The call of a horn splits the morning air. No birds or beasts come to answer its cry. No wind disturbs the ensuing silence. But the tranquility is shattered all the same. And none can bear to mend its pieces.

All remains still. But for the sun. Which creeps steadily up and over distant hills. Unknowing, uncaring about the fear of men. It spills its red luminescence across the sky forming a bloody pool upon the horizon. Until it finally illuminates that great blue eye of the heavens.

Somewhere within the heart of that silent village a boy rises from his sleepless sleep. With tremendously slow and precise motions he places his feet upon the floor. He sets his jaw as he stands, grinding his teeth back and forth to stop them from rattling. He rolls his quivering hand into a ball, flexing his fist to stop it from shaking. When that fails he begins to thump it against the side of his thigh. Harder and harder. Over and over. But no manner of coercion can quiet the tremor in his leg. Or dry that tearful glaze from his eyes.

He makes for the lower room. Placing one quivering foot upon the ladder rung. Then the other. Over again until the momentum of his actions make them impossible to stop and there is no way left to stall that dreaded march of fate.

He spent the night alone upon the loft. Whilst the rest of his household had kept a nervous vigil below. He heard them pacing to and fro across the floorboards. At times they whispered and at others they shouted. They formulated panicked, manic schemes, only to discard them within the next sobbing breath. But mostly they begged each other to change his mind. And they wept. Oh how they wept.

“Michael…”  His mother’s voice is weak. She rises to her feet, so do his sisters. Their eyes are tired from the long night. Their expressions are expectant. 

Or mournful. Their gazes probe into his fraying nerves. They are all staring at him. All except his grandfather. Who continues to study the table in silent melancholy.

 “…you don’t have to do this. Please… you’re not your father…” She grips onto her son’s shoulders with what strength she can muster.

“I have to. You know I do. While father is gone the duty falls to me…” Michael turns away from his mother, his conviction belied by the quiver of his voice. He tries to pull free, but her nails bite into his skin.

“Duty?” Her mouth twists around the word as though it were some sour fruit. Her expression twitches and turns, unable to settle upon disappointment, rage or profound despair. At last she releases her son, sobbing, and falls back into her seat.

At once her daughters rush to her side. Their coos are soft and indistinct. Their words are hollow promises. The spell is broken. Michael looks about the room one last time, but now none will meet his gaze. Except for the old man. Now he is looking up at him, his mouth hanging open. As though he wants to say something. But then, as if it never happened, he shuts it, and quickly looks away.

Michael closes the door behind him with utmost care. The wood shuts with a soft rush of air, sealing the wailing behind it. He turns to the path that he has laid before himself. He forces his hand to steady upon the pommel of the sword. It is strapped uncomfortably to his side. The belt is too wide for his waist, and the blade too long for his legs. 

It is not his, in truth. He is not old enough to have his own arms so he was not taken South with his father and brothers. He missed his opportunity to repel the rebels for his king. Yet, he now finds himself trussed up like a soldier all the same. Dull plates of steel set over a cobalt tunic. An old plume helm too heavy for his head. He wore them all through the night, knowing he would not have the nerve to clad them come morning. They are his grandfather’s. But long ago neglected, despite their heavy wearing. And poorly fitting upon a boy’s body. 

From atop the manor’s hill, Michael can take in the entirety of his town. Its motley assortment of ramshackle homes, hovels and huts. The great steeple at its heart, which was old when the town was young. Brick and tile beside wood and thatch. Some walls are painted while others are simply daubed with raw earth. Livestock roam from field to field. Squat, dark crops are set in lines and squares. The village had been growing all his life, as more and more pilgrims flocked to the frontier. Though this morning, he saw only a few chimneys stirring and no one tending to the fields.

Upon those dirt-packed streets, Michael is greeted by sombre, dour expressions and guilty glances. Those few that still remain are carrying bundles or packing carts. They are preparing to leave as though the matter were already settled. Staring at Michael as if he were already dead. He cannot find the words to address them. But neither can they find the words to comfort him.

“Your father-” one man started. He had been a strong and broad man once, but he withered long ago with age. He was of Michael’s grandfather’s generation, of that ilk who founded their village, “He would- He would have-”

But the old man did not know what Michael’s father ‘would have’. So, he shut his mouth and placed a heavy hand upon the lad’s shoulder. Michael nodded sagely all the same.

“You’ve got the blood of old Asthenor,” the man concluded. Though, he could not bear to look down into the boy’s eyes as he said it. Then he straightened himself. Even as shrunken as he was, he had a foot or two on Michael. He took the reins of the ox cart that his daughters had laden for him, and left without a backwards glance at his home.

Beyond the last huts, halfway across the fields, beside the forest’s edge, the barbarians wait. They stand in a half circle. Still and silent at Michael’s approach. Watching patiently. Not a quiver to their stance.

These are Drogons. Savage northern men. Tall and ugly.  With brooding brows and dour expressions. They keep their grey and gold locks long and shaggy. Their beards are tied into braids. They carry weapons but no armour. Wearing only crudely stitched furs over ragged clothing.

“Are you their chief?”  The eldest of the group steps forwards, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables. He thrusts his wiry arm towards the town. Michael cannot help but gawk.  The savage’s face is a mess of ragged scars. His left eye is a ruined socket. His ivory hair is knotted and unkempt.

Michael opens his mouth, but no words come. So instead, he nods dumbly. The old man’s brow furrows. The men behind him mutter in their crude, barking tongue.

“I am sorry boy, this was not your fight,” he steps onto the ox-hide between them, “I, Harold, last of the Skelding clan, challenge you to the rulership of these lands. Do you accept?”

“Barbaric custom,” Michael mutters, forgetting himself.

“No? Should my men test your townsmen instead?”

Michael looks around confused, forgetting who he is, what he is doing – but then, it all comes back to him in a nauseating wave. 

“N-no!” he stutters, “I-I accept.”

Michael then draws the sword at his side. No matter of clenching or thumping can prevent his hand from shaking this time. The blade feels too heavy in his grip. His wrist burns and his fingers ache. He places his second hand around the first, just to keep the steel upright.

In response, Harold draws the wicked axe from his side. The head is wrought of black-iron and the handle is as tall as Michael. The old man adopts a bowed stance, taking the shaft in two hands. But his aged frame clearly strains with the effort. 

The two of them circle each other for a few long moments. A withered old man faces off against a frightened boy. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, Harold closes the distance. He swipes his weapon back and forth lazily, clumsily, but with a strength that betrays his age. Michael is forced backwards, holding up his sword meekly, barely keeping out of his opponent’s reach. 

Then with one wild swing, there is a clash of steel and Michael’s blade goes spinning onto the grass. Terrified, he turns and tries to run, but trips and falls in his haste. Michael crawls across the ground as the old man’s shadow stretches over him. He sees the phantom of the axe as it is raised high above his head…

A sword blade erupted out the back of the soldier’s armour. His eyes were wide with surprise and horror in the moments before he died. His mouth worked its way around one final curse but the wind would not come. Then all at once his limbs gave way. His blade fell from his hand. His legs collapsed beneath him, and he fell to the ground with a clatter and a thump. 

His killer, the village’s champion, spun around slowly. His fur cape billowed out behind him as he thrust his meaty fists into the air. His people, a baying crowd of men, women and children all hollered his name. It was a curse to all invaders.

Harold, who at this time was no more than a child, looked solemnly on from the edge of the ox hide. His father, champion and chief, had bid him watch that duel. He wanted his son to glean some lesson from the man’s death. But Harold had shrieked when the soldier collapsed. He shrank back from the encroaching puddle of blood. And he learnt only the smell of the freshly dead. He did not understand why his village was cheering. Enemy or not, was a man’s death something to celebrate?

The men opposite were certainly not cheering. They had come clad in all their arms and armour, a self assured block of silver and blue. They spoke about some faraway king who had evidently taken offense at something or another they have done. For he now demanded fielty and tribute from them. But as the soldier’s champion lay dead upon the hide, all their authority seemed to leave them. They stood in a confused clump, shuffling from foot to foot, unsure and uncomfortable.

“Well then captain, it looks like you won’t be building your manor after all, eh?” 

The champion turned to the soldiers, laughing, “Chief to chief you promised me that you’d honour this challenge, so you and your men can go and piss off back South.”

The young captain, marked out from the wall of foreigners by the tall plume atop his helmet, scowled at the village contemptuously. He took in their thatch and wood as though it were the very stinking refuse of barbarity. He sniffed at their steeple, wrinkling his nose as though he could smell its obscenity. Until finally his covetous gaze fell upon their sacred hillock. Where he had already laid out his plans to defile their standing stones and construct for himself an outpost. 

The captain mounted his horse in one smooth motion saying not another word to the village folk. He then addressed his men in that gibbering tongue of theirs and they all fell into a reverent silence.

“Son,” the chief knelt down so that he could look Harold in the eye, “Do you see how a Skelding chief protects his people? Do you understand why it was my duty to kill that man?”

“No,” Harold squeaked, recoiling as his father placed a bloody hand upon his shoulder.

“From that man’s death I have purchased the life of all the others. I took the risk upon myself, so that I might protect my people and his. Who otherwise would have all bled and fought and died to achieve the same outcome,” Harold’s father then winked at him, “But of course it was no real risk. No Skelding will ever be killed by a pack of lanky, little, sickly-looking Southern-”

The boy then found himself staring at the tip of a steel bolt, which had begun rather suddenly to protrude from his father’s forehead. He did not understand what was happening until he was pinned beneath the man’s falling body. The tip of the missile biting into his eye.

Looking around wildly, he beheld the treachery. The soldiers had formed up behind tall shields, their second rank aiming mechanical bows. A cacophony of metallic clattering heralded the next volley. Each steel bolt found its mark within the mob. The cheering had turned to screaming. The villagers scrambled to fetch weapons or else reach the safety of their huts.

“Harold!” A rough hand dragged the boy out from beneath his father. He looked up fearfully into his brother’s eyes, horrified to realise he could only open one of his own, “Go! Get out of here!”

Harold was then shoved bodily backwards as his brother charged towards the soldiers. He saw that a scattered resistance had formed up around him. But they wielded as many pitchforks as axes. Wore as much cloth as hide. Harold tried to pick up a weapon of his own. But an older man wrenched it from his hand and told him to run. Then he heard more clattering. He heard more dying. Men wheezed out their final breaths through pierced lungs.

Harold was unable to bring himself to look back. So instead, he disappeared into the fleeing throng. He was one of a terrified mass. But it was scattered the moment the soldiers were loosed from their shield wall. They came upon their prey with steel claws bared. By dispersion and bloodshed, Harold found himself alone. The soldiers were hunting down survivors. Knocking down doors and setting fires. Dragging women from their homes and slicing open their bellies.

Harold scrambled on hands and knees through the village, guided by that great steeple which seemed to loom dispassionately over the chaos. Once he reached the base of it, he threw himself upon the moss slick stone where he remained mercifully unnoticed as he inched his way around to the other side. All the while too terrified to look over his shoulder, but somehow reassured by the enormity of the structure above him. Until finally, he saw across the laneway that separated him from his home, built at the base of that sacred hill. 

The door had been opened. It waved listlessly in the breeze. In the distance, his neighbors burned. There was blood upon the dirt. Though he saw no soldiers on the street. So he made a dash for the opening. He had barely gotten halfway before he heard footfalls chasing after him. He bolted through the entrance and searched frenziedly for something, anything. Eventually, he wrapped his hands around a heavy lumber axe. 

Then the door slammed shut behind him. Harold spun to confront the intruder. He tried his hardest to look fierce with bloody tears flowing down his cheeks. But instead of a hardened killer, he saw his older sister. She was barring the door.

“Gitte!” A wave of relief hit Harold. But when she turned towards him, hers was a look of horror. She lunged at Harold and quickly snatched the axe out of his hands.

“Find somewhere to hide, quick!”

“Give me that! I have to fight!” Harold reached impotently for the weapon. Then she slapped him. Hard. As if he was fully grown. Harold found himself reeling on the ground. There was a stinging sensation coursing through his cheek.

Bang! Someone was trying to knock down the door. 

“You think you’re tough, Harold? So did father, so did brother, so did that soldier in the challenge. Where did being tough get them?”

Bang! The door started to splinter.

“No time…” Gitte cursed under her breath. She took the axe in both hands and hacked at the rough-hewn back wall of their home, pushing out a small hole.

Bang! Light was now fluttering in through the door.

Gitte took Harold by the shoulders. 

“You run Harold, and you never look back. You run as far north as you can, and you leave fighting to those with less sense.”

Crash! The door, hinge and frame all fell inwards.

“Run!” Gitte turned to face the intruders as they clambered over the rubble. Two men, large and armoured, dwarfed the girl before them. 

Harold scrambled through the hole, oblivious to the world around him.

Run!

Harold ran until his lungs burned and he was pulling in air with ragged gasps. 

Run!

Harold ran until he reached the forest, until it was dark and he was utterly alone.

Run!

Harold ran until the seasons turned and snow began to fall. Until he reached the frigid North where the world was cold and quiet. Harold ran until he was an old man, scarred and withered.

But no matter how far he ran, Harold could not help but look back. He looked back every day for fifty long years, his will growing wearier and wearier, until he finally found that he was too old to run.