A Long Journey Home, The northward road
#1 of A long journey home
Alrighty, the first chapter in a new request from AbleArcher on fur affinity. For anyone who is curious this is supposed to take place in the approximate technological era of the Napoleanic wars, with a slight twist, as you will see. I hope you enjoy it.
As always comments are apprciated and requested.
Lucas's boots crunched loudly with every step, the dry yellow stems of last year's harvest crackling as he trod on them. The last time he had passed this way, this field had had farmers working in it with scythes, bringing in their grain so it could be dried and then milled. Before, he had called warm greetings to the men working in the fields, laughed at their playful replies as they had teased him and his family. This place had once been peaceful and full of a kind of wholesome air that lifted the heart. The war had changed all of that. Now, this place was wild, the wholesome feel gone from the air, even though it was mid-spring.
Shaking his lengthening brown hair out of his eyes, Lucas turned his thoughts elsewhere. Thinking of past days always made him sad. Especially since the first shoots of this year's harvest were starting to push their way through the weeds and the forgotten stalks that had grown beyond the confines of the field. The last time he had passed this way had been two years ago, and it looked like the farmers he had spoken to last time had been gone nearly as long, as had everyone else, it appeared. Of course, this region had always been sparsely populated, but now it was wholly empty. He hadn't seen another soul for about a week, not since he had passed the foothills of the mountain range in which he had been born. Not that being alone bothered him much.
Lucas was only seventeen, but for the last two years, he had been a soldier, fighting in a war that his country shouldn't have been a part of. The kingdom of Irnath had been peaceful and mostly rural, controlling a strip of land near to the middle of the continent. Their fields had been fertile, producing more food than the Irnathi could use, but that which was welcomed in the land of their neighbors. But Irnath had been put into a very precarious position when the nations that bordered it, two vast and powerful empires, Baelemore to the west, and Kindirn to the east, had grown more and more hostile to each other. The Irnathi King, always more friendly with the Baelemore Empire, asked for their support, but it had been intended as an alliance of convenience only. The easterners hadn't seen it that way of course. When war had finally broken out, the Kindrin had immediately attacked the Irnathi city of Constantine and the alliance became one of necessity.
Their allies in the west had sent an entire army to support them, allowing them to drive out the invaders and at first, the Baelemori troops had been celebrated and welcomed as brothers. But then, the Irnathi's allies had been marched away, up the coast to fight off another invasion, and their commander, the son of the Baelemori emperor, had demanded that the bulk of the Irnathi army go with them. In the absence of its army, Irnath became a battle ground. Both sides warred over it, devastating the countryside and bringing the cities to ruin. And when the Irnathi army had returned, they found themselves being treated as if they were Baelemori, their units ordered about the same way. But, overall, it had probably saved many lives, since the Irnathi commanders were not very experienced in war. And Lucas hadn't minded, since he was a soldier, and he was being given orders that, for the most part, made sense.
But what he was now was a good question. He was a veteran, for sure, but a veteran soldier, or a civilian who had once been a veteran? He didn't know. No Irnathi soldier did really. Shrugging off the brooding thoughts once more, he adjusted the position of the rifle that was slung upon his right shoulder so that it rested on the strap of his oxhide pack rather than his increasingly threadbare uniform jacket. He had been on his own for a month now, walking ever further northward into the spring sunlight. His thick soled boots were still solid, and it would take many more miles of walking to make even a dent in them, but the rest of his clothes were becoming more and more disheveled the longer he traveled. It was a shame, for the uniform had been very proud and noble when it had been issued to him.
When it had first been given to him, his uniform had consisted of forest green trousers with a long black stripe down the side, a jacket of the same dark green, with black lapels and cuffs on the sleeves and black leather boots with thick soles. A black balmoral hat with embroidered white insignia had completed the ensemble, and then he had been given a cross belt, a cartridge box and the sheath to a twenty four inch sword bayonet, all in black leather. Then he had been given a rifle and the bayonet itself and had started training. Two weeks later, he had joined his battalion, and barely a week after that, he had been in his first battle.
Things had changed since then. Now, his once fine looking rifleman greens had taken on a mottled appearance, becoming lighter in places and darker in others as weather and time took their toll. The black had faded to a very dark grey and the cloth had been stitched in places to repair tears. All the leather was scarred and wrinkled, and some of it had been patched as it wore through in places. The supremely uncomfortable cross belt had long ago been abandoned, the strap of his cartridge box slung in its place. His rifle alone looked almost brand new, but that was hardly surprising. The Rifles lived and died by their weapons, much more than any other kind of unit, and therefore took meticulous care of them. The only thing out of place on the weapon was a gouge in the stock, a relic of a past battle.
But there were a few other things that set his uniform apart even from other rifleman who had served like he had. Two white chevrons graced both sleeves, not nearly as faded and tattered as the rest of the cloth, and on his right sleeve, near the bottom, a yellow hashmark slashed across the green, and it was that that he was most proud of, more so than his 'chosen man' stripes, as the Rifles called their corporals. The yellow hashmark was known as the 'King's Favor' among the soldiers of the kingdom of Irnath, and it marked those who had performed acts of great bravery. But the other thing that had changed his uniform was the blood that had stained his left shoulder black, just above the embroidered patch bearing crossed silver rifles that marked him as a sharpshooter. The stain was the reason he was walking alone on this northward road, and the reason he still carried his rifle and bayonet.
Suddenly, Lucas' thoughts were broken by a sound, a sound that did not match the pleasant sounds of the abandoned farmland. At once, the young soldier dropped into a crouch in the ditch he was walking in, un-slinging his rifle and swiftly untying the scrap of oil cloth he had tied over the doghead to keep the weather and the dust out of the priming pan. And he waited, perfectly still, listening for the sound to come again. For a long few minutes, the world was as quiet and pleasant as it always had been, but still he waited; he had seen far too much action to ignore distinct sounds like that. And then, just as the breeze drifted back towards him from further ahead once more, he heard it again. The distinct clank of a saber in its scabbard, and then, the sound of hoof-beats and those sounds together meant only one thing. Cavalry.
With hands moving as quickly as only the experienced can, Lucas took a cartridge from his box, and held it in his hand, ready to load and fire. Then, he carefully peeked above his cover, looking ahead with a war-trained eye. And then he smiled to himself and slipped the cartridge back into the leather box at his side. Standing up from his crouch, he retied the oilcloth across his rifle's stock. Slinging his rifle upon his shoulder once more, he climbed out of the ditch and onto the road, walking onward.
A few hundred yards ahead, at a tumbled down farm that sat at the last crossroad of the northern road, the cavalry he had heard were posted, manning what looked like a road block. But even from where he was, he could make out the pattern of the fluttering pendant that flew before the house. As he drew closer to the farm, he made out the bright orange uniforms that the soldiers wore and he knew what his distant glimpse of them had told him was true; all was well. Only one kind of cavalry unit in the world wore bright orange jackets like that. The nearest sentry spotted him coming along the road when he was only about a hundred and fifty yards away and Lucas couldn't help but grin as the man unslung his carbine, looking at the rifleman in surprise. If they had really been enemies, he could have easily killed the sentry from more than twice that distance, and they would have never have seen him.
"You there, halt!" The sentry cried when he was within shouting distance. Lucas ignored him and kept right on walking. Any sentry worth anything knew the uniforms of his nation's regiments, and would therefore have waited until Lucas was closer to hail him. Ignoring the startled sentry's continued demands that he halt until he was actually at the road block, Lucas marched right up to the barrier and finally obliged the man. The sentry, his face now almost as white as the facings on his orange jacket, looked to be on the verge of cocking his weapon when another voice cut him off.
"Lay off him Hodges." It ordered and Lucas looked towards its owner, coming to attention and saluting when he saw that the second man wore three chevrons on his sleeves and the curious symbol of a diamond shaped eye within the crux of the lowest stripe. The man walked up to where Lucas was standing, looked him over, and then returned the salute. "Your name?"
"Lucas Finch, Chosen man, Second Battalion, Royal Irnathi Rifles." Lucas rattled off smartly, standing at rigid attention. The Sergeant smiled, but the sentry looked dismayed. Every soldier was in awe of the Rifles, since everyone knew just how deadly they could be. While a smoothbore musket or carbine had about a one in three chance of even hitting its target at forty yards on a still day, Riflemen were known for killing at two or three hundred yards with a good crosswind. The Rifles were the elite, the best, the men that generals called on when they needed something impossible done. And the Rifles always succeeded.
"At ease Finch." The sergeant said, leaning casually against the roadblock, a tin cup of coffee in his hand. The roadblock looked to have been assembled from fence rails and rope, a rather flimsy arrangement that Lucas and three other Riflemen could have taken without breaking a sweat, but it wasn't meant to stop a military unit, just to bar traffic on the road. "Sergeant Maddox, 4th Irnathi Light Dragoons. What brings you this far north?"
"Going home sergeant." Lucas replied respectfully. "Small village by the name of Keirnan."
"Aye, I've heard of it." Maddox said, then turned to the sentry. Now that Lucas saw him close up, he realized that the man was young, maybe the same age as himself, and his uniform perfectly immaculate. "Hodges, go make yourself useful for once. See if you can rouse the lieutenant." The man saluted crisply and walked off towards the farmhouse, muttering to himself. "Sorry Finch, but our orders say that any soldier encountered on the road is to have his orders checked by an officer. Where are you coming from?"
"Field hospital south of the capital." Lucas replied, starting to warm to the sergeant. The man seemed easy going enough, and Lucas knew from the condition of his faded jacket that he was a veteran as well. But more interesting than his uniform was the extra belt that he wore around his middle, and the dozen or so small crystals that hung from it. Now Lucas recognized the symbol within the sergeant's rank. The sergeant was an alchemist spell weaver, each crystal holding a spell that he had stored within them.
The crystals used by such men were not mined as gemstones were, though these shone brighter than any gem, but instead were grown, out of an alchemical material called spellstone. This allowed a caster to prepare useful spells in advance, and then cast them from the crystal rather than drain their own strength, a tactic that was extremely useful for soldiers. Alchemists had also discovered that with the right concentration, anyone could use a stored spell, not just casters and most soldiers carried a few of them, usually spells of healing, though so called 'battle magic' was equally as common. Lucas himself had always carried a few crystals during the war, usually storing spells of concealment in them for scouting missions and the like, though they had all been broken during his last battle, shattered by enemy spell casting. He had been lucky enough to have already discharged the ones he carried before they broke since, when a spell crystal was broken, the magic contained within it exploded outward, often doing things that it was never intended to do. Others in his unit had not been so lucky.
"If you don't mind me asking sergeant," Lucas began, feeling an increased respect for the older soldier. "What are dragoons doing this far north?"
"Well, officially, we are to monitor the road and keep order over this area." Maddox said. "The other half of the company is some ways east at another crossroad." Lucas nodded at his explanation and the pair stood for a little while, exchanging bits of news and enjoying the mid-morning sunshine, then Maddox looked towards the farmhouse with a scowl. "Good gods above," the sergeant swore, "What is taking the man?" Looking at Lucas with a most aggrieved expression, he continued. "His lordship, the lieutenant, likes his wine a bit too much."
Lucas couldn't help but smile at that. When enlisted men spoke that way about an officer, it meant that the officer had bought his commission and was all too clearly used to living well. Such officers considered their men nuisances that had to be endured while they climbed the ranks, rather than useful individuals. Often, they fell to drinking, since they were almost shunned by other officers who had earned their way into a commission and Lucas knew how hard it was to rouse them when they were drunk. Thankfully, the Rifles, being an elite regiment, had very few officers like that, but they still occasionally weaseled their way in. And then, something that the friendly sergeant had said popped into his mind.
"You said 'officially'," Lucas began, "What other reason are you here for?"
"Well, though all the fighting took place many miles south of us, as you know," Maddox said, "No word has been heard from any of the villages in the mountains for months now. Some we know were just abandoned, or raided by enemy cavalry patrols, but there are too many for this to be a coincidence. We were sent to investigate the situation, though the officers are too busy with patrol duty to do much checking." Lucas nodded his understanding, leaving silent the unspoken thought in the man's words. No word must have come from Keirnan either. Still, his village didn't usually have a lot of contact with people in general, so he wasn't particularly worried. "Where did you fight?"
"All over the place." Lucas replied, accepting the change of subject easily. It was a common enough question among veterans, all of whom liked to reminisce about shared battles. "The battle of Constantine, the fields of Dorin, along the coast and lastly, around the capital."
"Is that where..?" The sergeant asked, looking at the blackened shoulder of Lucas' uniform. When Lucas didn't answer, the sergeant nodded in understanding. "Tough business there for the second battalion, so I hear."
"It was." Lucas replied. "How about yourself?"
"I was with the 5th Dragoons at Constantine, then we were sent out raiding until the coastal campaign." Maddox said. "I was at Fornath after that." Lucas cringed in sympathy at his words. The battle of Fornath had seen one of the worst mistakes of the war. The enemy had landed an army at the coast near the Baelemori town of Fornath and all reports were that they were waiting for supplies before advancing and that they had not dug in at all. Infantry sitting on the coast without breastworks was a cavalryman's dream. Ten whole regiments of cavalry, more than five thousand men, had charged down the coast, trying to catch them by surprise, while the Baelemori navy had gone to draw off their ships. But what the cavalry had found instead of an unprotected camp was a network of trenches, protected by a fleet of man-o-wars and many batteries of cannon. It had been a slaughter. Barely four hundred men had returned from that disastrous raid, and every unit involved had been decommissioned, the survivors sent off to other units as replacements. "I ended up in the 4th just in time to see the final siege of the capital. We lost a lot of good men there, and most of the company is new replacements. Most haven't ever seen an enemy, much less fought a battle. Oh, finally."
Lucas looked in the same direction as the sergeant, drawing himself up to attention upon seeing that the hapless sentry was leading a man dressed in the uniform of an officer of the Light Dragoons. Quickly, Lucas dug the pass he had been given out of a pouch he kept at his waist and waited for the officer to ask for it. Both he and Sergeant Maddox stood stock still at perfect attention when the officer walked up, giving the impression that they were human statues. The young lieutenant looked Finch over and completely ignored the orders he held.
"Private Hodges tells me you failed to halt when challenged." The officer said, looking with interest at Lucas' ragged uniform. "What do you have to say for yourself corporal?"
"I don't know what you mean sir." Lucas said, staring into the middle distance, standing with a posture so perfect you would have thought he was on a parade ground.
"I never heard Hodges challenge him sir." Maddox confirmed, completely straight faced. Lucas carefully restrained a grin from reaching his face. There was a certain understanding among veteran soldiers, an obligation to protect each other, and Lucas had counted on it.
"Hmmm." The lieutenant said, looking at the two of them with suspicious eyes. But finally, when they didn't move past blinking and breathing, he nodded. "I see. Sergeant Maddox, see to it that Private Hodges is punished."
"Yes sir. Of course, sir." Maddox replied while Hodges spluttered indignantly.
"Your orders?" The lieutenant asked and Lucas wordlessly handed over the page. The lieutenant scanned it for a moment and then spoke, his eyes narrowed. "I was under the impression that the Royal Irnathi Rifles were decommissioned and disbanded under the terms of the treaty."
"Yes sir." Lucas replied. He had learned early on that the best way to deal with officers like this one was to make your responses as short and concise as possible, and to stand at attention until they left.
"And when a unit is decommissioned, they relinquish their weapons." The lieutenant prompted.
"Yes sir." Lucas said again. The officer waited for him to continue, but Lucas stood so still that it was clear nothing more was forthcoming.
"If my eyes don't deceive me, you are wearing a rifle on your shoulder, corporal." The lieutenant said, his face starting to turn red with embarrassment. The unwavering gaze of two veteran soldiers must have been highly unnerving to the inexperienced officer, especially when he was hung over. "Would you explain that?"
"Yes sir." Lucas replied. "Begging your pardon sir, but I was detached from my battalion before it was decommissioned, and I was given orders to go home sir. No one ordered me to relinquish my rifle, so I kept it. Sir."
In truth, things were a little more complicated than that. In the chaos of the war ending and the treaty being ratified by the two warring Empires, a treaty that had been negotiated completely without the input of the Irnathi, the entire country had been left in disarray. With the Irnathi leadership more concerned with trying to put the ravaged country back together again, the military had been suddenly left without leadership, and essentially gutted by the terms of the treaty. The Irnathi soldiers had fought more bravely and fiercely in defense of their homeland than any other units in the war, and the Kindrin had insisted on most of the units being decommissioned before they would sign the treaty. And in all that chaos, details were forgotten, whole units left without orders. The survivors of the Rifle regiment's second battalion, which had been completely shattered in the last battle, had been given orders assigning them to their home towns, as was usual when a unit was disbanded. But no one had thought to tell them to give up their weapons, or even that the unit was to be disbanded. The way Lucas and his comrades saw it, the second battalion of the Rifles had never been formally dissolved by the king, so therefore, they were still technically riflemen, and riflemen never gave up their rifles.
"Detached?" The lieutenant asked, his eyebrows raising. "Doing what?"
"Recovering in a hospital sir." Lucas said, and the lieutenant's eyes tracked over the dark stain on his shoulder and the obviously overstitched hole beneath it.
"Recovering..." he said absently, then nodded and handed the pass back. "Of course. Very well corporal, everything seems to be in order. You may go."
"Yes sir, thank you sir." Lucas said, saluting the officer before taking the pass back and putting it in his pocket. The lieutenant turned to go, taking Hodges the sentry with him, the private still trying to work out how he had ended up in trouble. When they were gone, both Lucas and the Dragoon sergeant relaxed, the latter returning to leaning against the roadblock.
"Have time for a cup of coffee before you go Finch?" Maddox asked but Lucas shook his head.
"No thank you sergeant." He answered. "Never touch the stuff. Makes the hands unsteady."
"Right." Maddox said. "Well good luck and safe travels to you lad."
"To you as well sergeant." Lucas said and with a friendly wave, turned and continued his journey to his home in the north...
***
Many miles to the north of the checkpoint, a lone figure stood tiredly beside a shimmering pool. Its surface held what might be called a reflection; a perfect mirror, one might say. But that one would be quite wrong indeed. For this shimmering pool was filled not with water, but with a potion, a draught that only a master alchemist would know how to brew. And the reflection showed not the tired figure beside it, but a young green-coated soldier marching along a road, far beyond the distance of any sight. The stooped figure managed a slight smile as Lucas departed the checkpoint, for this boy was perhaps the key, the key to fixing all of this. The watching alchemist sighed, letting the spell fade away as he turned from the pool, unable to bear looking at his own reflection.
The man had been old even when this boy's father had been born, his talents in alchemy allowing him to live beyond the bounds of his years, but the old man was feeling the weight of his time pressing down on him, now more than ever. It had never been this bad before, but then, many things had been so different even a few years ago. But even as his body was beginning to fail him, the man had continued his work, striving to fix the trouble that had befallen his home. Letting out another exhausted sigh, the alchemist frowned. The sigh had turned into a mournful hoot, like that of an owl, and the old man turned back to his books, placing his glasses back upon his beak with a feathered hand and reviewing the sentence he had been writing before his instincts had warned him of young Lucas's approach. Once, not so long ago, the old man had been a human, the teacher of the young villagers in Keirnan, considered wise and learned by all who lived near. It had been a pleasant enough retirement from alchemy, allowing him to pursue his own interests in his own way and his own time rather than on the dictates of his superiors at the Irnathi Royal Academy of Alchemy, where he had studied and worked for nearly fifty years.
It was ironic, the owl-man thought. All those years he had worked on the mysteries of the universe under the great alchemists of the world, and never had he found a challenge that he had thought truly important enough to devote himself too. He had drifted from one project to another, pursuing whatever had struck his fancy at the time, and he had thought himself happy. And now, when he finally had a challenge worthy of a life's work, he knew he didn't have the time. All his skill with alchemy couldn't forestall age indefinitely. The end of his days was rapidly approaching, and he could do nothing about it.
Sighing once more, the old man started writing again. Now, he looked like a cross between a man and the old grey owl he had kept as a pet, the wizened bird having been his faithful companion for many years. In his youth, he might have been fascinated by the turn his fortunes had taken, but the circumstances were far too dire now. He was the only one who could fix this, so he refused to sleep, working hour after hour, studying and thinking, seeking an answer. And he waited for the young Finch to come home to roost. Smiling at his own minds' wording, he gripped his feather pen in hand and continued to write...
***
Thunder cracked far overhead and Lucas hunched his shoulders, wishing that he had an overcoat with a hood. A fine, misty rain had been falling for the last day and a half, ever since he had turned from the main northern road in fact, and he was soaked through. But, he had experienced much worse while with the army, so a little rain didn't bother him much. But still, he was looking forward to a nice fire, and a hot meal. He had discovered early on, as did all Riflemen, to cherish the rare occasions when they could get a hot meal and sit for a while beside a fire. The Rifles, more often than not deployed as skirmishers ahead of the main lines, had to go without fires on most nights, or risk artillery fire or enemy raids. And when the fighting had gone into the mountains, they had been used as scouts since the cavalry couldn't get their horses up the rocky slopes. Thus, Lucas was used to rough conditions, and eating all his meals cold, but still, one longed for a change after a while.
He knew that he was drawing close to Keirnan, though it was hard to tell how close since the landmarks had been hidden since the rains began. And yet, even though he was used to roughing it, he was very tired of this long journey. All he wanted was to get home, to sit by the hearth in his mother's house with Miles, his little brother and warm up, then to sleep for a solid night without worrying about waking up to an enemy attack. But the one thing he wanted most of all, was to see Olivia again. The girl had been his sweetheart since they had reached puberty, and they had been friends for years before that. The last time he had seen her had been when he and his family had set out from Keirnan, intending on taking a trip to the capital. He had given her his favorite necklace, one his father had given him before he died, an intricate knot of silver that looked as delicate as sunlight. He had told her that he would be back in a month, and that he wanted her to keep it safe until he returned.
She had kissed him goodbye, promising to wait for him. He hadn't known at the time that it would be years until he would see her again though, or he would have told her how much she had meant to him. The caravan his family had traveled with had barely arrived in the capital when word came of the Kindrin invasion. Every man from age fifteen to fifty in the capital and the surrounding region had immediately been drafted. But, fortunately for Lucas, having to hunt to provide for his family had made him an excellent shot, and early on in training, he had distinguished himself enough to be placed in the Rifles. But still, it had been the memory of that kiss, the scent of her lily perfume that had comforted him on the cold nights in the field, given him solace when he had been lonely. The desire to see her again was sometimes the only thing that had kept him going on the long marches, the endless hardships of soldiery.
Moments later, the sound of a river flowing swiftly over rocks brought him out of his memories with a jolt and he smiled at last. The river marked the edge of the farmlands around the village; he was almost home. Grinning broadly, he picked up the pace, hurrying forward. The river would be swollen with melted snow by now, and if he was at the point along its course that he thought he was, then there would be a bridge nearby, and then it was only a few short miles to the town. Resisting the urge to whistle a tune, Lucas jogged up to the riverbank and then, just as he crested the slight rise to see the river below him, he stopped short. The river was swollen alright, in fact, it appeared to be in the middle of a flood. Frowning, Lucas looked up and down the banks; this bend in the river was familiar, but there was no sign of the bridge that should have been there. On rare occasion, the bridge got washed out and had to be rebuilt, but there was always some sign of it.
Shrugging, Lucas carefully climbed down the bank and un-slung the long rifle from his shoulder. Then, holding the middle of his rifle with both hands, Lucas picked out a row of stones that peeked up above the water, just large enough for someone to walk on. Using the rifle as a counter balance, Lucas hopped from the stone to stone, managing to keep his footing even though the rocks were slick with water. When he reached the opposite bank, Lucas turned back and smiled. That particular trick was one he had learned while scouting, and now he was glad for the hardship that he had endured. It made journeys like this one much easier. Reslinging his rifle, he turned and started walking once more. The village had had a well beaten track leading from the town center to the bridge, but even without it, Lucas knew in which direction he needed to walk. His only worry in going this way was that the outlying farms kept dogs to protect their stock, and they could be quite vicious indeed to strangers.
As he walked, Lucas started to whistle a marching song, his feet falling into step with the tune out of habit, and the young rifleman had to wonder if he would ever be rid of the soldier's instincts he now possessed, or if he even wanted them to go away. But gradually, as Lucas' marching feet covered the last few miles of his journey, the rifleman stopped whistling and slowed his marching pace. The hair on the back of his head was standing on end, a sign that something was wrong. And he had long ago learned to trust that feeling.
But what was wrong was something he couldn't tell at first. And then, beside one of the many lone trees that sat out in the fields, Lucas froze, taking the rifle from his shoulder and untying the oil cloth again. The world around him was utterly silent. Granted, it was always quiet during a storm like this, but not silent. There was nothing. Not a bird sang out, or animal cried in the silent rainfall. As a matter of fact, he hadn't seen hide nor hair of any animal since he had passed the river. The silence was terribly eerie and unsettling, more than enough for Lucas not to want to take chances. Quickly drawing a cartridge from his box, he bit off the end and loaded his rifle, taking care to shield the barrel from the rain while he did it. Though the spiraling grooves that gave the rifle its accuracy also made it hard to load, Lucas had long ago grown accustomed to the action, ramming the ball, wrapped in a square of greased leather to give it added grip, down on top of the powder with his ramrod and then closing the lock over the filled firing pan.
Then, with the loaded and primed rifle in hand, Lucas continued forward in a half crouch, scanning the land around him with the same care he had taken while fighting in the war. The young soldier took a few steps, then paused, looking all around him, listening for any sound, then took a few more steps and repeated the process. This made the journey slow, but much safer; and yet, even with the care he took, Lucas grew more and more uneasy as he moved on towards the village. Every instinct in his body told him that there was something unnatural at work in this land, something that had frightened even the animals away. And then, suddenly, the mist and rain seemed to clear, as if the storm had worn itself out, and ahead of him, little more than two hundred yards away, were the angular shapes of the buildings on the edge of Keirnan. Lucas paused immediately, kneeling and scanning the town carefully, one hand on the hammer of his rifle, ready to cock and fire at a moment's notice. Nothing was moving that he could see, and that was more unnatural than anything. The village had always been full of life, and now it seemed wholly empty. For a few moments, Lucas' training warred with his own instincts, telling him to go back over the river; perhaps he could convince the dragoons to come back with him so they could all investigate what the hell happened here. Or maybe he should just leave altogether. It was clear that no one was around. And yet, for a long time now, he had felt as if he were being watched, though he had been able to see no one around him.
And then, finally, Lucas stood up once more, and began stalking forward into the village. Whatever was happening in this silent land, it was his home, and he couldn't leave without knowing what it was, not even to get help. As he walked closer and closer to the village's edge, Lucas became aware of a peculiar tingling energy seeming to fill the air around him. It was the same feeling the air got after a spell had gone off, but there had been no sign of magic anywhere around here.
The rain had all but stopped now, and Lucas could see at last see why everything was so still. Though the buildings still stood, it looked to have been some time since anyone lived in them. A few of the roofs had collapsed inward, and all the doors were hanging open, no lights lit in the windows. And that was just plain odd. There would have been no reason for his people to have abandoned their homes, not even if trade with the south were cut off. Since this area was so remote the village had to be pretty self-sufficient most of the time anyway. And, since the buildings had not been fired, cavalry hadn't raided it. But the question remained. Where was everyone?