The road was churned to a muddy pulp as the column trudged aimlessly without a destination. They were like swarms of locusts, hungry and destructive. Wherever there were farms the hungry descended upon the fields. Golden cobs of corn were ripped from the stalks. The branches of apple trees were plucked bare of its fruits. Any swine, bovine and chickens unlucky enough to be left unattended on the pastures found themselves torn apart with a feral strength that only came from hunger, with organs disembowelled, flesh stripped from bones, and blood collected within bowls, for not a scrap was dare wasted; some even took the bones as well. Nothing remained after the locust of refugees were done with their desperate pillage.

Sometimes the tenants would resist with pitchforks and axes and mallets, trying to fend off the wolves at the stead, only for a combination of savage bands and great numbers to overwhelm them. In most cases the tenants were slaughtered, they themselves butchered and stripped into cuts like a pig, usually when the mob showed them mercy, moved on, and then the most bestial of the column came in to reap what was left.

Only the lords in their strongholds fared fitter. Their fields were already harvested and shuttled behind the gates. And with their retinue of soldiers, high walls, drawbridge, moat and muder holes, the waves of ragged refugees, ill-equipped and malnourished and poorly trained in the ways of siege, would quickly get frustrated when its walls didn’t readily crack, gave up, and passed those lands harmlessly thereafter like a stream around a rock.

Blacwin knew that sooner than later he would have to partake in the savage affair. The hunk of brown beard would eventually be gone despite his hardest to make it last through rationing. At least water was plentiful. The column would encounter many rivers while on its aimless march, and at every opportunity the boy would fill himself to slack his thirst and hunger in one blow. Finally his chainmail was cleaned. For too long the rings were crusted with mud. He was nearly moved to tears when the chainmail gleamed like silver. And when he mustered the bravery to scavenge for food, he only did so once the locust swarm moved on. Sometimes he found nothing. Sometimes he found a morsel of flesh clung onto a joint, the animalistic remains of a brutish, sloppy feasting. Those he saved for when day was close to dusk, where he built a fire to cook his scavenge, savouring the little meat and sucking out the marrow.

Having taken the caution of the Swordmaster to heart, Blacwin had kept his distance from the column, travelling through the woods whenever it permitted. The column of refugees, though tied together through a collective suffering, was rife with violence. Of brutes that stole as they pleased, killed as they pleased, took women as they pleased, and not even children were spared from their abuses. However, without the protection of a herd, he had taken to the heights of the canopy for a safe station to sleep in, using lengths of roots he had beaten into threads and woven into rope to tie him into place, lest he rolled over and plummeted to the ground while in slumber. The chief advantage of this was that should any beast lurk in the night, and frequently there were, they would simply pass under him without incident. The same could not be said of some bands of refugees, who foolishly chose to camp in the woods, was beset upon by some horror that emerged suddenly from shadow and brush. For this reason the column stayed clear of the woods, failing to realise that the beasts normally attacked during the night, and should any roam during the day, rarely were those beasts so concerned with stealth.

And the shade was good, at least. As such he sweated little and there was little need to emerge for water. So long as he had a keen eye there was always something to eat, some berries, some roots, a leafy green, and little by little he was becoming less of a prude with turning over a rotten log in search of grubs. He could stay in the woods if he wanted to. However, he had joined the column for a reason. The Swordmaster had gone in its general direction. And the thoughts of revenge never strayed far from his mind. It dogged every moment in his day. Stared back at him from the black of night. So to that end he would need a martial teacher.

At the moment, the sword girted to his hip was next to useless in his unskilled hands. Clumsy and pathetic. The weight of it was still unwieldy. And even if he was fully grown and capable of lifting it, the Weeping Reyns, the entourage of knights that guarded Lord Reynmeer, overshadowed him so much in terms of skill that he would be slew without any difficulty, rode down with a spear, hacked open with a sword. However, with a tutelage in swordsmanship, the boy stood a fighting chance against those gilded thugs. That was, if he ever stumbled upon the Swordmaster again.

The sun rode high, unabated of any clouds. Not a hint of rain lurked in the white of the skies. The many rivers that cut up the grassy dunes gave way to a flat expanse of grassland. A moment of hesitation cautioned Blacwin to a pause. This was where the woodlands ended and there on out was an open plain, nowhere to hide. Without a pack for protection, he would be easy pickings for the thugs within the refugee column, robbed if he was lucky. Perhaps he should turn the other way, travelled elsewhere. The boy pondered hard. Surely there was more than one Swordmaster on this continent, one less cold.

That settled it. His heart was cemented, and he took purchase on a fallen tree. Picking apart the remaining beard, Baldwin watched as the column of refugees continued through the grass like a long, long serpent. Today he planned to relax in the shade, forage for some food, then would tomorrow depart to the North along a river.

Snap!

The boy wheeled, and the glom of bread in his mouth turned rancid as foul meat. Three raggedy men stood before him, their clothes tattered and dirty, large and brutish. One had a puckered scar that ran from the forehead to the side, the top of the ear clipped off. The second had a set of mad eyes that were as intense as a rabid dog. The third had a bald head, burnt red from many days under a wide-eyed sun. Each of them had a wolfish stare.

“Fancy sharing some of that bread?” the Scarred Man asked.

“Not much is left,” Blacwin said.

“Then the sword and armour should do.”

Mad Eyes nodded with utmost enthusiasm, and the Bald Man stepped forward. Fear squeezed his heart, blood pounded in his ears. Blacwin considered making a run for it, yet doubted he’d get far. The only choice was to stand his ground. Sword was drawn.

The Scarred Man snickered. “You got guts. I’ll give you that. And if you drop it right now, your guts will stay in your belly.”

“I say let’s take it. Doesn’t look like he will,” Mad Eyes said.

The Bald Man took another step. Blacwin lifted up his sword, and the Scarred Man frowned.

“So that’s how it’ll be,” he said.

Blacwin could not respond, his lips mashed shut, too rattled with nerves to utter a word of threat. As if any of them would have been intimidated. And yet the sword remained aloft. He would sooner die than give it up. Which appeared to be the case.

From the corner of his vision, Mad Eyes lunged forward. With all the might he could muster, the sword launched forward. Steel sank into his shoulder, severing flesh, tendon and sinew as easily as butter. Mad Eyes screamed, hadn’t expected the strike to land so effectively. Then, with a twist and a jerk downward as graceful as a dog with a joint of beef, the arm detached from the body, falling to the ground alongside a gout of blood.

With the sword pointed down and dripping, the Bald Man seized the moment to make a grab for the sword. Blacwin swung blindly. He missed. And suddenly the air left his chest. The Scarred Man had snuck in from the side and dealt a blow with his fist. The boy hit the grass, still winded, hands emptied and light. His sword had fallen about a foot away. Fingertips dug into grass as he crawled for his steel, and a foot stomped on his hand.

“Not so fast,” the Scarred Man said, then bent down to pick it up.

“Give that back!” Blacwin shouted.

“You mean this?” He pointed the sword to his head.

“Give it to the fucking boy!” Mad Eyes clutched at his wound, his face paled from blood loss.

The Bald Man nodded, even going as far as pinning Blacwin on the back so he could not squirm.

“Then that does it.” And Scarred Man lifted up the sword.