn't matter!" Roric's mother scolded him. "So, you tell me you are any smarter? What would you do if the Barbarians attacked while you are out? Stop lying, at the very least!"

The thought of the Barbarians made the kid shiver. Every time they appeared near the westernmost villages there was absolutely no way of knowing their intentions in advance. They came equally to trade or plunder, and were known to change their attitude on a whim. Roric had seen them with his own eyes only once, a few years before.

Tall and scary-looking, those men wore outfits made with animal furs and horns. They spoke the common tongue in a crude manner, with strong hints of their primitive accent, but they weren't stupid at all and nobody should take them lightly.

His mother's worries were a bit excessive, but ultimately justified. Under her strict gaze, he forced himself to look down. He knew that she wasn't really angry at him, but he needed to at least seem remorseful.

"Sorry for lying to you, mom," replied Roric.

The woman glared at him for a few more seconds, then her face softened and she turned back towards the fireplace.

"Tell me, was it that hard? There's no point in hiding things from me, since I’ll find out anyway," she said, still keeping watch on him from the corner of her eye. "All I want for you is to be on your guard if anything happens, that's all. You are getting bigger, and age means responsibility. So, will you try to be more careful in the future?

"Yes, mom."

Roric could almost feel the weight of that answer. His mother was obviously right, but there was a point he wouldn't dare mention.

I'm getting bigger, that's true... But will she ever say I’m old enough to leave the village?

Meanwhile, the woman moved closer to his chair and hugged him tenderly.

"I don't want you to chase foolish dreams like that miller kid," she said. "Trust me, you don't know how unbearable losing the people we love is."

Roric let her vent, without delving deeper into the topic.

***

Minutes after their discussion Roric's mother went back to her work, humming a sweet melody. While swinging on his chair, the kid heard some footsteps coming from outside and turned to face the door, where his father's silhouette had just appeared. The farmer came in, wiping the sweat from his forehead and leaving his work boots at the entrance.

"Redian, my dear. Welcome home," Roric's mother welcomed him, with a bright smile.

The two shared a fleeting kiss, then the man ran his fingers through his son's hair and dropped on an empty seat, sighing in relief.

"I'm spent," he said, looking upwards. "Sannia, I think your husband is getting old."

"Don't talk like that, or you'll make me sad," the woman let out a laugh, sitting at his side. "You came home earlier than usual, didn't you?”

The man stretched his legs, with a satisfied expression.

"Today we finished early, no more work until this stupid rain passes. Luckily, we are almost done."

Roric stepped in. "Already? Didn’t the harvest take much more, last year?"

The kid suppressed the instinct to cover his own mouth. His father looked at him in vague disbelief, surprised by his sudden interest. Their relationship hadn't been so rosy after he had found that his son wasn't willing to follow his steps as planned. On a second thought, he should have just stayed silent.

"This winter could be... Tricky," explained the farmer, drumming on the table. "The crops aren't as good as the other years and some families might have to make some little sacrifices. Anyway, if the Drukh doesn't freeze us to death there won't be any problem, especially if we work harder next spring. Speaking of which-"

"Wonderful news," Roric's mother intervened. "Last time I asked around, they were saying that there wouldn't be enough wheat to sell, and firewood for the winter isn't going to be cheap."

The man slammed his fist on the table, blurting out, "Who said that? That swine of an innkeeper, I'll bet! Oh, just wait till I catch his greasy neck. I'll teach the pig to think twice before spreading this nonsense!"

Thanks, Mom.

The woman winked to Roric and he breathed easier, listening to his parents as they got deeper and deeper into that subject. Disaster was averted, for the moment.

Redian of Spjaldir was a willing, stubborn worker, who came from a family of deep and ancient rural tradition. Known in the village for his generosity and optimism, he always helped others to the best of his abilities but was also a really narrow-minded man who couldn't see his own son as something different than a future farmer, no matter what the child would say. Sometimes, Roric suspected that his father thought of him more like some working equipment rather than a person.

His mother, on the other hand, was gentle and easy-going with him. She had been raised near a castle somewhere in the Duchy, taught to cook and do the housework in a small inn. It was while working that she had met a young Redian, who was carrying a load of grain with his wagon. Between the two it was love at first sight, so they had quickly married and moved together to Spjaldir, giving birth to Roric a few years later. At the age of six, despite his father's complaints, the woman had taught the child the basics of reading, a skill that was pretty uncommon in the countryside where they lived. He remembered fondly the long winter days when they used to practice together, in contrast with how horrible it had been when his old man had brought him to the fields for the very first time.

To his eyes his parents looked like natural opposites, yet they possessed that special something, a spark of love that couldn't fade with age and kept them together for better or worse. They were his family.

***

Dinner was almost ready, another day about to meet its end. Wind and thunder had gotten closer and stronger, bringing a thin drizzle. Even if the setting sun was still bright in the West its light was dim, almost obscured by the blackness of the sky.

Roric looked at the menacing clouds from one of the small windows. They were placed so high that he had to climb onto a wooden locker to reach them, but once he stood up there he could easily see outside. He was just starting to enjoy the fresh air when he noticed a person running along the road. It was Hars, the same one who was laughing at him at the Strong Plough that afternoon.

That bully. Serves him right. I hope he gets soaked to the bone.

Yet, every trace of his carefree expression was gone, and he didn't even seem so drunk anymore. Actually, Roric had never seen him so concerned.

"Redian! Redian!" he yelled, stumbling through the garden. "Redian! Come out, now!"

The kid checked out the direction Hars had come from.

Why is he so scared? It’s not like anyone’s chasing him.

"Hars!" exclaimed his father. "What's the rush? What happened?"

The man stopped in the shade of the entrance, trying to catch his breath.

"Bandits," he panted, leaning on the door jamb. "Thirty, maybe more."

A disturbing atmosphere grew inside the room. Silently, Roric's father exchanged a serious gaze with his wife, then spoke again.

"Let's see what they want," he said, gravely. "Maybe they are just hungry and will settle with a few sacks of grain. But frankly, I'd hate to give them food. We need it for ourselves."

The other farmer looked down, clearly at unease.

"Redian... What... What do we do? When we spotted them, they were already at a mile or so-"

"Go to the Plough, and tell the others to stay put until I get there," answered Roric's father, retrieving his boots. "The innkeeper, especially."

Whenever something bad happened, everyone in the village came to Redian. The folks respected and trusted him like a leader, because they knew he could find the right answer to any problem. Being so incurably selfless, in the past he had even gone as far as giving to those in need his firewood, the most important resource to survive during winter. So, just by hearing his reply Hars regained color, nodded nervously and ran back into the rain with renewed determination.

"Dad..." said the child, reaching for his father's sleeve. "What do the bandits want from us?"

The man answered with a kind, patient smile, kneeling in front of him.

"You see, Roric... There are people on this earth who are desperate, that's all," he explained. "I've seen lots of them, over the years. Most of the times they steal because they are hungry. Don't worry, I will take care of them."

The kid gulped. He didn't know anything about that kind of stuff. His young age had always cut him off from the world of the adults. He really wished to see what his old man planned to do.

"Be careful," said Roric's mother, getting closer and taking her husband's hand. "Give them what they want and don't do anything foolish."

He embraced her and patted his son's back, trying to cheer them up.

"Everything will be alright. Now I'll go and settle things for good. Be at ease, me and the boys won't let them rob us, even if we have to fight for it."

He put on a worn, stained cloak and walked out in the growing downpour. Roric stepped towards him as if to follow, but he felt his mother's hand pulling from behind. The woman replied to his begging face with a silent, disapproving frown.

"Mom, please!" he whined. "I just want to look... From afar!"

She said I'm old enough to face some responsibilities, didn't she?

He knew that bandits were dangerous, but he also wanted to learn how to deal with them. Perhaps, that would have made his father a little more proud of him. Whatever the cost, Roric had to witness that event. His mom, deeply in thought, watched her man running under the rain until he disappeared behind the miller's house. Then, she just closed the door.

"That's out of the question," she said. "You are too small for these things."

The child groaned and went back to the table, sitting down obediently.

Damn it.

***

The rain came down harder and harder.

Roric and his mother remained patiently at home, their silence occasionally broken by a deep thunder. Clinging to the window the kid kept watching outside, waiting for his father’s return.

I wanted to go with him so badly! I can't believe I'm stuck in here!

His arms were getting tired, though, and there was really nothing to see. Right as he was about to get down from the locker, however, a lightning blazed through the sky, illuminating the view for an instant. Thick pillars of smoke, almost invisible in the growing darkness, were rising from various points around Spjaldir. At first Roric didn't mind them, but then he realized what they meant.

"Mom! There's fire! Someone is setting fire to the village!"

The woman stood up abruptly, rushing to the door. She opened it and looked up, going pale as a ghost.

"The table, quick!" she yelled. "We need to block the entrance!"

Her voice was shaken, her eyes filled with fear. Roric didn't understand why. Still, he helped pushing the massive thing. The two reinforced the barricade with all the junk they could find around the house, then they put out the fireplace and every other light source.

"What's going on? Where’s Dad?" the child tried to ask, even if he didn't really want to know the answer.

Avoiding eye contact, his mother knelt and hugged him.

"Don't be afraid, my dear. Everything will be alright."

Yet, her tone was telling the complete opposite.

As the minutes passed, they began to hear noises from outside. With all the courage he could muster, Roric jumped back to his observation spot. Even with the rain, those sounds were clearly distinguishable. Just a few steps behind the corner, people were screaming.

It… It can't be. Who’s doing this?

Suddenly, a running figure appeared. Hars, his father's friend, was fleeing from a couple of strangers that came closely behind. The men were armed with rusty weapons and their clothes were in terrible conditions. Right in front of his terrified eyes, the kid saw Hars attempting a desperate escape through a side alley, only to find a huge guy waiting for him. The blade of a lumber axe crushed his chest, smashing him on a nearby wall like he was weightless. The poor farmer tried to crawl away but was hit a second time, and left motionless.

Hars... I... They...

Roric had never thought highly of that man, but he would have never wished him any harm. His first impulse was turning away in horror, but he couldn't stop watching the scene. More of the bandits came, and they were laughing. They split, searching for other people.

Unable to bear more of that, the child crawled back down, shaking like a leaf.

They are all dying... Dad and the others... I don't want to die!

His mother was sitting in a corner, and didn’t speak. Were they going to be caught? Was hiding in there the best choice? Maybe they would have been safer outside, fleeing through the fields. Normally Roric would have trusted the decision of his father, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

"Mom..." he sobbed. "I'm scared. What are we going to do?"

The woman turned towards him, putting on a trembling smile.

"Come here," she answered. "Here, take this and hold it tight."

She handed him a metal object. It was her lucky necklace, a poor trinket that Roric was very fond of. It reminded him of many good memories. Ever since he was an infant, his mother used to lend it to him whenever he was afraid of something. Years prior, when he was fearful of sleeping in the dark, that charm had helped him overcoming his problem. It was a secret weapon, his mother told him, something that could drive away even the scariest things. Just by touching it, in that dreadful moment, the child felt a bit relieved. He let the necklace slip under his shirt, its cold surface touching his bare skin, and hid in his mother's embrace.

Meanwhile, terrifying noises kept coming from outside the house. Roric gulped, realizing that the voices of the bandits, although muffled by the rain, were definitely getting closer.

Don't stop here. Not here, please...

Something heavy hit the door. Then it did it again. His mother tightened the grip, jumping at every strike. It went on for at least a minute, an unending time that felt like an entire day. After a dozen attempts, the thuds stopped and everything returned silent. Roric looked at the woman, hoping to find some reassurance. He wanted to ask if those bad people had finally gone away, but he was too scared to make a single sound.

A shining object came flying through one of the windows, landing just a couple of palms from them. It was a lit torch. More of them zipped across the air, bouncing off the walls, and scattered around the room. One ended right next to the kid's right foot, and he kicked it away nervously like it was a poisonous snake. They were going to burn them alive.

His mother lay motionless, her gaze lost into space. Roric could do nothing but watch while the fire reached every piece of cloth, tent or blanket, spreading in the whole house. The table and the rest of the barricade became a roaring pyre.

We have no way out!

In their deadly dance the flames went up, twisting around the main beam like wild ivy, further increasing the heat and the dense smoke that plagued the air. Roric coughed. Breathing was getting painful.

"Mom, please!" he yelled. "We need to run!"

The woman faced him, her eyes wide open. Her face was a lot different from what he was used to. Stiff features and dilated pupils distorted her expression, making it eerie and unsettling. He was searching for hope and comfort in those eyes, but the only thing he could see now was oppressing, inescapable fear. The child felt completely lost.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die here.

A sudden crack, coming from above their heads, caught Roric's attention. He didn't have a single moment to understand what was happening before being thrown somewhere in the room, while a deafening rumble swallowed everything else. When the shroud of dust finally started to fade, he realized that he wasn't at his mother's side anymore. Disoriented, with his ears ringing, the kid staggered among the remains of the main beam, trying to focus on the woman's silhouette as much as he could. Then, he found her.

She was almost buried beneath the rubble, in the very same corner where they had been sitting. She cried, panting in search of air, trying in vain to free her broken body. Roric rushed to her, lifting the beam with all his strength, despite already knowing that every attempt was useless. His mother must have pushed him away just before the collapse, but didn't manage to get out of the way herself. And now, no matter how much he was going to put into it, something that big wasn’t going to move.

I can't save her.

Kneeling beside the woman, Roric started crying. There was nothing inside the house he could use. Nobody who could come to help. She was getting so pale.

"Mom..." he sobbed, touching her with shaking hands.

When she heard his voice, his mother stopped wailing. She just smiled, looking in a direction behind his shoulders. There, the kid noticed, the beam had opened a small hole in the wall, wide enough to let him through.

With a broken voice, Roric screamed, "No! I won't leave you! I'm getting you out of here..."

She didn't answer. Her eyes were foggy, and tears streamed down her dusty cheeks. All of a sudden, she seemed exhausted.

"Roric," whispered the woman. "Go away... And live."

For a moment, it was like time had stopped. She didn’t breathe anymore.

Roric sat there, unable to react. The world around him became silent, blurred, confused. The embers whirled across the room. The flames danced like tall grass in the wind. The air, because of the intense heat, was nearly impossible to inhale.

The child opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it. He reached for the necklace under his tunic, and grabbed it so tight to make his finger hurt. The tiny metal disc, so magical for him, slipped out of his sweaty hand.

I'm getting sleepy.

The fire had almost surrounded him when his senses focused on the real world again. His mother's smile, her piercing gaze, her sweet voice. They were all gone. The last memory of her was that word.

Live.

Roric took an uncertain step backwards. He really had to go. Almost on the point of fainting, he forced himself to avert his gaze from the corpse. Trembling, he went across the small gap and ran away without looking behind.

***

Agonizing screams, crackling flames, rumbling noises.

Once outside, the child struggled to recognize his own village. He rushed along the main street, stumbling on the bodies and jumping over puddles of blood. Every wall, every corner was soaked with a nauseating smell that made him feel even more disoriented, a stench of death. Somehow, despite his state, he managed to avoid the bandits who were still ravaging Spjaldir, or rather the nightmare that had taken its place.

Running as fast as he could, Roric went through the center of the village, where he found something he hoped never to find. It was his father's body. He lay dead, near the Strong Plough, with a few of the other farmers. The kid didn’t have the heart to stop there, however. He just pushed the sadness away and kept going.

Under the pouring rain, he reached the fields. Leaving behind the stink of blood and cinder, he finally took a breath of clean air while the echoes of the massacre faded in the distance and everything around him was swallowed by the darkness.

Roric advanced blindly through mud and grass, haunted by the images of his dead parents. Where was he supposed to go now? The hill. The only shelter he knew, his only chance for survival. His instincts were already leading him in that direction. Beaten mercilessly by the wind and rain, he began ascending.

This is just a bad dream. It has to be...

The burning houses of the village, all those who had died. Memories kept pouring in Roric's head, despite his desperate attempt to remain focused.

Think about something nice, his mother used to tell him, the nightmares will go away, I promise! The child screamed, closing his fingers around the necklace.

That gentle slope had never seemed so rough before. With every step, muddy ground was ready to swallow the child's feet. All his muscles were aching and the cold rain whipped his face like it was made of ice.

They are dead. All dead.

There wasn’t any future for Spjaldir. No feast to celebrate the end of the harvest. No winter spent around the fire, listening to stories and legends. Roric wouldn't have worked the fields with his father at spring. Everything he loved and hated was over. Forever.

He would have saved his family at any cost, even if it had meant accepting his fate as a farmer. No more lies, odd answers or silly dreams. He was ready to do anything to bring his life back to normal. Anything-

All of a sudden, the kid tripped over a rock and fell on his arms, moaning in pain. He was spent. His ears were pounding, his heart tormented by all the things he had seen. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear the axe smashing on his door, the sadistic laughter of the bandits, the screaming of the villagers...

I'm so weak. There's nothing I can do. Nothing!

The child slammed his fist in the grass, out of frustration. Wiping the mud away from his face, he got back on his shaky feet. The top of the hill was within his reach, but he was tired. He had to go on. It was so close...

At the exact moment Roric stepped onto it, everything was lit up as day. That brief instant was enough to burn into his mind the image of the ancient oak tree that towered above his head. Normally, he thought it to be a rather calming and comforting view, but now it looked like something straight out of a nightmare. His memories went back to the story of the Drukh, the Barbarians and the spirits that were supposed to guard that place.

That tree is just a relic, Roric! It's so old that even if it cared for us back in the day at this point it must have forgotten. What, you thought it was magical? Stupid kid!

The light faded in the blink of an eye, and the darkness enveloped the hilltop again.

Roric wanted to go forward, but found himself unable to move. His body didn't answer to his will, and collapsed to the ground. Before he could even realize what was happening, he was already unconscious.

The sound of thunder echoed through the countryside.