Chapter Eight: Emerging from the Valley for the First Time

In the evening, Art led his horse back to the wooden cabin. This autumn, due to various distractions, Art’s hunting yields were not as abundant as last year, and the stored barley harvest had sharply diminished with the arrival of the Scott family. Yet what troubled Art more than the valley folk’s provisions was the drastic change in the outside world. He sensed the time was ripe, but felt isolated and powerless, hidden away in this desolate place. How could he seize the chaos to rise?

“Emma, I haven’t seen a trace of Ron lately. He’s not helping build the cabin; where has he been all day?” Art asked Emma, who was milking the goats.

Seeing Art return from the hunt, Emma hurried to take the reins from him and bowed slightly. “Master, Ron has been wandering in the forest these days. He says that even if you don’t accept him as your retainer, he wants to recover the lost prey for you.”

“Foolishness! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Don’t you know how dangerous this forest is? What if those inexperienced hands get stalked by wolves? Or worse, face a brown bear or wild boar?” Art’s anxiety flared.

“Cooper, Scott, come in,” Art called to the two men digging the foundation for the new cabin outside the wooden fence.

“Such an important matter and you didn’t tell me! What if something happens to Ron? Do you understand how perilous the forest is?” Art’s anger grew.

The two men stood silently before Art. When his anger abated somewhat, Cooper spoke gently, “Master, Ron is a boy with pride and stubbornness. He insists on hunting a deer to bring back to you. We cannot dissuade him. Besides, he’s no longer a child; he knows what he’s doing.”

While Art was fretting inside the cabin, Ron entered the courtyard dejectedly, leaning on a spear as tall as himself in his left hand and leading a wild mountain goat tied with a vine in his right. He had failed to hunt a deer.

Everyone fell silent, turning toward Ron.

Ron herded the goat into the pen, dragging his weary steps and ragged clothes to Art. “Master, I’m useless. I couldn’t bring back a deer…” he said, lowering his scarred head deeply.

Art looked at Ron, then at the goat in the yard, and all his anger vanished. He glanced at old Cooper and Scott, then softly asked Ron, “Can you ride a horse?”

Ron was puzzled by the sudden question. “M-m-master, I’ve never ridden a horse, but I’ve often ridden a donkey before.”

“Get ready. Tomorrow, you’re coming with me on a long journey.”

...

After dinner, Art called over old Cooper, who was preparing supplies for the next day. “Cooper, I will be away for a long time. During this period, you and Scott must guard this place well. Stay close to the cabin and never venture into the dense forest north of the valley. The outside world is chaotic now. Also, the fieldwork is done for the season. You must clear away the underbrush and wild trees around the cabin, level a plot of land, and cut enough timber to build a longhouse, just as I told you before.”

Cooper nodded repeatedly and then asked seriously, “Master, are you truly prepared?”

“Cooper, the age of chaos has arrived. This is the last darkness before dawn.” He cupped the slender, finely patterned steel Uzis sword lying on the wooden table, tracing the row of inscriptions on its blade, silently reciting, “Until the lamb becomes a lion.”

The next day at noon, old Cooper and the Scott family stood at the courtyard gate to see off the two departing men.

Art did not know how long this journey would take, so he had made thorough preparations.

Art wore a semicircular iron helmet, with a long inner robe, light leather armor, and a bear fur cloak draped over it. His feet were in leather boots, and a finely forged dagger hung at his waist. His chestnut horse was saddled with a hunting bow made from ox horn and a sheepskin water bag on the left, a steel longsword and a small round hide shield on the right. A sheepskin blanket was tied behind the saddle.

Ron was clad in a hooded robe, wearing a sheepskin jacket over it and leather boots. At his waist hung a short sword and a wooden-handled dagger. His blue mule carried a water bag in front and a large bundle of furs and smoked venison behind. A saddle blanket contained a patchwork animal fur covering, a sack of bran, a deep copper pot, two sets of utensils, several loaves of dark bread, and miscellaneous items.

Money was useless in the valley, so Art took all the money with him, knowing he would need plenty on the road ahead.

...

As dusk fell, in a pile of huge stones on the wasteland came the clanging of iron.

“Ron, don’t just focus on your sword. Remember to keep your footing steady. Feet shoulder-width apart, one foot stepping forward, front foot pointing straight ahead, back foot turned outward, waist slightly lowered.”

“When gripping the sword, place your right thumb on the blade. Don’t find it strange—just do as I say. Now, try chopping at me with the pear stance…”

From before sunset until dark, Art had been patiently teaching Ron the most basic swordsmanship. Yet Ron had no prior skill, and even after hours, he failed to meet Art’s minimum expectations. Still, as a farmer’s son, Ron had brute strength; although lacking technique, his raw power could still be somewhat useful.

After an afternoon of chopping, stabbing, and blocking, Ron’s limbs ached, his face pale and lips blue. He had never imagined sword practice was so grueling. Yet he did not want Art to think him weak. He persevered to start a fire, cook, and care for the mule and horse.

Art watched Ron hobbling along and found it amusing, but he had no intention of helping as before. If Ron were content to be a farmer’s son, Art might have relented. But since he chose to be his retainer, he must endure the trial and grow quickly—there was little time left for his development.

By the second day, the two were nearing Tynets.

Along the way, they witnessed the effects of the southern wars. Less than half a day north from the stone pile, on the trade route, small groups of refugees appeared. Most were ragged and gaunt, many unable to reach the next inhabited place. Along the road lay bodies that would never rise again.

Those lucky enough to reach villages or estates often faced expulsion as possessed by evil spirits or were enslaved for failing to pay exorbitant tolls. Some cruel lords even led troops to slaughter fleeing refugees, plunder their belongings, and abduct people.

Winter was coming, and the journey north would become even harsher.

Avoiding large groups of refugees and roving lord’s cavalry, they reached the outskirts of Tynets by midday on the third day. The city was already in chaos.

At the foot of the city walls, refugees had hastily built a tangled ring of shanties from dry branches and weeds. Clay pots simmered over campfires with unknown stews. As Art and Ron rode by, some looked up vacantly, others reached out begging, all gaunt and spiritless, including women clutching crying infants.

“Two handsome gentlemen, look at my beautiful daughter, only one finny,” a fat middle-aged woman who smelled strongly of cheap perfume grabbed Art’s reins. He followed her finger to a few trembling, emaciated girls sitting at a broken doorway. Disgusted, Art glared at the woman, turned his horse, and yanked the reins free.

Art’s fierce glare made the woman recoil, spitting at their retreating backs before seeking her next mark.

“Help!” Suddenly, screams of women and children came from the refugee camp’s edge on the right. Ron drew his short sword, and Art placed a hand on his sword hilt.

“Let’s see what’s happening,” Art said. They rode toward the distant sounds.

From afar, Art heard dull thuds of sticks hitting flesh. Rounding the city wall’s corner, he saw five ragged city thugs beating a man bloodily. The man shielded his wife and children fiercely. Art signaled Ron to proceed cautiously and crouched to avoid dry branches. Ron accidentally knocked over a broken clay pot, making a noise. The thugs paused and looked back.

“They’ve spotted us,” Art gritted his teeth, drawing his longsword. He ordered Ron, certain these were bullies preying on the weak.

“What’s this? The sheriff?” The thugs, surprised by two sword-wielding warriors clad not in town guards but beast-skin armor, hurriedly raised their clubs and charged, the clash of weapons ringing out sharply.

“Ooh!” Art wielded his longsword with his right hand and dagger in the left, attacking and defending in tandem, driving the thugs back step by step. Seeing Art’s advance, Ron’s courage surged. Using his brute strength, he swung his short sword wildly, knocking one thug down in a few blows. The others halted, hesitant.

“Get lost!” Art roared, brandishing his longsword at the thugs.

The beaten thugs hastily helped their injured comrade up and fled.

Ron checked on the man sheltering the women and children. He slumped on the ground, but seeing Ron approach, struggled to his feet and knelt with his family, repeatedly thanking their saviors.

Ron stepped aside as Art questioned the man. “Are you refugees fleeing the warI'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.