His mother had always warned him not to go to The Woods. She told him tales of the children who never came back after the beasts chased them. Monsters came from The Woods, wicked beings that made Thom’s skin crawl at the thought.

Maybe that is where the noise is coming from, he thought as he pulled the withered rope on the well. The young boy, a ripe age of one-and-ten, grabbed the bucket that hung from it. Clear water splashed as he set it on the ground. He heard the buzzing noise again, and twisted his head in search of a fly, finding none.

He saw that no one was aware. The bakers were placing their dough on the brick oven out in the open air, and the traders sold within their noisy posts. A young woman sat on a wooden bench nursing her child, and the guards patrolled the center with spears taller than Thom himself. He was always amused by the sudden change Sundays brought. People came from nearby villages to buy goods, and it was always crowded.

The lad looked down at the bucket. The water quivered, his reflection distorted. It does come from The Woods, he thought. He looked towards the north, where the thick trees were only a blur. Before them was a clearing where some of the townsfolk kept their cattle.

He heard shouts behind the statue on the outsides of the square. He crept close to it, making sure to remain hidden behind the bushes near the statue.

“You lucky bastard,” a pot-bellied guard said to another who sat smiling wide, adding bronze coins to his pile.

“They won’t last you any.” The guard took the dice and put them in a wooden cup. He shook it violently, covering the top of the cup with his meaty hand, and let the dice roll. His pudgy lips flexed into a grin.

The lad squinted his eyes trying to see what the guard had rolled. He stood, and walked closer to get a better look. The two guards sat cross-legged on the ground, each with their pile of coins.

“Sir, can you hear that?” Thom paused, fidgeting.

The guard stared up at him, no longer smiling. He fumbled with a stunted bottle wrapped in leather, and drank a long gulp.

“I was thinking it came from---”

“Nah place fer the kiddies here,” he said as he wiped his mouth with his bulky forearm. The guard showed the few teeth that remained. He unsheathed his sword and said, “Leave.”

Thom ran as fast as his tiny feet would allow him. The bucket swung in his hands, spilling water on his clothes. He could hear the guards laughing as he left. He passed the posts and reached a stable. He ducked below a horse, keeping the bucket tight against his belly, and kept running. The stable boy caught a sight of him and cursed him loudly.

He stopped at the blacksmith’s workshop, and peeked inside his window. He loved to observe when he worked, though sometimes he caught him looking. He never said anything to him, but Thom knew it was ill-mannered. When I grow up, I want to be a blacksmith, he would sometimes tell his mother.

The blacksmith was tapering the blade, hammering it at an angle. His right arm rhythmically hit the orange-glowing steel. The blacksmith maintained his distance from the blade, Thom saw, and he knew every stroke had to be controlled.

Even from outside the window, the heat was excruciating. Thom could feel a drop of sweat rolling down his forehead. He looked at the blacksmith, whose body was covered in sweat. He set his hammer on the table next to him, and grabbed a cup of water.

The water! Mom needs it for the broth!, he remembered. He bit his lips in anger. Blood tickled his tongue, and he cursed himself for it. Thom grabbed the bucket and ran upwards towards his house.

He finally reached his home on the outskirts of town overlooking The Woods. His mother was waiting for him outside.

"Thom, where have you been, boy?"

The boy shuffled his feet and lowered his eyes.

"Go inside. Now," she said, as she motioned towards the door.

The house was humble, with a soil floor and caked-mud walls within a timber frame. In the middle of the house was a hearth with two straw beds around it. A deerskin lay on the ground and Thom picked it up and covered his tiny frame with it. The sound grew louder now. His mother barged in.

"Now you tell me why you took so long."

Thom tucked his head out of the deerskin. "Mother, that sound. Can't you hear it?" He pointed towards the window looking to the woods. "It's coming from there."

"All I hear are those damned trading posts." The woman felt for the bucket, cupped her hands in it and drunk from them. “The bucket slipped from your hands again, did it not?”

“It was that sound, it came from—”

“Now don’t you change subjects with me,” she said, grabbing the boy by his hair. He gasped, and she let him go.

Thom looked away. Head lowered, he strode to the window, an oblique hole in the mud wall, and gazed out into The Woods.

“Mother, look!” His eyes grew wide.

Minute human frames bulged out of the forest and into the clearing. They marched towards the town.

His mother stalked towards the window. She rubbed her eyes and tried to focus them.

"It’s an army."