His mother was in this town, somewhere. It was a trading town, when the rivers were not frozen. She likely before the fire, in one of the thatched longhouses, with the rest of the women.
That might have inspired a protective urge in some, but not in Vol. He and his mother were not close. It was only blood that connected them.
Vol's eyes continued to glare across the battlefield, straining to look through the fog that came through the snow. He was sure he could see him – that was the figure of Oliver Patrick, high upon his horse, with an army of five thousand behind him.
A peasant boy – a slave, now commanding an army. It might have been impressive, even inspirable to other youths. But to Vol, his achievements were merely an obstacle. They were a distance that his axe needed to close.
The wind stilled for a moment, and the snow that had been coming down sideways settled, but still, only for a moment.
The fog cleared, just a little, and Vol continued to watch.
He saw as the hand went up into the air – how did the man manage to make such a simple gesture so authoritative? And he saw the arm as it came down again, announcing the beginning of battle, the charge of the infantry.
He remembered that motion, better than he remembered any moment in life. More clearly than he remembered his family's faces – it was that moment when General Oliver Patrick swung his arm, that was the moment when Vol's life began.
He caught a glimpse of golden eyes from across the battlefield. He caught his first whiff of divine authority. And then the world changed. The whole colour of it shifted. A pressure crushed his shoulders, and his axe felt heavier in his hands.
The men around him – and women too, those that could carry a shield and fight – began to shout their orders even more frantically. They couldn't just hear the thunder of enemy boots, charging across the thick snow – they could feel it, stomping, like tremors through the very leylines of reality.
And now they heard shouts beyond the gate too.
"COME ON THEN!" Vol roared, his voice dwarfing those around him. He'd always had a loud voice – a prized quality amongst the Yarmdon.
He was ready. He could feel it. His grip on the axe was tight, and though his hands were sweaty, they felt just right. His whole body was tense with muscles that were extradoinarly well developed for his age. He'd trained and trained for this moment. He'd done all the drills that his brother had said to do.
An army of five hundred, against an army of Oliver Patrick's five thousand, already whetted in war against the people of Verna to the east.
This was the glory that the Yarmdon chased!
The feet of his enemy pounding, his own heart pounding, the sight of Oliver, mounted on that hill. He would make it through all of them. His axe would calve a path! He was ready! War was here!
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM
A great crash at the gates.
Already the hinges creaked. The giant wooden doors were bowed in the centre, as whatever force that had hit rendered the wooden beams they'd set in place useless.
"BATTLERAM! THEY'VE BROUGHT A BATTLERAM!" An archer cried down from atop the wall in alarm.
Vol's eyes widened. They hadn't expected it to go this fast. Five hundred though they were, they had confidence in their town's wall. They were sure they knew this terrain better than the enemy. The plan had been to stall them, at least for half a day, as the enemy sieged the walls with their ladders.
And Vol had seen their ladders… He'd planned, in his mind, to join the others atop the wall. That was what he had been waiting for. Yet, before the archers could even withdraw, that pounding at the gate bespoke of a problem that would manifest itself far sooner than half a day – it was liable to fall any minute.
"TRICKERYYYY!" A woman shouted in dismay.
At her cry, Vol knew it to be true.
Oliver Patrick had shown them his siege ladders as he made camp – he'd made sure the enemy had focused on them. He'd put it in their minds that this was how he would breach their walls, with his mighty ladders.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
And then came charging a mighty battle ram, that the archers could not even make out before it was upon their gates.
The Greatest General to walk – it must have been true. Trained by the Master Swordsman Dominus Patrick – it all must have been true. This enemy, he was the most dangerous man on the planet, and they were a mere pebble in his path.
Vol's eyes widened, as he felt the rage of battle build up inside him for the first time in his life.
The familiar raider's rage, that which their people were famed for, that which kept them going, even in these destitute snowy lands, when the frozen fields would not take to the plough. This was the strength they had – the strength of war.