"I didn't know then," Hubert spoke, his relaxed words colliding against the night cold wind on the campfire.
The snow covered mountain from afar staring silently at him and his party. Grim and dread, the mountain as if expecting, the sky almost cracking.
He spoke of his story, one that started long ago.
"My first day, the very first day of my thorny road,"
It was too long ago.
—
The campfire flickered, the night wind blowing, carrying the coldness of the north. Winter was ending.
"Tch, I can't get used to this time of the year," one of the watchmen spoke.
"Relax, they won't attack this soon," another replied.
The watchmen, a unit, bundled against the warmness of the campfire, in their hands were soups and drinks. Their worn leather armor and fur coats were like a thin wall in the climate.
"How about this, do you guys know how the venerable Goddess revealed to the founding fathers of the church?" one brawny watchman asked.
Hubert knew him, one of the friendlier dudes named Hans. His physique contrasted with his vibrant smile and warm attitude that was always there.
"Not really, the church's influence is kind of scarce here. But we do tolerate those who practice it," another answered.
"You don't mind if I tell you then. This is a passage from the holy book that when they were mere farmers, the voice spoke to them from the sky and revealed a message," Hans said, his words like an entertainment to those listening.
"What message?" one of the watchmen asked, a spear leaned leisurely against his shoulder.
"I don't know, I'm illiterate! Hahaha!"
The other followed him in his laughter, though it was an awkward one for Hubert.
There was one man that was different than all, the man that sat beside Hubert, the captain of the watchman, Greyson. His squinted eyes, rather than nailed at the campfire, were instead glancing to the north.
"Ca-captain," Hubert called amongst the laughter.
"Ah, yes, pardon me, I'm just anticipating, an old habit of mine when the time of the year comes," Greyson explained.
"Ah, since we got a newcomer here, why don't we let him have all the attention for today?!" Hans said excitedly.
Hubert was startled. All eyes were on him now.
"Newcomer!"
"Newcomer!"
"Newcomer!" they chanted, it was a rare sight after all, especially at a young age of 17.
"N-ni-nice to meet yo-you all," he said with nervousness, his trickling sweat dried off by the cold wind.
"Boring!"
"Tell us your story, boy!"
They said to him, like a brother to a brother. It was a family after all, a family in the forsaken place, the border. They were the border guards, one that from the honorable knights or the army of the kingdom couldn't be more careless.
"I-I'm Hubert of Penfirth, I-I just joined because I need the mo-money," Hubert told the bunch.
"Eh,"
"Mediocre, I guess,"
"Welp, what do we expect though? Desperation can push someone here,"
"Indeed, just like us,"
The watchmen chattered toward each other, soon becoming immersed to themselves and their respective circle. One by one left for their cabins, some for sleep, some for an extra round of actions and alcohol, perhaps.
Only two people remained.
"You're not leaving?" Greyson spoke, his eyes once again peering over the wall, the forest as if whispering to him.
"N-no, sir," Hubert replied.
"You should, the night is old," Greyson said, the moon above their head.
"Wha-what about you, ca-captain?" Hubert asked, his voice almost trembling.
"No. I don't feel like sleeping," Greyson said.
His eyes were troubled, a bag had formed under it. The occasional quick glance over and over again explained loudly. His hand was slightly shaky, unusual for an experienced watchman, especially at one of the remotest outposts of the land.
"So-something troub-ling yo-you, captain?" Hubert asked, eyes noticing the unusual demeanor.
"N-no, just some overthinking… Ha… I should probably retire for the night," Greyson said, standing up and trudged toward one of the cabins.
Hubert stood up, his eyes focused on Greyson, though it was his first day here, he knew something was wrong, very wrong. The captain was usually right, after all.
Woosh!
An arrow flew from the north, it brought with it
Death.
Jleb!
Marked, the arrow found its target as if already eyeing him since the start, Greyson was dead.
"N-no…" Hubert grabbed his spear and his legs readied himself to launch forward.
Yet, he failed, shaking, he stood still. Fear overwhelmed him, wetness visible on his leather pants.
"Barbarians! North wall!" the watchmen shouted from their watchtower.
Ring
Ring
Ring
The bells rang over and over, repeatedly.
The watchmen rushed from their cabins, the cold night air hitting their face, one they careless for. Though their eyes were shocked by the sight of what was on the cabin's steps, Greyson.
"Ca-captain?" one of them called upon the corpse. The silence replied loudly.
"Go! To the north, men!" Hans shouted at them, his hands pushed them, his big stature bodying and hiding the demoralizing sight of their captain.
The situation was dire, the atmosphere choking, the loud and horrifying warcry of the north calling from over the wooden logs wall. Their war cries joined, mingling in the darkness of night.
"Hubert!" Hans shouted, his steps shaking the ground as he approached and grabbed Hubert's collar.
"Y-yes?!" Hubert responded, pulled out of his confusion.
"Take your spear and face them! Do you think standing still here will do any good for your mother?" Hans spoke the harsh truth.
"N-no… sir," Hubert responded.
"Then go!" Hans commanded.
"N-no!" Hubert replied sternly, his hand coiled around his spear, his grip loosening.
"Th-this…! Coward!"
Hans raised his hand, gloved by a tattered and worn out leather glove. Then his muscles moved and struck forward.
Slap!
"Get in your right mind! We all wi-"
Boom!
A large fireball exploded against the cabin's roof. He and Hans were thrown to the ground.
Hubert's ears deafened.
His mouth gasped for air, head throbbing in a sharp pain.
Hubert's eyes sprung open, covered by dust.
The flickering of the fiery blaze and glitters of its tongue greeted him. The corpses of fallen, restless, their weapons clutched, spoke loudly.
"They're breaking in here!"
The watchmen was overrun.
From the ground, he lifted himself up, his arms trembling and his body shaky. Lying lifeless in front of him was the captain of the outpost, Greyson, once a squint eyed man, now wide open in the cold embrace of death.
Screams and cries, order and chaos, life and death, all were fair in that place.
"Hu-hubert… go… i-if you can't fight…" Hans said to him, splinters of wood and nails from the cabin embedded deeply in his flesh. Hans found himself trapped under debris.
"N-no… th-this can't be happening!" he muttered, unbelieving, rejecting even. His skin covered by dirt, his eyes filled with fear, and his soul full of cowardice.
"In-inform them…" Hans said again, his voice barely weak and pained, barely heard through the chaos.
"Now!"
Hubert closed his eyelids, his fist clenched hard, hoping for once that the situation changed, that it never happened. His hope was foolish.
He opened his eyes, the same thing remained.
Hans' body had stiffened, his eyes closed, finding peace in the death.
Hubert gritted his teeth, his hand reaching for the spear on the ground in front of him. Its shaft was rough and coarse, its point rustic and weary, yet it was the only thing he could use.
His legs moved, leaving those who were behind him, his captain and his fellows. He ran, his once courageous spirit now in ashes and his soul pressed by the abandoning of his duty.
Tears flowed, as violent as a waterfall, but at the same time, as soft as a gentle stream. He knew what he did was wrong, but he couldn't stop his legs from carrying him away.
As far as he was aware, his duty laid dead, so was his bravery that carried him to the forsaken outpost since the start.
He made his way to the place of hope, one where he thought of as a route to escape, the stable.
Yet, his muscles tensed, his legs unmoving, daring not to.
The perpetrator of the attack was in front of him, one that was filled with bloodlust, one that was rejected by people as a human being.
A northman, a barbarian.
Scripts of blue ink were tattooed on his primal muscles. The head, protected by a crude horned helmet. His stature, huge, twice that of a creopian adult.
Hubert's fingers coiled around the shaft, preparing, yet a part of his spirit knew all was lost.
The barbarian was strong, powerful, blessed by the power of unknown Gods. A single strike from his double headed axe, crude yet sharp, was enough for a splitting of a horse.
As corpses of studs and puddles of blood gathered around him, his glance full of excitement and lust slowly turned to a new person, Hubert.