Magneon

Smoke rose high above the crest in the barren heath that obscured his house from view. Ordinarily, there would be a faint thread pointing to the rough stone chimney which poked out of the west side of the simple thatched roof, but this was different. Thick, black smoke billowed, visible from even his considerable distance. His pulse quickened. Hoisting his catch on his back, he ran quickly and deftly, avoiding most of the scraggly foliage and plowing through the rest. Something was quite obviously wrong.

*****

It had been three months since that horrible day. He had arrived home, or more accurately to the shattered and smoldering remnants of his home, his village, his life. On that day questions raced through his mind, only to be blotted out by the pain and anguish that immediately consumed him. Today, those questions were met by a more rational mind, albeit colder and darker. Why? Who? Why? Simple. Repetitious. The questions that had plagued him these last lonely weeks still plagued him, unanswered. He had picked up their trail. The ones who had taken the villagers.

Their trail wasn't hard to follow. A wake of destruction and desolation. Although they were in no hurry, they had horses, and he was on foot. As he passed through an untouched town, he thought, or at least his stomach thought, that these fortunates wouldn't mind parting with a loaf of bread or two. After the suffering that he had been through, how could the loss of bread compare?

He took three loaves, but was caught in the act. In desperation, he stuck out with his staff, catching the unfortunate shop-keeper in the left shoulder. He was sorry, but this was no time for apologies. And really, what was a bruise, or even a dislocation, compared to his pain?

*****

January, the cruelest month in these parts, came down upon him with the full force nature. It had been almost a year. He remembered the faces of his elderly parents, his sister, his friends. Some were dead, others broken beyond hope, and some missing. Mostly female. Anger again. He had been 23, relatively old, but a part-time apprentice under the local black-smith. The rest of the time he was a trapper, like his father. Another lone figure appeared in the distance, on horseback, franticly riding to the east. He knew full well why. The last town he had been through, horse traders, had been attacked. They fought the bandits off, but their finest breeding stock had been killed. This rider saw him and rode closer. They were headed in the same direction. As the rider neared he realized the size of the horse. It was massive, a beast of epic proportions, awe inspiring, fearsome, and tar-black. They met.

"What do you seek?" the rider inquired in a formal tone.

"Them," he replied casting a finger in the right direction.

"As do I. Will you ride with me?" For the first time, he thought that he recognized the accent. A Lord of Thorshal. An old one at that.

"Ay, I can try," he replied in his honesty.

*****

Two weeks transpired, as their ceaseless, speechless pursuit continued. There was no communication between a class gulf as wide as theirs unless absolutely necessary, and even then it was kept short.

The sunset cast a distant town into shadowy relief. From a ridge high above the two watched as the rogues attacked the village. They were closer this time. Close enough. The horse was strong. They galloped down the short precipice, the horse half falling, half dashing madly, headlong to the villages aid.

They were late, but not too late. Men on horseback had encircled a large stone manor, brandishing iron swords and flaming torches. Sparks danced in the night as its paltry defense prepared for their last fight. Then came the unexpected: two riders on a massive horse, charging into the scene.

The trapper jumped off at the last moment, regaining his balance with his staff. Even weeks later, he still did not feel at home on a horse. At least not fighting. His powerful muscles flexed and snapped the oaken rod into a rustically armored chest. Something crunched. The enemy, or adversary, or victim, or simply person in the way, slumped to the ground. Another advanced, only to be caught in the neck by the Thorshalian's long-sword. Some time later, the men retreated, their numbers lessened. They rode off again.

Back at the manor the trapper explained his plight, and the circumstances. Many men joined him in his cause, some because of his bravery, some to prove themselves, and some our of revenge for those lost in their town's defense.

The bolstered force rode from the village in pursuit of the unknown nemesis.

*****

Finally, uncounted days since the beginning of his lonely journey, the trapper had his enemy within sight. They had paused in a village, perhaps one friendly to them, maybe even their home town, but in any event: his target. Plans were laid, rough strategy sketched out in ashes on a large, flat rock, and the time was set. At dawn, the following day, this town would fall.

The time came and with it a fierce battle. Many fell from both sides, but in the end, the town fell. The trapper stood, hardened by all that had befallen him, in the midst of the ruin, and something broke, deep inside. When he saw the fractured figure of a fallen enemy, he saw a brother, a father, a son, someone once loved. When he looked upon his enemies burning homes, he remembered his own, and the despair that it had signified. As he looked to the hills in this foreign land, and the unknown people fleeing him in fear, he felt pity and cried. He beat out a fire with his staff and began tending the wounds of the fallen. So now it ends; the destruction, the pain, the fear.