Prologue

Stalks of rye rustled under the growing breeze. A boy’s head popped up from the midst of the undulating field and he savoured the feeling of the wind against his skin. His name was Rovald, but his friends called him Rovie. He was a thin boy with a head of unruly sandy hair. He placed his hands on his hips and stretched his back as he watched the fields of rye shimmer like a light green sea before him. He then looked north to where a meandering river wound its way across the plain. He could just about make out the town on its far bank and fantasized briefly about what life was like there, where there were no fields to tend, and the people outnumbered the livestock.

He’d heard there had been another riot there last week. According to Loric, riots were breaking out throughout the province. There had been plenty of grumblings even in their sleepy village of Gofeldin, but no violence yet, thank God, he thought to himself. He then brought his gaze closer, back to the field and gauged the distance to the low stone fence that marked the boundary of their farm. There was still more than half of it left to weed. He then looked to the sky. Clear and blue without so much as a hint of clouds, which meant they would have to water the fields by hand again tomorrow. They had just celebrated the summer solstice the week before, and it was the height of the growing season. Every day was now critical to ensure a good harvest. The price of crops had gone down again, while the prices of everything else had gone up, as well as their taxes. Rovie shook his head and sighed, nobles had lifestyles to maintain as well.

He was about to bend down and continue his work when the unmistakable low pitched note of a hunting horn echoed across the fields. A ball of ice formed in the pit of Rovie’s stomach. Other heads popped up from amongst the rye to see what was going on.

“That came from the west!” cried Romsen, Rovie’s father from nearby.

Rovie looked in that direction and spotted a fox running for its life down a small hill, and into the edge of their field. Hot on its heels was a pair of hounds and half a dozen riders armed with crossbows and muskets.

“Get to the house!” Rovie bellowed as he took to his heels.

Mordo, Rovie’s mother, stood at the door of their single storey house with a concerned look on her face. She was a thin, wiry woman whose raven black hair was streaked with grey. Rovie stopped at the door and turned around. Remsul and Rovak, Rovie’s younger brothers came running down the path and his father was huffing and puffing right behind them. A barrel-chested youth who stood a head taller than Romsen brought up the rear. His name was Loric. He was a year older than Rovie and his best friend.

Once everyone was inside, Romsen shut the door and barred it with a sturdy plank of wood. “Can never be too careful,” he said to his wife, who nodded her silent approval.

“This is the third hunt this month,” Rovie remarked sourly. They huddled around a window and watched as the riders trampled their crops carelessly as they stampeded through their fields.

“A minor noble like Sir Fettis needs to curry a lot of favour with his betters,” Loric pointed out. As the son of a trader, he was more knowledgeable about such things than most, “he also owes a lot of money to a lot of people and there isn’t much demand for his services in battle despite the skirmishes at the western border.”

“Do they have to do that through the fields?” Mordo sighed.

“There aren’t any common lands left in his province,” Loric said, always eager to show his knowledge of the wider world off, “there’s nowhere else for someone like Sir Fettis to hold them.”

“We’re going to lose almost a sixth of that field,” Romsen lamented, watching helplessly as the horsemen cut large swathes through the rye as they pursued their quarry. It looked to be the part Loric had just tended to that morning.

“I doubt we’ll see a penny in compensation,” Rovie added.

“The fields are the property of the lord after all,” Loric remarked dryly, “we’re just borrowing them to eke out our humble living.”

“Sorvin got knocked over by one of the riders on the last hunt,” Romsen fumed, not taking his eyes off the riders, “the reeve said he was lucky he didn’t injure the horse or there would be hell to pay.”

“Oh no,” Mordo gasped, “was he injured?”

Romsen shook his head. “Just a bruised shoulder, thank God.”

“They’re going into Gavik’s field now,” Rovie remarked, as the horses vaulted neatly over a low stone fence.

“Let’s get back to work,” Romsen breathed.

“Shouldn’t you wait?” Mordo asked, placing a worried hand on her husband’s arm, “they might come back.”

Romsen shook his head. “There is still a lot to do, and we need to see what can be saved.”

He took a final murderous look at the riders who were riding through a field of oats before adding, “we don’t have the luxury of letting nobles interrupt our lives with their ridiculous…”

A shrill scream from the next field cut Romsen off.

“That sounded like Shari!” Rovie exclaimed.

“Let’s go!” Loric cried, already running in the direction of the scream.

“Wait, it’s dangerous,” Rovie protested, but found himself hot on his friend’s heels. He shook his head as he ran. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been swept along by his friend’s impulsiveness against his better judgement.

“Boys, stop right there!” Rovie heard his mother cry. He half-turned his head to see his brothers stop in their tracks. That was for the best, but he couldn’t let his friend go alone, and he continued charging after his friend, pretending he had not heard his mother.

They ran through a gap in the hedge that marked the boundary between the two farms and saw Gavik standing amidst a field of oats. The broad-shouldered man stood as still as a statue. As they drew nearer, they saw that the blood had drained from his face, and he was staring numbly at something in the waist-high oats in front of him.

“What happened?” Loric gasped, as they ran up to him.

Gavik did not reply and continued staring at something that was still out of their sight. Gavik was a former soldier who had always faced any adversity with a hearty laugh and a devil may care grin, and it stunned Rovie to see him in such a state.

Then, they saw what Gavik was looking at. Kneeling amongst the oats was Shari, Gavik’s wife. In her arms was the limp body of Netti, their only daughter. She had just turned six last spring. Her eyes were closed, and it looked as though she was sleeping. The only sound they could hear was Shari’s soft sobs.

“I’ll see if I can find Edar,” Loric said softly before running off. Edar was the village headman and the wisest man in the village. If anyone knew what to do, it would be him.

Rovie looked at Gavik out of the corner of his eye and noticed his fists. They were clenched so tight that his knuckles had turned white.