Summer had been and gone, Autumn rains had muddied the fields for the last week, and now Winter was threatening a long, long stay in the village of Hesard's Ford.

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The Inn was busier than Mylo had seen for several months. Trading caravans had been sparse during the Summer, unsurprising, given the rumours of war in the southlands, and only the weekly market in the village had kept the Inn running. But earlier today, a three wagon caravan had arrived in Hesard's Ford and caused such a stir that gossip was rife.

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The caravan was bound for the city and had been attacked by Orc raiders only two days travel from Hesard's Ford. Two days! That sort of violence had been unheard of for nearly ten years. The Orc settlements in the foothills of the mountains had been relatively peaceful, occasionally trading iron ore at Hesard's Ford market. To be fair, these visits had resulted in several extreme bar-brawls and two deaths but nothing otherwise unexpected.

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Mylo had stabled the caravan's horses and cleaned the mud- and sweat-slicked coats. As the wagons had been parked outside the Inn, he had noticed where arrows and crossbow bolts has struck the wooden sides and later been prised from the wood. And was that a blood stain on the rear boards? The boy shuddered.

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Now that night had drawn in the Inn was heaving with villagers and the dozen newly-arrived guests. Mylo was taking a breather after his first stint of the night. He had been running back and forth between the bar, the kitchen and the common room, bringing hot meals, fuel for the roaring fire and flagons of dark local ale. He leaned back against the bar and turned to Kally, one of the girls who had arrived with the caravan. Her pale face, framed with raven curls, and her eyes a deep sapphire blue marked her as an Imerian, one of the northern countries.

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Mylo played the bewildered country bumpkin.  “What brings you here at this time of the year? You're a long way from home.”

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Kally flicked a glance towards the hearth where several of the caravan were seated, surrounded by villagers. A middle aged man, his hair grey and his face florid from the heat and ale, was regaling the audience with the story of the journey and the horrific Orc attack. “That's my father,” she said. “This run from Kalinan to Avanti is the last of the year. We left Kalinan with ten wagons loaded with bolts of silk, worth a fortune at home, and enough guards to keep us safe.” The girl paused and looked down at her feet. Orc battlecries echoed through her head as she recalled the attack. “At least we thought they would keep us safe.”

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Mylo knew what an Orc attack could do. He remembered cowering in the woodshed of his parents' farm, the ruins of which were about half a day's travel from Hesard's Ford, trying not to cry as he saw his father, mother and three farmhands slaughtered by two dozen Orcs. That's not something a six year old boy should have seen.

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“They didn't give us a chance,” Kally continued in a small voice. “They attacked from ambush. Our guards fought back, of course. I saw two of the raiders fall but for each Orc killed it seemed five of our men, good Imerian soldiers each of them, died. The sergeant lashed the horses of my wagon and drove them away from the fighting. It took me over an hour to get the team back under control. By then I was miles away from the battle and couldn't find my way back to help our men.”

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Mylo stifled the thoughts he had been entertaining about Kally. She would have been another notch in the beam of the stable's hayloft but not now. He noticed lines of grief around Kally's eyes, lines which a sixteen year old girl – young woman, now, he corrected himself – should not have possessed. “What did they look like?” he asked. “The Orcs, I mean.”

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Kally looked Mylo in the eyes. He had an open, honest face, a mop of fair hair and, she admitted, a cute smile. “They were Orcs, savages. I've seen an Orc trading delegation in Avanti before. They were heavily armed and armoured, which is against the law in our city. We relaxed the rules to allow them to trade the iron and copper they had mined. But even they were known to have a very hot temper.” She looked away, back towards her father.

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“The raiders,” Mylo prompted gently.

 

Kally thought back, overcoming her reluctance to remember the worst. “They wore blackened steel plate armour and were armed with the cruellest-looking swords I've ever seen. Weapons with a serrated edge so sharp it cut through our soldiers chainmail like it was silk.” Details swam through her head now. “Their shields had spikes instead of a central boss and were blazoned with what looked like a ravening wolf's head.”

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They're not local, thought Mylo. The Orc towns and mining sites within a week's travel of Hesard's Ford had nothing the Human population would recognise as an army nor even formal garrisons. They were, at best, militia, at worst, the kind of cutthroats that had destroyed his parents' farm. But what could he do? Mylo himself was only sixteen, barely a man and certainly not the hero or dedicated soldier who could have tracked and destroyed the Orcs.

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“Hey, Boy,” said a soft voice which interrupted Mylo's train of thought. He looked up into Kally's smiling face, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Tell me,” she said. “Why do they call you that? You've been running around all night and all I've heard them call you is Boy. Even my own people have taken to calling you that. You haven't even told me your name.”

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“Mylo,” he replied hesitantly. “It's Mylo.” He looked into Kally's deep blue eyes. The girl was serious, now, with no hint of the taunting and teasing the men around the fire usually showed. “I've been here since I was six. The boss took me under his wing. No-one really cared what my name was. They'd shout Boy and I'd come running. I carried this, cleaned that, served the food, fixed what was broken. I got used to being called Boy. Just Boy.” He finished with a shrug and half-heartedly looked around the common room to see if any of the customers needed fresh drinks or a slab of roast meat.

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Kally's next question was drowned out in the uproar from around the fire.

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“Hey, Boy!” one of the village men shouted. “We're dicing over here. Get these tables cleared!”