by Alex Aguilar
That was, of course, until there was.
The sound of leather boots spattering along the muddy trail, still damp after the rainstorm, began to wake the sleeping cattle as two young children no older than 12 ran through the village heading south. Despite the cold breeze, sweat was dripping down both their faces, stinging their nervous little eyes. Young Margot was leading the way, her twin brother Melvyn a few steps behind her, panting heavily as they made way for their mother’s farm.
While key to the wealth of Val Havyn, the farmlands of Elbon and the many peasants and farmers that it was home to were rather deprived when compared to the grandiosity and elegance of the royal city. There was more wealth and capital to be gained and more people of nobility in the city, while the townsfolk of Elbon dressed in whatever rags and leathers their humble professions could acquire them.
Perhaps the major difference was the architecture of the city. The sheds and cottages in Elbon, most of which were made of wood, had been hand-built by some ancestor not many generations back and were no match for the graceful structures found in Val Havyn, where almost every dwelling was made of the finest stone and wood, painted white, with rooves made of thick auburn brick.
Val Havyn was the capitol city of Vallenghard and home to his majesty, King Rowan. Every other city and village in the kingdom was governed by a Lord of high nobility, entrusted personally by the king himself. There was already life in the royal city on this particular morning, as the seventh day was the busiest in the marketplace. Merchants from every village and keep nearby were already approaching the city gates for their weekly routine, unaware of the activity that was taking place just two miles south.
The young twins reached the first set of cottages. Young Margot was glancing back every other second and still she outran her brother by several yards. For one unfortunate moment, the boy overestimated himself and took the wrong step, where he lost his balance and stumbled into the damp soil. Margot ran back, grabbed hold of the boy’s sweaty hand, and pulled him up.
“Come on!” she said, careful not to shout.
In the distance, they could see the two horses galloping after them. The twins spared not one second. They ran quicker, unaware that they were even capable of it, until reaching the wall of a wooden cottage where there lived a one-eyed woman that had grown deaf over the years.
“Climb! Now!” Margot lent her brother a hand. The boy hopped onto a barrel of foul-smelling water and climbed to the roof. Now, young Melvyn was not as fast a runner as his sister was, but he certainly did excel in climbing. He reached his hand out and pulled his sister up, as the two horses trotted into the village; their riders were two men dressed in rags and leathers.
“Where’d they go?!” the larger man asked his long-haired, bearded companion.
“You lost ‘em?!” his companion shouted.
“Me? You were the one who spotted them!”
“Yes, but you were ahead o’ me!”
The twins lay on the roof, trembling and sweating with exhaustion, as the two riders came to a halt just underneath the cottage.
“They can’t have gone far!” the larger man said.
“Well come on, let’s get this over with!” his companion replied, turning his horse and riding in a slightly different direction. The larger man followed, much to his disdain, and kept his eyes wide, inspecting every cottage and shrub around him for any sign of movement.
The twins took a moment to catch their breath, looking up at the clear gray morning sky. Margot turned to her brother, wiping her untidy black hair out of her face.
“How far d’you suppose we are?” she asked.
Melvyn gazed into the distance. He could see their mother’s farm as clear as day.
“A half-mile?” he guessed.
She nodded. Once they were breathing normally again, the twins gripped each other’s sweaty hands once more, both trembling from the adrenaline still pumping through their veins.
“All right,” the girl sighed anxiously. “Let’s go!”
The largest farm in Elbon was in the southern outskirts, surrounded by steep green hills and only a half-mile from Lotus Creek. It was great in size, though not necessarily in luxury or wealth. Crops grew in vast portions, which resulted in a great amount of work, too much for the humble family that owned and tended the land.
And so, the young farmer made way for the barn on this seventh day, ready for yet another hard day’s labor. There were no grievances, no complaints, nor even a grumble.
A blessing from the gods, his mother would say when the fields were kind to them. Leaving the harvest in the ground for the rodents would be most ungrateful.
The breeze in the air was warming up.
The birds were chirping their spring morning melodies.
The sheep had awakened for their morning meal and their keeper was gathering his gear in the stables. The smell of fresh horse feces inside the stables was enough to repulse anyone, but the young keeper had grown used to it. He was the first to wake in the brink of dawn and often the last to leave the fields at the end of a long day, the eldest son of the woman that owned the farm.
His name was John Huxley.
And, truth be told, he was not very special. He only believed that he was, which was far more dangerous. While he was loved by many and hated by few, the lad would often find danger as if he had a knack for it. At just 23 years of age, he had attained a good many wounds and scars, and still it seemed as if the lad was eager for the next one.
Every scar tells a story, Old Man Beckwit, his mentor, would often say. But you, you dumb bastard, are turning into an old book that no one cares to read anymore.
But there was no stopping John Huxley, for the young sheep farmer had an inconceivable spirit unlike any farmer in Elbon; he only lacked the guidance. His father used to say that John had his mother’s heart, and that was most certainly true. But he also had his father’s grit, and this made the lad dangerous.
To this day, in fact, many believe him to be the cause for all the chaos… He was, after all, the reckless bastard that crossed blades with the notorious thief Hudson Blackwood, something that not many men would have the guts to do.
But John Huxley did it… He drew his sword when nobody else would.
It was because of him that the infamous thief was captured to begin with, which in turn led to the disbarment of a well-regarded knight, which in turn led to a legendary voyage that would in turn lead to a great battle. And that very battle was only the beginning of a much greater story, one that would change the course of the world, as we knew it.
In the humble days, however, John lived a simple life, only ever dreaming of someday leaving Elbon for more adventurous endeavors. Every day, he’d wake up early to feed the sheep, milk the cows, collect the eggs, and water the herb garden for his mother. Then came the long hours under the sun, picking corn from the fields.
He was in the barn that morning, hoisting a heavy leather sack of farming equipment over his shoulder, when he was suddenly startled by the rickety wooden door. Two children ran inside, a boy and a girl, both covered in dirt and sweat. They struggled to catch their breath, as the girl shut the door immediately behind her.
“Help us!” the boy said agitatedly.
And not a second later, they heard the horse hooves just outside the walls of the barn. The horses bellowed as the riders came to a halt right at the doors, their boots casting shadows beneath the doorframe as they dismounted.
Margot and Melvyn hid behind the young farmer, who remained puzzled yet vigilant. Thick whispers outside argued over who should attempt to go in first. And it was at that moment that John understood what was happening. He removed the leather bag from his shoulders and set it down at his feet, as the barn doors began to rattle. He felt young Margot’s hand gripping his sleeve; she was shaking and her breathing had quickened once again.
“They found us,” she said.
Suddenly, the doors were kicked open and two men stepped into the barn, bot
h with blades strapped to their belts but neither one reaching for it just yet. They walked heedlessly about, each in the other direction so that the young farmer wouldn’t know where to turn. The larger man chuckled, revealing his relatively clean but uneven teeth.
“We’ve no business with you, farmer,” said the smaller, bearded man. “We’re just here for them children.”
John Huxley said nothing, only grinned at their self-assurance, silently accepting the challenge. He tilted his head slightly to the left, speaking to the young girl but keeping his eyes locked on the two men. “Back door,” he mumbled at her. “I’ll handle these two.”
The twins stepped back, leaving John to confront the men alone.
But the bearded one sighed and turned to his companion.
“Fetch them, will ya, Henrik?”
Henrik took slow, heavy steps towards the children, his thick arms swinging at his sides, causing him to appear more intimidating. But before the large man could reach them, there was the sound of hissing metal, followed by Margot gasping with surprise. John Huxley had reached into his bag and was now holding a rusty blade up at Henrik, who stopped in his tracks.
“Larz?” the husky man craned his neck towards his companion.
The bearded man smirked and took careful steps towards the farmer, unsheathing his own blade, which was sharper and more burnished. “You sure you want to do this, lad?”
John said nothing still, only kept his feet planted firmly, smirking at the two men as if he simply couldn’t wait to swing his blade.
Henrik took back a few of his steps and unsheathed his own blade, standing on the other side of the farmer, closing in on him. “Think you can handle two blades at once?” he snickered.
And this time John couldn’t help himself. “Try me,” he said, giving his neck a good crack.
Larz attacked first, his black hair swaying in the air with every swing. Henrik gave them a few moments, looking for an opportunity to run towards the children; when he tried, however, John darted ahead, rolled on the dirt, and blocked his way.
The twins scattered towards the rear of the barn, heading towards a pair of doors next to a stall where a scrawny mule drooled over a bucket of water. Melvyn tried to kick them open but they wouldn’t budge. When they glanced back, they saw their pursuers locked in combat with the farmer. A small cloud of dust had gathered inside the barn, as John Huxley dodged and blocked every single attack. Larz and Henrik made brief eye contact, both out of breath and with the same stunned expression in their faces.
“The key! Where’s the key?!” Margot yelled.
John dodged a powerful strike from Henrik and stumbled about as he reached into his pocket and threw a small key made of copper at the twins. Margot caught it and opened the door, pushing her brother out first. The brief distraction was enough for Larz to land a small cut on John’s left arm. They stopped for a moment.
John examined it… A flesh wound, but the sting of it made his skin throb all the same. He looked up at Larz, whose smirk then turned into a nervous scowl.
“Oh shit,” Larz said.
Margot and Melvyn were outside for 5 seconds at most, before the backdoor of the barn nearly breaking off its rusty hinges. Larz stumbled out and fell onto the mud, groaning in pain, his sword now out of his reach. The twins stared in disbelief, as the sound of metal clashing against metal grew nearer.
John stepped out of the barn first, taking careful backwards steps as Henrik attacked him ferociously. But the farmer did not look tired at all. He didn’t even need to look at his sword, his eyes concentrated on his opponent, as if he could read his every move through a stare. Larz struggled to his knees, a hand pressed against the back of his waist as if keeping his spine in place. He reached for his blade a fraction of a second too late. A small pair of hands picked it up.
Larz found himself looking up at the eyes of young Margot, who was holding the thin sword up at the man’s chin. She struggled to grip the heavy wooden handle, but there was a determination in her eyes that amazed the man.
“Certain death,” she said, her brother standing at her side with a less convincing glare. John Huxley managed to disarm Henrik and did the same with his blade as Margot was doing to Larz. The farmer and the girl made brief eye contact and smiled. The two men were exposed and defenseless. It was over.
That was until John’s expression changed drastically.
“Behind you!” he shouted.
Margot gasped when she felt a heavy hand on her head, followed by a blunt dagger pressing against her neck. She had failed to see the old man hiding behind the shrubs next to the barn. From the corner of her eye she could see his long grey hair falling over her shoulder, as he spoke into her ear.
“I’m afraid it is certain death, my dearest,” he said. “But for you.”
Margot dropped the blade and sighed.
“Damn it all to hells,” she said. “So bloody close…”
The old man lowered his dagger gently, his lips curving into a grin. As usual, his faithful companion stood at his shoulder, a one-eyed crow with tattered wings and a hefty appetite. “Certainly close, my child. But even ‘close’ can get you killed,” the old man said, and then gave John a glance. “And besides… You cheated.”
Margot smiled. “Actually it was Melvyn who asked John for help. I kept quiet.”
“Did not!” Melvyn argued, to which his sister replied by sticking her tongue out.
John put his blade away and held a hand out for Larz. “Sorry about the whole door thing.”
Once on his feet, Larz began moving his arm in circles, holding on to his shoulder with an expression of pain on his face. “You should be, you reckless bum. It was a tad bit overdramatic,” he said, before clearing his throat and frowning. “But also… I’m sorry ‘bout the cut. You alright?”
“John Huxley,” said Old Man Beckwit as he walked over with his cane. “Too eager to wait for your turn, eh? Meddling into your brother and sister’s training won’t help them a bit, y’know?”
“Ask your goons who stumbled into whose cabin,” John said, grinning as if the whole thing had been no more than a messy card game. He was already tearing a piece of cloth from an old shirt he’d hung at the entrance of his barn, using it to wrap his forearm and stop the bleeding.
“So how’d we do, Mister Beckwit?” Melvyn tugged at the old man’s robe.
“It took ‘em nearly an hour to find us,” said Margot as she cleaned the mud from her boots. “And did you see how fast I was running, Mister Beckwit?” young Margot asked.
The old man chuckled as he fed his crow a handful of breadcrumbs. “Sure did,” he said. “You’ve gotten faster, that’s for certain. We still caught you in less than an hour, though.”
“Yes, but nearly an hour!”
“Still less.”
* * *
An iron pot hung over the fire, casting clouds of grey vapor into the air as the water came to a boil. A woman scooped a mugfull out of it; her hand was so rough and callused that she hardly felt the sting of the heat anymore, hadn’t for several decades now.
She sprinkled in a handful of leaves from her garden, stirring it into a tea, as she rubbed her eyelids and yawned. Her black hair was a tangled mess and she wore the same shabby blue housedress that she’d worn for the past two days.
Another day’s labor awaits, she told herself, and then sipped from her tea as if it were laced with red spindle.
Her name was Adelina Huxley, and she was the keeper of the largest farm in Elbon.
She was a kind woman with an immeasurable heart, rather soft-spoken and timid, the type of person that would blend into the shadows and remain unnoticed to a stranger. But those that knew her well knew that she was not one to be messed with, for the woman hid within herself a deep inner fury. The only unmarried woman in Elbon, she was, and she was fiercer than a wolf mother when it came to caring for her pups.
Don’t mess with Mother Huxley, they’d say. She may look feeble… but she’ll gut
you if you mess with her children.
And it was certainly true… When it came to the safety of her young ones, no act was too cruel for her. Her children were like treasure, and the woman’s love for them knew no bounds. They were, after all, the only thing she had left in the world, other than her farm. Her husband had been taken by a fever, and for several months after that she was known as the Huxley Widow. That was, of course, until that fateful winter’s night when a group of bandits from the southern hills tried to invade the farm.
The story said that Adelina had seen them coming from a distance, and so she dragged her children into their humble little cottage and they barred themselves in. The bandits, stubborn as they were, had tried to force their way in. There were six of them.
Adelina Huxley killed every single one, with every failed attempt of theirs to break inside. She had used a hatchet, a few sharp nails, a pot of boiling stew, and a couple of kitchen knives. They say it took but one hour before all six raiders were lying dead somewhere in the surrounding yard.
All six were killed. Not a single one made it inside their home. She’d fought to keep her family safe and she’d fought to the death. And from then on, nobody ever called her the Huxley Widow again.
John was the eldest of four.
There was his sister Robyn who, at the young age of 17, was a daring and courageous soul. Having only been 7 when she held a knife in her hand to help her brother and mother fight off the bandits, she had grown up with very little fear and an unmatched loyalty for those dearest to her, the kind of girl that wouldn’t hesitate to protect a pet ferret from a junglecat should the moment call for it. All she ever needed was her bow and a handful of arrows. Her beloved bow, which she had made out of the branch of an old elven tree from the city of Kahrr five winters past, was the most precious thing she owned and with it she felt invincible. It was her brother John that had taken her to Kahrr with him, and it was he that helped her carve the bow, which she decided to name Spirit. It was the first and last time she had traveled so far from home.
