“If you would go slower, Tylen, it might help,” his mother said. “You want the yarn a little tighter.”

  He knew she was right, but he couldn’t resist. “Yes ma’am," he said, slowing his stitching down to a crawl, barely moving the two needles through the piece.

  After a moment, she rolled her eyes. “Tylen!”

  He grinned. “What, is this not slower?"

  She snorted. “Oh no no, it is, thank you. Please, just like that until you finish.”

  Ah, well. He could not recall the last time he had won a verbal sparring with his mother, but what he lacked in foresight he made up for in stubbornness. So, he moved like a tree growing, and added another stitch.

  Continuing in silence for another several minutes, he began to worry he might lose this time. The pace he had set was woefully slow, and required that his fingers maintain at times straining and awkward positions.

  A sharp rap came at the thick wooden door. “Irene? This is Hal. I…happened to come this way today. Care if I come in?” The male voice was muffled by the large boards.

  “I’ll get it!” He shot off the blanket-laden bench, glad to rest his aching fingers.

  “Oh, will you now?” She asked.

  He gave her a look. “Strange how Hal happens by a dead-end fort.”

  She returned his stare. “Strange how a certain yarn-over lies unfinished.”

  His hand throbbed in panic. “Er, I will fetch him water.” He stepped up to the door, but she remained silent.

  “From…from the well,” he added at last. Turning, he found she was holding back a grin, and he realized he had been outmaneuvered again.

  “That would be lovely,” she said laughing.

  He sighed but smiled, and then grabbed the iron and wood bar that sat heavy within wrought iron slots on the door. With practiced movement, he stepped low and placed his shoulder under it, then threw his weight into it and heaved it up and over. His mother told him his dad was able to lift it with one hand, back when he had captained the barracks, and soldiers had slept in cots across the room.

  The great wooden and metal bar free of the door, he slid a heavy bolt to the right and the door was unlocked. Pulling it open, the kind and leathered face of Hal greeted him.

  “Sal, Tylen.” He came over the threshold tapping with his cane as he went. “Out-knitting your mother yet?”

  “Why yes, look at his wonderful Jardan crest,” she called from behind before he could interject.

  “Oh, well that–”

  “Aht, aht.” Hal rapped his cane into his knees to stop him from retrieving and hiding his creation, and soon held it up for close and unfortunate inspection. While Jarda’s emblem was recognizable, he hadn’t been able to make the sun decide between a circle or square, and the mountain seemed unsure whether it should point up, or point anywhere at all.

  “Heh! It’s good boy, you’ll get there in no time.” He turned then to his mother, and gave a slight bow. “Sal, Irene.”

  A slight color came to her cheeks, and she curtsied in her seat and greeted him in return.

  Tylen could see when his departure would be appreciated. “Good to see you Hal. I’ll be back.” He waved as he went out the door, but could see that both of them were already beginning to talk in circles as they did, ever smaller but not yet complete. He had given up trying to understand, the one time he asked her why she had not asked for officials, she told him he would know later. As of yet, he still did not.

  They had water at the house, but it would not be as cold as water fresh from the well. For Hal, only the best would do. Tylen closed the back door, then flung himself into the outdoors. The day’s sun shone with a red brilliance as it neared the horizon, and a pleasant wind blew from the north. He danced forward along a well-tread path that led up to the hill, feeling the ground and air pass his feet and hands.

  A reservoir sat upon a hewn stone foundation at the center of the hill, a wide clearing around it. He did not go to the water yet, however, detouring to the left. A dilapidated wooden structure crumbled at the edge, where the descent was most steep. He loved that old watchtower; it was a remnant of raids, which had not happened in the north since before he was born.

  Scooping up an oaken branch, he mounted it, finding familiar holds and scaling the precarious wooden lattices with ease. The branch he cast between hands as he went, a practiced, fluid movement. In bygone days he would have needed to ascend three stories and nearly fifty feet, yet now there was but one level.

  Even so, he mounted it and stood resolutely, staring out across the trees as they gave way to plain and grass, branch in hand. He imagined himself a Crestguard, protecting the people against invasion and rallying the troops to fight if an incursion came. Like his father had, he would serve as a mighty soldier. He could see them too, horses riding in, men emblazoned with the Haelstran crest. His would be the glory as he alerted the men and led them to victory.

  He blinked. The mirage had not faded. The men on horses were very real. And they were very close.

  Panic gripped him, and he stood frozen. The branch escaped his hand, clattered to the tower and the wind blew it away. His father had died to Haelstrans. Was it them? He could hardly breath, and the land between them vanished into nothing, until the red eyes of killer horses and the serrated swords of men swung at his neck.

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  Crack! The oak snapped in two against the stone well below, and Tylen gasped in a ragged breath. The men and horses were not upon him, but they were now closer. He had to leave, and quickly. His agency returned, he fled down the tower, dropping the last several feet and stumbling into a run.

  “Mother!” He screamed as he neared the house. Kicking the door, he burst in.

  “Mother–" he said winded, “It…” His hand shook, and it felt surreal to hear the words come out of his mouth. “It’s Haelstra.”

  Irene’s eyes widened in disbelief, and the knitting dropped to her lap. Hal stood up and grabbed his cane, making for the door.

  “Haelstra? Surely not…they have been pushing their luck on our southern mines." He opened the door, and for a moment squared his stance and flared his shoulders, standing proud. He looked to Tylen like a soldier then, and wild thoughts of fighting entered his mind. But then he sagged, his cane biting into the floor. “Tylen, which direction did you see them?”

  “East of the well, and north," he answered, and he heard his voice shaking. He steeled his chest. “I could see the river on their shields…they can’t be more than half a mile.”

  Hal bit his lip, then left the house to see for himself. He looked to his mother to speak, and saw her gaze locked upon the bowl of water beside her needles. Irene did not move her hands, yet there were shimmers. Within the bowl the light rippled as the surface disturbed, each second growing. Horses…

  She suddenly looked at him. “Go to the well. Climb down into it, there is a ledge." She stood and strode to the cupboard, opening it and retrieving some wrapped bread. “The men may rest their horses at the well some time. Do not come out, or reveal yourself. Stay until they have gone.”

  Tylen accepted the bread in confusion. “But what about you?”

  She smiled. “They will want nothing with me, I am an old woman. They are here for our food, and gold," she gestured to the door. “Go now, there is not much time before they will see you.”

  “What? Mother I can stay, if they try anything I can--”

  “Get beaten, if not worse.” She put a hand on the bread and pushed it with him towards the door. “I have lived through these. Listen to me. You are young, and old enough to fight. There is every chance they hurt you, even take you. Me? Hal? I am too old for their sport, and he is a cripple. Fear for yourself, not us.”

  He frowned, but stepped forward and hugged her. It felt wrong, but as loathe as he was to admit it, there was little he would be able to do against a whole troop of mounted men. Maybe, five. Or four.

  “Go, my child. They will come, they will go, and we may remember this with laughter in later days.”

  His heart twinged. She said it like she had spoken about his knitting, like she was hiding some secret. This time, he feared losing the spar was losing something more important, but he did not know what, and he did not know what to do. Hugging her again, he turned and ran out the door.

  He ran past Hal who stood near the house leaning heavily on his cane, staring towards the rising dust.

  He cast his own eyes toward the cloud, and could now almost make out the soldiers themselves. Pushing himself to greater speed, he fled to the well, sides heaving as he worked to get there before he was seen. The ground and air pounded his feet and cut across his skin, as if it fought to hold him back.

  Arriving at the well, he threw himself over the edge, and climbed down the dark hole. As cut stone turned to rock and dirt, his foot found purchase upon a shelf of rock that dipped back into a small alcove. There he made his hiding, cowering in the darkness with a piece of bread as he listened to the thunder of hooves grow above him.

  By the last light of day, he made to mark the time as it passed. A narrow beam shone through the opening of the well, and as it slimmed he scratched the stone to record its passage, his thumb’s length between them. He had scratched but twice before the sound of hooves began to fade.

  He listened closely, expecting the sound of men, but none came. Even so, he waited. If the soldiers had seen him, perhaps this was some game, and when he ascended from the well they would take him. He longed to leave and go back to his mother and Hal, but if they were still there it could ruin everything. They had probably told the Haelstran war party that he did not exist, and disproving them of that notion would go poorly.

  As the light faded until it no longer shone into the spring, he listened. Still he heard no sound. Rashly he ate his bread, more to pass the time than to abate any hunger, and still he heard nothing. Finally he clambered with care to the top of the well, and lifted his head to spy the surroundings.

  There were no men. The sun had sunk low, and the sky was crimson now, gleaming against the onset of night. There was orange too, but not from the sky. He cast his gaze around, until he found its source. There, at the end of the path down the hill was his home in flames.

  Unbidden a shout wrenched from his throat. He leapt from the well and ran. His yells continued until he felt his voice crack, and then it turned to strangled grasps of prayer. Heedless to any soldier he sprinted for the cottage. As he neared the burning wood, the heat challenged even his reckless haste.

  He began to circle.

  A body on the ground. He rushed to it.

  Hal lay silent and unmoving. He fell to his knees beside him.

  “Hal!” He yelled, then reached to him and shook him. After a moment of dread, he noticed the slight rise and fall of his chest. Not knowing how to help him, he stood again, and cast his eyes around for his mother. Walking further around the house, he reached the front door when he heard her call out to him. She lay still in the grass outside.

  He uttered a short cry of relief and ran to her side. When he got there, he saw her clothing far more red than it had been.

  “Mother, I—” He looked at the wounds, and felt like he stared helplessly into the charge of horses and men again. “Ma I’m here, please be alright," he grasped her hand and pulled it close, closing his eyes against the tears.

  “Tylen," she said, her voice quiet but firm.

  He glanced up, and saw it within her eyes. “No, ma you can’t…you can’t…” He shook his head violently. “We can get you a healer," he said desperately. “The Runecaster can fix this.”

  She smiled, and squeezed his hand. “Tylen," she said again, gently. Slowly, she reached up and grabbed something from around her neck.

  Tylen reached for her hand and held it immobile. “No, please, I need you," he begged, the tears flowing down his face. “I still, I still…need you to tell me how to stitch. I can get water, I can–” He choked on the words, unable to get them out.

  Her eyes looked on him in love, but a weariness bled into their light. “My child," she said, and she took the necklace from around her neck and pressed it into his hand. Then she was gone.

  Hal reached him a moment later, having crawled across the ground. He said something. Tylen heard nothing. He screamed in pain, grief and despair racking him. Nothing that Hal said did he hear, or later remember.

  The sky was red and dark as the sun at last gave control to the night, but it was no longer brilliant. The sun set in blood, and Tylen’s world ended with it.