Arion put the last of his strength into bringing his sword down on his enemy, seeking the thin gap in armor near the neckline. His blade stuck in flesh with a satisfying wet, sucking sound; but he had no energy to jump clear of the opposing warrior’s dying effort to cut his legs from beneath him. Steel bit into his upper thigh, and Arion’s knees buckled at the impact.

He fell onto his side—dark circles loomed ever closer on the rim of his vision, the smoke-filled sky spinning above him.

He’d never felt so exhausted. He pulled at the collar of his breastplate, vainly attempting to ease its weight upon his heaving chest. His mind clouded, and darkness drew so close, it nearly swallowed him.

An eternity passed before the oppressive heat pressing down on him eased, washed away by the swift northern wind. He began to catch his breath, the dark circles around his vision slowly faded away.

When the world started to come back into focus, he sat up, propping his weight on one elbow for a look around.

Smoke rose from the battlefield, blurring the horizon.

The stink of death nearly made him sick. Luckily, his stomach had no contents to lose.

“On your feet, child. You may not rest while your charge goes unprotected.”

“Yes, Brother Hagan,” he whispered to the memory of his old teacher.

The armor made to protect him slowed his efforts to stand. He’d been a boy the last time the extra weight bothered him.

Perhaps he’d been a boy when he first came to war.

Strange how he no longer thought of himself that way.

---

It took hours to clean up the last of the enemy warriors, and secure those taken prisoner during the battle. Arion lost blood, even through a thatch of cloth he’d tied about his leg. When his commander released him from duty for the evening, he returned to his tent, not allowing himself to limp in front of the noble-born knights standing around the campsite, waiting for their dinners. Some of them weren’t much older than eighteen, hardly old enough to have their shields. In spite of their time at war, they still acted like noble brats. Rion avoided them when he could, and held his tongue when he couldn’t. His only saving grace was his confidence in his own skill. He would be champion of their fighting games, if they allowed him participate.

He threw back the flap on his tent, entering the dark sauna he used as a living space. Privacy came at a heavy price in the army. A tent of his own, even one so small and miserable, was a gift—the last he’d received from the master he’d served.

Once inside, he had to bend to keep his head from striking the canvas ceiling. After ridding his swollen fingers of his gauntlets, he fumbled with the straps on his armor, letting each individual piece drop to the floor before he collapsed on his sleeping pad in sweat-soaked underclothes.

Never before in his life had he so abused his equipment, and thus disgraced those who taught him to care for the tools of war entrusted to him; but the instant his head came to rest on his mat he lost himself in darkness. His armor would have to wait until he gained the strength to clean and wrap it.

Until then he would dream of the northern mountains, and the thick forests beyond. He would dream of a palace on a hill, above a great city. He would dream of the family he’d had, though he would not remember it in the morning. Finally, he would dream of a young man, maybe a few years his senior, standing in the middle of a brilliantly colored meadow with the castle in the background. The man would turn to face him, bringing his sword to the ready in a single fluid motion.

He would smile slowly, and speak with soft confidence, “Welcome home, brother. We have much catching up to do, you and I.”