His mother did not yell. Instead what she said, how she said it struck him more than any blow he ever took. She said the words even and calm, as if she had long made her peace.

“If you enlist you're as good as dead to me. It may as well be, as I would never see you again.”

Edus turned away and walked out the door. His vision blurred, and he caught himself wiping away the tears with a tattered sleeve. His friends outside, Sven and Saul, ended their fervent discussion at his approach.

“Ah cheer up-” Saul nudged his younger brother with an elbow sharply to his ribs.

“You’re doing the right thing Edus.” Saul's voice though soft pealed clear and deep. He patted Edus’ back, a giant’s hand that felt more like a slap. They trudged through the muddy trail leading to the main road in silence, pawing through thick foliage that crossed their path.

The news had spread like wildfire across the Heartlands: the King was dead, at the hands of Natives no less, and a call to war was swiftly answered by bugling heralds that scoured the towns, villages, and hamlets looking for every able bodied recruit. His mother had argued nonsensically over not enlisting. He had answered, “It’s the right thing to do. It’s what father would have done.”

“And he died for doing the right thing!” She stopped screaming then and sobbed, dropping to the floor. He had never seen her weep. Not since his father’s funeral. After she had been a woman of knotted wood, unable to bend nor break. She had cared for him since then, alone. She had taught him how to farm and live off the land. She had to be strong for them to survive. To see his mother break down, now so frail and helpless, was unthinkable. Edus knelt down to console her, but she held out a hand to stop him. Then she said those words.

How could she have said that? All he had ever tried to do was the right thing, and when he would come back a soldier he would bring back wealth and rights to more land. Mythic knew they needed it to not just survive, but live. He knew she never wanted him to become a soldier for the Empire.

“Whaddya reckon Edus? What role do you think they’ll give you in the army?” Sven’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“What does it matter?" Saul rebuffed him. "We’ll know when they tell us. We still need to go through basic training.”

“Easy for you to say,” Sven snapped, still nursing the side where Saul had elbowed him. “One look at you and they’ll judge you a shield bearer.”

Saul’s neck was so muscled it seemed to engulf his shaven head as he shrugged his shoulders up.

“I don’t know what they’ll select me for,” Edus answered Sven with forthrightness. “But I know it’ll point me in the right direction of the natives.”

They crossed a small bridge overhead a shallow burbling stream filled with moss encrusted rocks. The village was now in view, a collection of thatched roof top wooden homes arrayed in a loose circle. The village square was dead, only a few women and children seen walking past. Boys stung another with wooden swords until a mother scolded them for their foolishness. It would take half a day’s walk to the Hearth City, but they strode with purpose. Most of the men besides the elderly had already left, and now that Sven and Saul’s father had gone were they able to sneak off together with Edus for enlistment.

“The others didn’t show up,” Sven spat on the ground. “Damn cowards.”

“Someone has to help manage the farms. I told you to stay,” Saul rumbled.

“You know I would have gone right after you'd have left.”

Saul only grunted in reply.

The two suns hung proud over the bright blue sky, one smaller than the other just as Sven was dwarfed by his brother. Though the sky was clear it was deceptively cold from the chill wind, strengthening their resolve to reach the Hearth City before noon. They had nothing but the clothes they wore, and what sorry scraps they were, patched over so many times there was no telling what the original cloth was. Still, it made them light and quick on their feet, and so they tread with youthful vigor.

At least Edus had gathered the nerve to tell his mother he was enlisting after he had a full stomach from breakfast. The roads were teeming with wagons of farmers and traders taking their produce and goods to the City market. The main road they were on was so wide that Sven and Saul could walk beside each other without being run over by the wagons and carts, though they walked single file just in case there were two (which was often) passing by the other. Sven played his wooden flute that he proudly had carved himself, and due to his expert craftsmanship was a weak hissing of a rendition to A Soldier’s March.

“Of all the things you could have brought, you brought that?” Saul said in grating annoyance. “Well, at least you can barely hear it.”

“It needs just a bit more work is all.” Sven continued his flute hissing.

“There it is,” Edus said, in awe every time he saw it. “The Hearth City.”

The City sat on a cresting hill divided by a massive stone bridge that loomed over a cliffside where a river churned below, connecting to the Royal Castle. In order for Hearth to be taken they would have to siege not one but two castles: Hearth and Home as they were unofficially called. The walls of the city(Home) were less intimidating but wider in length than the Royal Castle(Hearth).

The City sprawled out over flat ground, a swathe of brown and grey, wood and stone buildings crammed between the encircling stone walls over twenty feet high. And the Castle stood above it all on a steep hill at the opposite side of the bridge, all tall towers and parapets, a stone island amongst the verdant farmland surrounding it. The main road twisted and snaked up to one of the main City gates which could be blocked from view by Edus’ thumb. They quickened their brisk step with renewed energy.

“Watch yourselves!” One cantankerous old man yelled, driving two horses on his wagon. Saul pulled Sven back with a tug from one of the horse’s hooves that landed too close.

“Stop playing your damn flute and watch the road!” He growled at his brother. Sven looked a mind to answer but thought better of it.

“Thanks,” he said in the end. He pocketed his flute, and they walked on though the clopping of horse and oxen along with the creaking of wooden wheels over smoothed stone. The gate was open, the dull blackened portcullis drawn up. The two guards standing barely glanced over them, letting them pass without the usual questioning of their business. Sven approached one guard.

“We’re here to enlist,” he said matter of factly. “Where can we go?”

The guardsman said the words as if it was a tired expression, “Go to the City Barracks to your right. Keep walking along the main road.” He interrupted Sven before he could utter another word. “Now piss off.”

The trio shuffled past the line of carts being inspected. The road now diverged to several new paths and smaller alleyways. The smell of humanity instantly invaded the airways of the young men, grimacing together. So many buildings pressed closely together, with their individual chamber cans and its contents permeating the air around.

“I forgot how charming the City could be,” Sven commented. Much of the main army had already mobilized, and the boys eyed the women that now outnumbered them sashaying openly in their dresses. Sven turned his head to gaze back at one such woman and said, “Just think, when we come back here at the victory parade we’ll be treated as heroes. And they’ll be mightily thankful for our actions.”

True to the guardsman's word, they soon saw the Barracks extended over the wall to become a fortress in itself. They were not the only boys of their village to have the same idea however. Lines of men choked the streets, either fidgeting, catcalling an unfortunate woman walking beside or screaming to move the line along.

“By the Mythic it’s going to be sunset by the time we get there.” Sven took out his flute and started playing, drowned out by the clamor of chaos that went on in front of them. A soldier strode out fuming. He held a musket rifle in one hand and pointed it dramatically up towards the sky. The sound of black powder igniting and exploding deafened Edus’ ears, the plume of white smoke escaping from the back end of the musket. The men recoiled and immediately covered their ears too late in reflex to the piercing sound. A woman screamed in terror and her attendants hurried to calm her.

“Shut up,” the soldier said curtly and returned to the barracks.

After the crowd had quieted the lines went by more efficiently. Those that had witnessed the scene silenced newcomers down the back of the lines. When it was their turn a man cried out, “Next!” He sat behind a table, jotting in a frenzy of notes upon an open thick leather bound tome. Several other tomes stacked on top of the other looked as if it would collapse the thin legs of the wooden table. The man wore a black flat bottomed hat to cover his face from the suns. He looked up, hard grey eyes studying them shrewdly and smiled with cynical acidity.

“Let me guess, you all come from the same village, town or whatever backend you came from and wish to be stationed in the same squad. Don’t say a fecking word lad. Today is your lucky day, and I’m tired of you lot. State your names and backend.”

“Edus Trill. Darbishby.”

The man snorted. “Never heard of it. Follow the green painted line. Hand the letter over to your captain.”

He scribbled over a small piece of paper with his ink tipped quill and handed it to Edus. The man signalled Sven over with an impatient wave of his hand. Edus stared dumbly at the runes that the man wrote on the paper he held.

“Edus come on.” Saul spoke beside him.

“Focus all you want you won’t understand glyphs.” Sven said impatiently, “Now come on, let’s see who our captain is. Probably some jumped up high born prick!”

Edus saw three painted lines leading to different paths. Soldiers bustled past following the lines. At the end of the green line they met a man that towered over even Saul. His back was facing them, fists at his hips and feet spread out confidently. He wore a brown cowhide leather jacket that cut to his knees hanging as a kilt, with black leather thigh boots that expanded past his knees. The jacket was filled with holes lined with steel rings aligned parallel to his shoulders, torso and sleeves.

The back of his shaven head showed the scars of three long lines from something terrible. He turned to them. His crooked nose told that he was no stranger to the occasional brawl, perhaps in his more brash younger years. The man sported a thick brown squared mustache. It was popular amongst the officers to grow as much facial hair as one could it seemed, from what Edus had seen. He judged that this man cared little for the latest fashion. His dark eyes met each of their stares.

“What happened to your head?” Sven asked stupidly.

“Harpy,” the man explained and held out a ham of a hand. “Papers.” The man’s rough accent was unmistakably Pikend, a commoner.

Each placed their paper on his open palm. He unfastened with his other hand a leather bound scroll case hidden underneath his jacket, tilting his open hand to let the letters slip and fall down into.

“We wait for four more.” He held out four fingers as if they were village idiots. Two boys came, one a gangly looking youth of wild black hair, the other darker skinned of Umbran blood. Both were thin and wore no shoes. They tipped their papers to the captain who held the opened scroll case as if he were the beggar, and not the opposite.

“Street scum,” the captain mused. “You’ll do.” Other captains wearing the same leather coats sat down beside, about a dozen or so.

“You’re a veteran,” Sven said crossly. “If you are, why aren’t you at the frontline?”

The captain turned his dark eyes to stare Sven into silence, bemused.

“The rest of my squad died at Raul. You’re to replace them.”

The next was a tall youth of moppy blonde hair, inquisitive green eyes meeting the captain's gaze.

“Are you the captain?” He asked. His voice rang clear, pronouncing the words straight through, the telltale sign of a highborn, or highborn educated at the very least.

“That I am. Paper.” The youth dropped his letter into the scroll case and stood away from the two groups of boys to form a broken semi circle around the captain. The last to arrive was not a boy, but a stout man already short of breath, sweat dripping down his forehead. He carried a leather backpack Edus knew was packed full of all sorts of foods.

“I was told to give you this letter, sir.” He produced a handkerchief from one of the many pockets of his fine dark blue linen shirt and dabbed his forehead.

“If I may ask, why must we hand you just our name and place of residence?”

“In case you die, and those of you who live have the honor of asking the whereabouts of your family to give them a pretty medal.”

The fat man blinked, shocked at the starkness of his answer.

“Excuse me, but I have no family to speak of here in Hearth.”

“Good, would save us a trip. All of you, follow me.”

The captain’s casual stride was deceptively fast due to the sheer length of his limbs. The fat man was hard pressed to match his speed, breaking into a trot to keep up. This was a walk to fetch the well water for Edus and the two brothers. The beggars were quick in pace, and the highborn walked just as swift from the corner of Edus' eye.

They passed through a tunnel that led to another gate, revealing a long wagon that held enough room for all eight of them to sit uncomfortably in. The wagon was pulled by two horses driven by one soldier in front wearing the same long leather coat as the captain. Similar teams waited in a line, horses nickering. There were so many wagons a separate cart was used to shovel away all the horse manure.

“Where are you taking us?” Sven asked.

“The Oxenfort.”

With a tug of the reins, the horses trotted down the main road. The two suns were descending down in a final display of purples, oranges, and yellows. Edus looked up to the sky, hoping he would one day fulfill his promise to his mother.