“They’re coming!”

Light from Luma’s fade glistened on friend and foe alike. They knew they would be outnumbered. The monsters had grown in number faster than the sages anticipated. Small wonder they would push through to the surface. For them, it was eat or be eaten. The ones coming at them now were the ones that would rather eat something easier to kill.

The first volley of arrows whistled overhead. They fell onto the goblins with a sound that reminded Feagrim of fat summer rain. Unstemmed the horde rushed forwards. The second and third volley had the same effect. Feagrim struggled to see if there were any fallen amongst the horde.

Their lines met, the goblins crashing into his Guildsmates shields. The press was so great the slain could not fall. He readied himself and began to raise his sword to signal his charge. Before he could move a deep ringing came from far below. He felt it more than heard it. A great bell had sounded. Shrieks came from the goblins. They pressed the sheildsmen back. Like a great wave the goblins flooded through the shields and swarmed through the ranks and up the very hill he stood on.

In the chaos, it was every man for themselves. Steel fashed and goblins fell with astonishing ease. Feagrim had no time for anything other than keeping his feet amidst the sea of goblins. Dread began to set in as the tide could be not be resisted. The ground was slick with ichor, indeed Feagrim was certain he wasn’t standing on ground, but corpses piled high. None of his Guidmates were to be seen and all around him goblins flowed.

On and on he fought. Surrounded and beaten from all sides, kicked, punched, gouged, and stabbed. His feet slid and barely found purchase, just to lose it and slide again. His breathing became labored and ragged. No longer could he hear the shouts and cries of his brethren. His arms and shoulders burned. His blades felt heavy and his movements became jerky. Grimly he kept his feet.

Again, that great bell rang. Closer this time. Lungs burning Feagrim swung his sword wide to try and regain just a shred of room and it struck nothing but air. The goblins were gone, they fled into the woods behind him, and beyond was the village he grew up in. Weary, he looked back towards the shattered gateway that led below to the labyrinth. A green glow lit the ground, now carpeted with bodies. Tendrils of grey fog wove through the tumble of cooling flesh. Nothing but goblin dead did he see.

Feagrim blinked. It wasn’t fog. It was small furry creatures. The green glow came from their eyes. Behind them, the ground laid bare to the dirt. The bell rang again, shaking the ground. The green light pulsed. Sounds of chittering and clacking punctuated by creaking and groaning came from the crumbling gates.

He had been distracted! The grey creatures were upon him already! Tiny claws tore at his clothes as they swarmed up his body. Whiskers tickled his cheek. Jagged teeth lunged at his eye before he could even move. They plunged in.

Feagrim lurched up, tangled in blankets that clung to his clammy skin. The window creaked in the slight breeze, loose in the broken casement. His mouth was dry, he tried to swallow and calm his breathing. The light was just beginning to signal the day. Looking out the window, the clouds were thick with little sky to be seen. Wearily he plucked at the blankets and withheld the gasp as bruises reminded him that unlike some, he remained among the living. For a moment he looked about the room for his mirror to survey the results of yesterday’s beating. Nothing was there to behold other than a rickety old chair that held his clothes and a stout footlocker. Where the mirror used to hang still bore the fading halo. Absently he scratched at the scar from when it had been broken. A whiff of the scent of burning coal drifted through the window and he smiled awkwardly around his swollen lip.

He stood up from the bed and stiffly shook out his bedding. His tunic bore a new tear. Sitting on the floor, he reached for his battered satchel and withdrew a thin needle and some thread. With it mended he donned it along with the rest of his clothes. Turning to the bedding, he folded it quickly and dropped it into the footlocker, and locked it with a small iron key. At the door, he stopped, turned, and looked the room over. A bare bed, an empty chair, a heavy footlocker, and no more. Satisfied he stepped into the hall.

The stairs were only a challenge in that his trousers rubbed on bruises and tugged on the scabs where the skin had broken. He went as quietly as he could. Not that he wanted to avoid waking the other occupants of the house, rather he opted to show some restraint and be polite should they be sleeping in.

Below, in the pantry, Feagrim helped himself to some cheese and cut the stale end off yesterday’s bread. There was some sausage he’d brought home a few days ago. The butcher mixed it special for him. Other than his mother, he was the only one that liked it with extra spices. He gently stirred the coals in the stove and toasted the bread. Momentarily he was mesmerized by the twisting and leaping reds and oranges and his toast was nearly burned. He struggled to cut the hard cheese, the back of his hand still bore the lingering mark of a boot. The knife slipped in his fingers. Wincing he looked down and rolled his eyes. His fingers were safe, the knife went through where the tip of one had been cut off. He shook off the memory and piled slices of cheese and sausage on his toast.

He begins to take his first bite but stops when he hears a scraping sound behind him. Turning around he sees his brother pulling a chair out from the table. Feagrim, over the toast he was raising to his mouth, makes eye contact with him and winces as he tries to get his lips out of the way of his teeth. The brother pauses, then awkwardly sits in the chair.

“Where’s mine?” his brother asked.

Feagrim stared his brother in the eyes. His expression was blank and hard to read. There was a slight tightening at the corners of his eyes so maybe he was just trying to break the ice. Inwardly Feagrim knew that might not be true. He deliberately took as big a bite as he could and not choke on it. He took his time chewing and swallowing.

“I’ve never cooked anything for you before, Dungel, why would I start now? Of the two of us, you spent more time with mother. I’d think you’d be a master of the kitchen arts.”

“Hardly a great feat. You were never around to learn from her at all,” said Dungel

“Indeed, I found other teachers that were far more reliable.”

Dungel jumped up from the chair, his hands balled into fists. Feagrim stared at him over his toast. He took another bite, the crunching was the only thing that broke the silence.

“When are you going to stop coming home in that condition?”

“Why, do you want to try doing a better job of it?” Dungel blinked at that. Feagrim continued, “Wait, don’t tell me you want to try and stop it.”

“Father says you brought it on yourself.” Dungel snorted.

“Father’s never around and doesn’t care for anything other than driving nails and drinking cheap hootch. He’s never bothered to listen to anyone let alone me. You need to open your eyes and take a look at the world around you.”

“You could have spent more time with him, with us! Why did you go and quit the apprenticeship?” Dungel’s knuckles were turning white.

“Stay innocent like that.” Feagrim paused to wave his toast for emphasis, “It’s endearing.” Feagrim tried to smile, but he could feel his swollen face was not cooperating.

Dungel’s mouth worked for a moment, then his head jerked down and he stared at the ground for a long moment. Feagrim crunched on his toast again and Dungel awkwardly went back upstairs.

Feagrim took a slow breath. He wrapped the remainder of his bread, cheese, and sausage in a clean cloth and dropped the bundle in his satchel. He wiped off the knife, put it away, and swept the crumbs off the counter. He stepped up to the front door and turned around. He glanced over the kitchen, the family dining table, and the hearth. He took a long moment to look at everything. Then, he unlatched the door and stepped through into the street.

The clouds were beginning to thin and patches of blue were beginning to show. Faintly in the distance, a rooster crowed. He walked down the street in the direction of the central square. He nodded, waved, and exchanged “‘Mornin’” greetings with the people he saw and tried to ignore the worried expressions most of them had. The square was already the scene of activity. Merchant stalls were being moved out of the central area. A low stage had already been built and on it were several long wooden boxes. A few carpenters he knew were putting up an awning over the boxes. He saw his father giving orders. Immediately Feagrim detoured to avoid the remainder of the square and walked through the alleys.

A familiar trace of burning coal wafted past his nose and he quickened his pace to the blacksmith’s shop. The wicket stood open, a large brick held it in place so it couldn’t swing shut. The larger doors were only opened if a cart or wagon needed to be brought in. Adding the smaller door was his idea. Stepping through, he saw the blacksmith and his son banking back the fire. The area around the anvil was littered with freshly forged hardware, some of it still glowed.

“A bit late today.” The big man said, his back to Feagrim as he was putting tools back into a rack.

“‘Mornin’ Feagrim.” said the boy from the far side of the forge. “What the heck has happened? That git’s worked you over again hasn’t he?”

The blacksmith turned and looked Feagrim up and down. His expression softened. “You look tired lad. Listen, don’t worry about today. Go rest up and take care of yourself. There’s always tomorrow.”

The boy stepped forward and presented him with an apple. It had several sooty fingerprints. “Yanno what they say, an apple a day.”

“Thanks, Heored,” Feagrim took the apple and rubbed the fingerprints off with his sleeve. He tried to smile and failed again. “I might have to save it for later, I’m not sure I can manage an apple.”

“Think of it as a challenge then. You could always wimp out and mince it into little bits to save your precious jaw.”

“I wonder if I’ll get a day off from Garmer too,” said Feagrim as he dropped the now clean apple into his satchel.

There was a huge bang as the blacksmith slammed his hammer down, sending sparks flying.

“Enough is enough! We’re tired of seeing you like this! It’s been going on for ten years!” The big man roared. Dust drifted down, glittering on stray beams of light.

“He doesn’t attack anyone else now,” Feagrim retorted. “At least there’s only one now, that’s better, right?”

“You’ve got to fight back!” yelled Heored.

Feagrim stared at the ground. He said, “I can’t do that.”

“You damn well can! We know you can!” Bellowed the blacksmith.

Feagrim looked up at the towering blacksmith. “I can’t Derntor and I shan’t.” Feagrim’s eyes went icy. “If I fought back I don’t think I’ll stop.”

Derntor turned back to his fire and angrily tugged on the bellows making cinders fly from between the coals.

“No one in the town would see a thing,” said Heored. “Even if they did, they didn’t.”

“That doesn’t make it right. And it makes everyone in town no better. Think of his sister. He’s all that’s left of their family. I can’t drive her to loneliness by taking him away!” snapped Feagrim.

Heored winked at Feagrim. “She’s pretty. You could swoop in afterward and take care of that loneliness. Just like saving a princess.”

“What kind of twisted person murders the brother, the last of her family, in an attempt to win her heart?” Feagrim shook his head. “I thought I read too many hero stories, but you’ve got me beat.”

“Heored,” snapped Derntor. “Fetch more coal.”

Heored looks up at his father and instantly leaves to do as he is told.

Feagrim sees the big blacksmith’s expression. “Thank you, sir,” he stammers, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Feagrim turns to leave.

“No.” The voice is kinder, and a little sad. “We’ll see you later this afternoon. We’ll all come.”

Feagrim stops and turns to face him. He stands a little straighter and bows slightly. “Thank you sir. We look forward to your company.”

“No, we’ll come to see You. The presents are ready.”

“I understand. Thank you. Please keep them a while longer. Goodday.” Feagrim quickly left.

Derntor watches Feagrim as he walks out of the shop. He looks up into the rafters where three cloth-wrapped bundles were stored. He notices that the sound of his son’s shovel has stopped. Lowing his eyes to the polished top of his anvil, he brushes off the grey-blue flakes of oxide left from the early work. Raising his head again, he meets the eyes of his wife who had been lingering just inside the door that connected the shop to their home. She stood there, a handkerchief held to her mouth, the edges of her eyes going red as the first tears begin to flow. Without words, he walked to his wife. Her bottom lip was trembling as she lowered her handkerchief to accept the hug.