It rained hard in the Stormlands for three days straight, turning the field outside Bronzegate into a wet, muddy mess. The ground was soft and sticky under people's feet, full of mud, animal waste, and the sadness of two hundred regular people; farmers, tanners, and young boys who were stuck in leaky tents. The air smelled bad, and they could see House Buckler's fortress, Bronzegate, through the fog in the distance. It was late in the year 282 AC, and because of Robert's Rebellion, these men had been forced to leave their homes. Now they had to follow orders from knights who wore shiny armor and rode horses.
Kaelen walked through the mud holding a dull spear that felt heavy in his hands. His shirt was completely wet and heavy on his shoulders, and his dark hair was stuck to his forehead with water dripping into his eyes.
Under a leaking cover, Ser Alric, the hedge knight, was bent over a wet book. His dented armor made small sounds as he wrote names with a quill pen, and the ink spread on the damp page.
"What's your name?" he asked in a rough voice without looking up.
"Kaelen, sir," the boy answered, shifting the wet bag on his shoulder that was making his skin hurt.
Alric's pen flicked, throwing mud onto the book. "You're in tent five," he said, pointing his head toward the row of sad-looking shelters. "You'll be with Thom, Garen, Willem, and the young boy Jory. Keep quiet and don't cause trouble; Ser Brus Buckler gets angry easily and he'll use his whip on you."
Kaelen nodded firmly. "I understand, sir."
The old knight looked up briefly, looking tired. "Good. Now get going because the mud isn't going to dry up anytime soon."
"No, it won't," Kaelen muttered to himself. "The storms in the Stormlands are only beginning." He knew from the show that this region was famous for its terrible weather, especially during war.
Kaelen walked away, the wet ground making it hard to lift his boots with each step.
Tent five was in bad shape with torn canvas moving in the wind, with water dripping onto the four people squeezed inside. Thom, the tall and skinny sixteen-year-old with red hair flattened by the rain, smiled when Kaelen came through the opening, shaking off the water like a dog.
"Hey there, Kaelen! You made it here too!" Thom hit the wet blanket beside him, sounding happy despite the bad conditions. "Come sit down, and meet Garen, Willem, and Jory. We're like a little family now, all squished together in here!"
Kaelen gave a small smile and dropped his bag. "Did you think I'd let you get all the glory by yourself, Thom? No way."
Thom laughed, still being positive. "I knew you'd come! I've been hearing the knights talking, there are going to be big battles soon, Kaelen. We'll get our chance to do something great!"
Garen was a tanner in his thirties with hard-looking eyes and hands stained dark from years of working with leather. He looked up from where he sat by the tent pole. "A chance for something great? More like a chance to die in a shallow hole." He threw a bowl of lumpy porridge to Kaelen. The gray mush moved around in the bowl. "Eat that, it's all you're getting today." Garen walked with a limp and had a sharp way of talking because of injuries from fighting in an army ten years ago when his brothers died. He wasn't here for the lords but to save his tanning business from being ruined.
Kaelen caught the bowl, wrinkling his nose at the smell; it was like sour milk and wet dirt. "Thanks. This smells like my home."
"Home is gone now, boy," Garen said with a slight smile. "This mud is where you live now; you better get used to it."
Willem sat close to his son Jory, a weak boy of fourteen who was coughing into a bloody cloth. Willem was holding a carved wooden horse, watching Jory's pale, sweaty face. The boy's fever had gotten worse because of the dampness, and he was breathing in short difficult breaths. Willem hadn't chosen to fight, Buckler's men had forced Jory from their farm, and Willem had followed to try to protect him from a world that didn't care about them.
"He's too young to be here," Kaelen said quietly as he sat on the blanket, sad to see Jory struggling.
Willem's jaw tightened and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the toy. "I told them that. I said he's sick and weak and I begged them to leave him alone. They said 'All boys over twelve have to come,' or they would burn our fields. What kind of person forces a dying child to come to this terrible place?"
"The same kind that forces all of us to come," Garen interrupted, spitting into the mud with an angry look. "The nobles and their power games, we're just the pieces they move around."
Thom leaned forward still hopeful with his eyes bright. "Not me, Garen. I'm going to fight, earn a real sword; maybe even a horse if I'm lucky! You'll see, I'll make something good out of this situation."
Garen laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Sure, kid. I'll probably see you bleeding to death in a ditch, calling it glory."
The tent opening suddenly flew open, and Ser Brus Buckler stormed in. His blue cloak was clean compared to the filth around him. His armor was shiny, very different from the rags the common soldiers wore, and his sharp face showed disgust. As a third son trying to make a name for himself in the rebellion, he used his noble birth like a weapon.
"Get up, all of you," he said sharply, his voice cutting through the damp air. "The toilet ditch needs to be dug and the rain isn't an excuse to be lazy."
Kaelen stood up slowly, his legs stiff from the cold. The orb under his ribs gave off a faint warmth. "Right now, sir? We're already completely wet."
Brus narrowed his eyes, his hand moving toward his whip. "You'll be drier with whip marks on your back, boy. Move, or I'll make you move."
Garen stayed sitting, speaking in a low, angry voice. "We've been marching for two straight days, sir. Men need to rest if you want them to use swords, not shovels."
"You don't use anything, tanner," Brus replied sharply, putting his hand on his sword handle. "One more word, and I'll cut your tongue out of your mouth."
Willem moved, trying to protect Jory's weak body. "We'll dig, sir, just please, my boy can't—"
"Shut up!" Brus shouted, losing his patience. "All of you, stand up, now!"
Ser Alric stepped through the opening, his calm presence helping to ease the tension. "I'll take care of it, Ser Brus," he said, his voice calm but firm, looking directly at the noble without backing down. "They'll dig, but they won't be any use to you if they're dead from exhaustion."
Brus made a face of disgust. "Fine, Alric. If this doesn't get done, I'll have your head instead." He stormed out, leaving behind a feeling of tension as thick as the mud.
"What a horrible man," Garen muttered, grabbing his shovel angrily. "He thinks we're just dogs he can kick whenever he wants."
"That's pretty much what we are in his eyes," Alric said, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired sigh. "Dig anyway, it's better than getting whipped."
Kaelen looked at Thom, who whispered, "Brus is a real jerk, but Alric's looking out for us, right?"
"As much as he can," Kaelen replied quietly. "It's all we've got."
Night came, and it got even colder and wetter, with the rain still coming down steadily. Jory's coughs got worse, making wet sounds that woke everyone in the tent. Willem knelt over him, his hands shaking as he held the boy's head.
"Jory, son, stay with me please, don't leave me," Willem begged, his voice breaking. "We'll get through this. Remember how we used to fish in the stream near our home? And how you'd always catch more than me? You're strong, son. You've always been strong."
But Jory's eyes were unfocused, and then his chest stopped moving. The bloody cloth fell from his limp fingers.
"No!" Willem cried out, the sound was full of pain, like a father's heart breaking. "Not you, not my boy! Please, gods, not my son!" He held Jory's body and rocked back and forth, tears making clean lines through the dirt on his face.
Thom stared, barely able to speak. "He was talking... he was laughing just a few hours ago... I don't understand how this happened so fast."
Garen turned away, holding his knife very tightly. "I hate this cursed place," he said, his voice shaking with anger and sadness.
Kaelen knelt beside Willem. The orb gave off a faint, useless warmth. "I'm so sorry," he said, knowing the words weren't enough for such a big loss.
Alric appeared at the tent opening, rain dripping from his helmet, his face was showing sadness. "We have to burn him," he said gently. "The fever might spread to others and we can't take that chance."
Willem jumped to his feet, anger and grief changing his face. "Burn him? He's my son, not some disease-carrying animal! He deserves a proper burial, with stones to mark his place!"
Garen stepped forward, putting a steady hand on Willem's arm. "It's to protect the rest of us, Willem. Deep down, you know it's the right thing to do. Jory wouldn't want others to suffer."
Kaelen and Garen carried Jory's body to a shallow hole, with the rain still coming down as Alric lit the fire. The flames fought against the wetness, making hissing sounds, and the bad smell of burning flesh rose into the night. Willem fell to his knees, crying into the mud, while Thom cried quietly and Garen stood stiffly, like he was made of stone but full of pain. The common soldiers said prayers to the Seven gods, but their voices were weak and didn't sound like they really believed, and the storm drowned them out anyway.
Back in the tent, it was quiet in a heavy way. Willem stared at the ground, completely broken inside. Garen sharpened his knife with slow, careful movements, his face not showing any emotion. Thom hugged his knees, his dreams of glory now weak like a candle about to go out.
Outside, Kaelen found Alric standing in the rain with his face turned up to the sky, with water running down his weathered face.
"How do you keep going after seeing things like this?" Kaelen asked, simply curious about the perspective of people of this world. He couldn't help but think about how different this war was from what he'd seen on TV in his past life. The show had glossed over the suffering of common people like them.
Alric sighed with his breath making a cloud in the cold air. "You don't keep anything, lad. You just keep walking, or you fall down, just a one step at a time, until there's nothing left that can be taken from you. That's the only choice we have."