As shocking as that day had been, things in Ermont began to slowly ooze back into normalcy, like honey finding its old level after the jar had been tipped about.The townsfolk did tiptoe around the warriors. There were a dozen of them in total, all hard men, scarred up and proudly displaying the start of their Legends. Most of them had the air that men often get when given a little bit of power, prideful and malicious in equal measure. They wore contemptuous sneers on their face so consistently Alef was beginning to think it must be part of their uniform, same as the armor.

  While the warriors obviously took pleasure in smushing down the townsfolk underneath their grimy thumbs, people weren’t half as scared of them as they were around that half-giant, Brok. Garban had told Alef once that people can get used to just about anything, and that seemed to be the case with Brok’s stooges. You knew what to expect from them, petty meanness dolled out in every interaction simply because they could. In contrast, Brok was as unpredictable as a storm.

  The chief of the new occupying force spent most of his time cooped up in the barracks outside of town that had stood empty for years. However, when he did come into town, he prowled the streets, like he was searching for prey. The warriors of his crew and the townspeople all held their breaths when he walked by. Most times he was civil, and sometimes even paid for his meals. Other times something seemingly random would rub him the wrong way and he would fly into a rage. So far none of the townsfolk had caught a beating from him like the one he gave Gunar, mainly because they cowered and begged forgiveness at the first sign of his temper fraying. However, word was that he had split the counter at the butcher’s shop in two one swing of his sword because the owner had forgotten to address him as ‘sir.’ He didn’t even need to put the boot to any of the villagers too harshly to make them want to fall into line. Even when he was calm and unprovoked, Brok seemed like he was teetering on the edge of violent fury. It was like he had a roiling, boiling pot of hate stored up in him and anything might make it bubble over and spill out onto anyone near him. Or even more aptly, he was on a desperate hunt for a suitable person for him to empty his steaming kettle of vitriol onto.

  Most had taken to calling him ‘The Hound.’ Apparently it was his title, which explained the tattoo on the side of his head. When Alef was in his lessons the scribe had explained to him that when a warrior had built up a reputation for himself he was often given a title by his chief, or sometimes King Alrik himself. Often a tattoo was added to the warrior’s Legend representing the title, called a naming mark.

  The whispers around the town was that Brok had earned the name by being unerringly loyal to Alrik and a right ferocious bastard. Alef had also heard that the tattoo was actually a portrait of his mother, or sister, or wife. He’d only really heard that from Fergus, who had certainly not settled his way back to normal after getting so worked up that day. So he should probably take that report with at least a grain of salt.

  Garban’s own close shave with Gunar had made him even more cautious than usual. He seemed nervous and jittery, nothing like the quiet, unchanging calm he typically projected. He told Alef that he was afraid that Gunar would blame him for the incident, and that men like Gunar held grudges tighter than most held their wives. He kept Alef from going into town for a week or so, but he eventually relented. The Fall harvest had been brought in, which meant the town would take the day off work, and even Garban wouldn’t keep him cooped up when the whole town was out enjoying themselves.

  Alef had a hard time keeping himself from running the whole way from their cottage into Ermont as he crunched through the fallen leaves that formed a crisp carpet along the path to the village. He was borderline giddy with excitement, but showing up to the village panting and sweaty wouldn’t do him any favors. He loved Pa, but being stuck with only him for company made him crave being able to venture out on his own.

  His first stop was to see the village scribe, Furla. Typically at this time she would be teaching the young ones, one of a scribe’s many responsibilities. However, she would have the day off from her duties like everyone else, so Alef stopped by her cottage. It sat in a small clearing in the shade of an ancient old willow tree. It was a small, squat house on the outskirts of town that didn’t indicate the person inside was anyone of importance. However, if you looked closely you could tell that whoever lived inside had people paying them favors on a pretty frequent basis.

  Furla’s cottage was well maintained. The thatched roof was without gaps or holes, the deep green paint on her door showed no sign of weathering or chipping, and the path up to it had been meticulously leveled and the underbrush cut back from it on either side. Alef knew for a fact that Furla wasn’t doing that herself, so it must be the townsfolk. It was helpful to be in the good graces of your town’s Scribe.

  With Furla’s cottage in sight, Alef couldn’t contain his excitement anymore, and he bounded up the path and pounded on her door.

  “I’m coming!” came a creaking, angry voice from inside. After a few long seconds the door opened a crack and one of Furla’s big, green, rheumy eyes peered out at him. After she recognized who her visitor was she swung the door open to greet him. “You would bother me on my day off, would you?” She grated as she glowered up at Alef.

  Alef wasn’t particularly big for his age, but he towered over Furla. She was probably never a large woman, but age and hard living had seemed to shrink and hunch her, as if she were a grape that had been slowly dried into a raisin in the baking sun. Furla was by far the oldest person in the village. Her long hair seemed to have even abandoned being grey and had become a pure ivory white. She kept it in a long braid that drooped over her shoulder, but she had left out so many loose hairs that it seemed she had a silvery corona floating about her head.

  Alef met the old Scribe’s glare with a grin. “Hello grandmother.” Alef said, knowing the endearing honorific would help placate the old woman. “It has been a while since I have been able to visit. How are you?”

  Furla’s grimace began to twitch upwards at the edges, and the deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes puckered as she fought back a smile. “I’m grouchy as the winter.” She barked, but there was no venom in it. “As you know well. I’m waiting for the Spring to call my spirit home, but it has not yet seen fit to do so. So I am stuck here, dealing with pests and an aching back.”

  Alef wasn’t sure how old she was exactly, but he had heard that when people had first arrived here to build Ermont, they had found Furla sitting in a clearing as if she had been waiting impatiently for them to get there. Although, he had heard that from Fergus, who was known to embellish. However, what Alef did believe for certain was that it was Furla’s exposure to Spring water that had kept her alive for so long.

  Veteran Scribes were often entrusted with a small flask of Spring water to administer to people in their care who were badly injured, or in emergency if the town ever needed defending. People said being around Spring water, teeming with the power of the Old, made you strong. It didn’t seem to have done that to Furla, but it did seem to have kept her alive.

  “Well,” Alef plowed through her grumpy remarks unphased, “what do you plan to do with your rare day off? Do you need any help around the house?”

  “I have business in town today. If you want to be helpful you can carry my things on the way there.”

  “I would be honored.” Alef said with a small bow.

  Furla turned and waddled back into her cottage and emerged a minute later with a leather case in one hand and her gnarled walking stick in the other. She handed Alef the case and grabbed hold of his arm to steady herself as they began their walk towards the village.

  “It must be more than just errands, dressed as you are.” Alef said as they walked. He had spied that Furla wore her woven circlet of willow, a symbol of her station that served the dual purpose of flattening down her tangle of fly-away hairs.

  Furla noticed him looking at the circlet and answered “Ah yes, I’ve been called upon in my official capacity. I’m surprised you hadn’t heard, actually. I’m beginning the Legend of young Erik.” She nodded to the case that Alef was carrying. “That’s what I need my tools for.”

  Alef tried to keep his face impassive, but his eyes widened. He was carrying her tools? He stared down at the case in his hands. Her needles and ink, the things she used to create Legends, here in his hands.

  “Don’t let it go to your head.” Furla grunted as she read his expression. “I would have asked anyone to carry it, as long as they agreed to let me lean on them.”

  Despite what Furla said, he felt his chest swell with pride that he had been entrusted to carry them, but another feeling wormed its way in as well: envy. He wanted to have his own Legend crafted so badly that to hear someone else was starting theirs made his chest ache.

  “What did Erik do to earn the start of his Legend?” Alef asked, trying to keep the ugly feeling from showing in his voice.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Well as I’m sure you know, Erik has been apprenticing under Rolf, the huntsman.”

  Alef did know that. He didn’t know Erik well, he kept to himself and was several years Alef’s senior, so they didn’t interact much. He seemed like a good enough lad, but that didn’t stop Alef from resenting him in this moment.

  “Not sure how he is as a huntsman,” Furla continued on, jarring Alef loose from his thoughts, “but apparently the last hunt he and Rolf went on they journeyed far away from the village and Rolf was attacked by one of the mistdwellers. Might have killed him but Erik speared it.”

  Alef couldn’t help but be impressed, but he still felt the envy simmering away in his belly. “I’m surprised,” he said, after a pause. “Last I saw Erik, he was built like a sapling. Didn’t take him for the monster slaying type.”

  “He may have a Legend after today, but he’ll never have shoulders like your father. That much is for sure. However, don’t be ugly just because you’re feeling jealous. Your time will come.”

  Alef felt the heat of his envy be put out entirely by the ice cold splash of his embarrassment. Furla always could read him like a book. He blushed and hung his head as they walked on.

  Furla gave Alef a few moments to sit with the reprimand, the only sound her slightly raspy breathing and the soft crunch of the leaves underneath their feet. After she judged she had let him stew for long enough she gave his arm an affectionate squeeze and continued on as if nothing had happened.

  “I heard your father and Fergus almost got themselves killed by our new protectors. Were you there?”

  Alef told her about what had happened, and Furla gave him her full rapt attention, although he was certain she had already heard every detail a hundred times from a dozen different people. Furla didn’t venture out from her cottage often, but she still stayed more informed on the goings on of Ermont than most people who actually lived in the village.

  They chatted idly about the news of the village as they walked. The chill Autumn breeze whispered through the woods with them, as if it wanted to join in on the gossip. As they passed the first few houses of the village there was a slight lull in their conversation. Furla peered up at him past a slyly raised eyebrow and said “Keeping me company can’t have been your only goal for the day. Are you still chasing after Liv?”

  She asked it quietly, conspiratorially, her voice little above a whisper but Alef had to fight the urge to clap his hand over her mouth. He felt his face flush bright red and he cast about, desperately trying to make sure no one would have been close enough to have heard her. The path was empty, with everyone else enjoying the festivities nearer the village center, but Alef’s heart still leapt to a panicked pounding with embarrassment.

  When Furla saw the flush of his cheeks she pressed on like a ravenous wolf smelling blood. “No need to be shy,” she said “Liv’s a nice girl. Pretty too. I’d get to making your intentions known fairly soon. I’m sure there are other boys sweet on her too.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Alef said in a tone that couldn’t have convinced anyone.

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  They walked the rest of the short distance to the center of town without saying anything. Although Furla broke the silence periodically by breaking out into a giggling fit that did not befit her age or station whenever she looked up and caught sight of Alef’s still-burning cheeks.

  There was a small elevated dais in the town square for announcements to be made from, and for special occasions such as this. Alef walked Furla to it and helped her up the few stairs. She settled onto a stool that had been left here for her and took her case from him and opened it up. The ceremonial bone needles gleamed alongside a small clay pot Alef knew was full of ink made of willow ash. Alef felt a strong sense of jealousy and desire flare to life in his chest again, but he did his best to stifle it. Today was Erik’s day, but he’d have his own someday.

  “I have a few things to ready, so you can run along. I’m sure an announcement will be made before the ceremony starts.” Furla busied herself with checking her ink and sharpening her needles. She peered behind Alef and whispered to him “Besides, I’m sure you’ll be wanting to go say hello.”

  Alef spun around, all hopes of seeming nonchalant lost, and there she was. Liv el Gregor. She was standing on the far side of the square. She was talking with Niall, the blacksmith’s apprentice. He was a few years Alef’s senior and had the first attempt at a beard of dark whiskers growing on his chin. He had broad shoulders and thick arms that had been strengthened by long days in the forge. Alef had always liked him well enough, thinking him honest and hardworking, if a tad simple. However, Alef couldn’t help but hate him a bit now.

  The sun glinted off Liv’s auburn hair as she tipped her head back, laughing at something Niall had said. At the sight of her Alef’s heart began to hammer like a battering ram at the inside of his ribs and it felt as though his guts had dropped out onto the ground knowing that someone else was making her smile.

  Furla had been right, the other village lads were after her. Why wouldn’t they be? She was amazing. He’d probably lost his chance already. Despair threatened to steal away his bones and leave him a curdled puddle of gloom.

  What could he do? Run screaming home and never leave again? Tell Niall to piss off, or to go make love to his anvil? He would surely take a beating if he tried that approach. He would have gladly taken a beating, gone skipping to it with open arms, if he thought that meant Liv might fall for him. But he knew getting his face rearranged in front of her wasn’t likely to win her heart.

  Alef was temporarily pulled from his churning sea of thoughts when he felt a gentle shove on his back. He turned to see it was Furla, stood up from her stool and gently pushing him towards the edge of the dais with a wrinkled hand. “Just go talk with her. You’re a sweet lad. She’s bound to see that.” Furla whispered to him as she continued shepherding him in Liv’s direction. “Besides,” she continued “I think people are starting to be concerned that you are standing up here staring, horrified into the distance with your jaw on the floor.”

  As Alef turned back towards the milling crowd in the town square he did see that a few of them had begun to look at him quizzically, as he stood like a statue in the center of the small platform. He snapped his mouth shut, gave Furla a small, sheepish smile, and hopped off the edge of the dais.

  Walking across the town square Alef turned over what he would say to Liv. ‘Hello’ seemed like a good place to start, but after that he couldn’t come up with much. He’d have to start with that and improvise from there. Historically that hadn’t gone great for him, but he couldn’t come up with any better plans.

  He could see Liv now. She was still giggling at whatever Niall had said and Alef felt his heart start to pump even faster, the beats almost melding together into one constant thrum in his chest.

  She was beautiful. She worked as a farmhand for her father Gregor, and her long hours working the fields for harvest had tanned her skin to the color of ripe wheat. Her long auburn hair had sun bleached streaks in it that reminded Alef of the sunrise. She wore it down for the harvest day festivities and the way it swished as she moved threatened to mesmerize Alef.

  “Why hello, Ale.”

  Alef shook himself. By the Spring and Widows! Liv was talking to him. How long had he been standing there staring? Panic rose in him like a flash flood. What had he planned to say to her? Over her shoulder Niall was giving him an amused look, as if he could tell Alef was already floundering.

  Wait! He had planned for this. He knew what to say.

  “...Hello Liv. Niall.” Alef managed to get the words out while keeping his voice from cracking. He smiled at Liv and gave his best manly nod of acknowledgement to the older boy.

  “I haven’t seen you in the village in a while. Where have you been?” Liv asked, her bright green eyes showing a touch of concern that made Alef weak at the knees.

  “My pa’s been a little nervous ever since the Hound and his men rolled into town. He’s kept me cooped up for a spell.” Alef answered. He felt a tad embarrassed about how protective his father was at times, but he felt it was best to be honest.

  “My pa has been worrying away about the warriors too. I think they’re getting carried away a bit, but I can’t blame them for looking after us. I’m glad you could make it though.” She smiled at Alef, and he felt that nothing in the world could feel as fine.

  He and Liv were of a similar age, and so they had been given lessons by Furla at the same time. Liv had always been kind to him, even though he knew he was a bit odd. She made him feel like he belonged. And even though he felt scared to death whenever he met her emerald eyes, talking to her felt natural. She seemed to always know what to say, and he never did. He thought that made them balance each other out well, like if a swift runner gave a hand to a man with a limp, helping them both move along at a more natural pace.

  “I think your pa’s are right to be concerned.” Niall chimed in, while keeping his voice low. He cast a glance over both shoulders to make sure no one was listening in and then continued, saying “I heard the Hound cut the butcher’s hand off, just for glancing at him.”

  “I heard that he split his counter in twain, but I heard naught about his hand.” Alef responded, incredulously.

  “Well it’s true!” The older boy said forcefully.

  “No it ain’t. Art’s right there, hands intact.” Liv was pointing at the butcher, a short portly, ruddy faced man who was standing in the crowd gathering around the dais. He did indeed have both hands.

  Liv smirked at Niall and said “I wouldn’t listen to everyone who stops by the forge. If you could eat gossip this town would never need another harvest.”

  Niall’s face flushed with embarrassment but he didn’t back down. “The Hound probably gave him a sip from his flask to stick his hand back on. That way the town won’t go into a full revolt. Which if you ask me we should.”

  Liv only raised her eyebrow at that and scoffed, which only further egged on Niall.

  “These strangers have just showed up and taken over our town!” Niall’s voice rose a bit above a whisper. Alef could tell that he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of Liv, even if he was doing it to himself. “And we let them. No one stands up to them. We roll over and lick their boots like we’re dogs.”

  “I’m not saying it’s right what they’re doing, Niall. Just that some of the reports of their behavior may be a little overblown.” Liv said gently, holding up her palms calmingly. “Now, it looks like Erik’s climbing up on the stage. Let’s go see if we can find a good place to watch before it gets too crowded. Hopefully that’ll also stop you from yelling about things that’ll likely get your head caved in, Niall.”

  As she turned and walked away, Niall flashed a scowl at Alef, but Alef chose to ignore it and hurry after Liv.