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No sounds emerged from the smoldering ruins of cottages, many with no walls left standing.

He trudged down the road, clutching the bearskin.

No horses remained. The sun would soon set, and he’d been drinking in the tavern during the late evening on what must have been the previous day.

Had he been unconscious for an entire day?

The dead had been noticed, judging from the buzzards circling overhead.

He didn’t have the means to bury his comrades.

His fellow soldiers came from many lands. There was no telling which gods or goddesses they prayed to. “Deities of my comrades, take the dead unto yourselves.” May his simple prayer be sufficient .

Rufe trudged through empty streets searching for shelter, keeping to areas less likely to show footprints.

If any enemies returned and found they’d left a soldier alive, they’d finish the job.

He shivered, both in fear and from the cold.

Snow fell in light drifts. How he’d delighted the first time he’d seen the cold, delicate flakes.

Now, he’d give his most prized possessions to be home again in Cormira, feeling the warm sea breezes on his face.

The farthest dwelling from the battle remained relatively intact.

Rufe hunkered down against one wall, leaving the door open to watch the main road.

The inhabitants wouldn’t mind if he borrowed a blanket, would they?

The threadbare wool barely provided any protection, but kept him warm enough when covered by the bearskin.

He dozed throughout the night, hungry, thirsty, and too terrified to move. He’d barely seen nineteen summers. A few seasons ago, he’d been training with his closest friend, excited to begin life in the military, but now, he might never see Draylon again. Dray would never know what happened.

Morning’s first light brought the lowered clouds of more impending snow.

Rufe shivered. Goddess, he hated the cold.

Survival depended on food, water, and warmth.

He ventured out of his hiding place to search the bodies of the fallen for anything useful.

None carried a sword as fine as his, but he took Captain Anjoix’s knife with a silent word of thanks, since the captain would never need it again.

One of the fallen Craicians wore boot sheaths with matching watered steel daggers. Rufe took those, too .

No beasts remained near what had once been stables.

He dug through the rubble. Ah, a saddlebag.

Wow! Bits of cheese, dried meat, and dried fruit.

He crammed the offerings into his mouth, washing them down by melting snow in his mouth, all while trying not to think about whose supplies he raided.

Another charred saddlebag rendered more dried fruit.

A hoof stuck out of the ashes. Some poor horse trapped in the inferno had likely screamed in terror, unable to escape.

Rufe squeezed his eyes shut. Black leg, white sock, white hoof.

Could this poor animal have been his horse, Rainfall?

An invisible hand twisted his heart. Even if this wasn’t Rain, it belonged to someone and deserved a better death.

What should he do now? Where should he go? Would Cormiran troops search for survivors before the enemy returned? Rufe couldn’t take the chance.

Two days of steady walking should put him at the nearest reasonably sized town where he might find other Cormiran troops.

Two days. He only had to last two days….

He eyed the remaining food, his belly still cramping with hunger, but in the end, he stored the scraps for later and slipped through the woods to the road.

Snow seemed to muffle all sounds and had already begun filling any footprints.

Whichever way the Craicians had gone, he saw no tracks.

The rustling in a bush might’ve been a small animal.

Peaceful. So unlike the nightmare he’d left in the village.

He should disappear into the forest instead of sticking to the main road, but any other survivors might be on this road, and with the sun hidden behind a gray sky, he had no accurate guide and would become lost.

He'd just have to keep a close watch.

After only a few minutes of walking, a man stepped out on the path ahead, wearing a wide grin and a green and blue Craician uniform. He pulled a broadsword from the sheath at his waist. “Well, well, well, what have we here?” he asked in Cormiran.

Fuck! Rufe’s heart slammed into ribs. He turned to run. Four more soldiers in frayed uniforms and wearing a motley assortment of armor—if they wore any—blocked his escape. Were they actual soldiers of the Craician army or deserters?

Five against one. Rufe drew his sword. He might be tired, in shock, and with a wounded head, but if he died, he’d take at least two of these mangy curs with him as presents for the God of War.

The man behind Rufe approached, boots ruffling fallen leaves beneath a layer of powdered snow. “Where did you get such an exquisite sword?” he barked in Cormiran.

Rufe turned to the side to watch all five men and lifted his chin, clutching his sword tighter. “I didn’t steal it. It’s mine.” It wasn’t the first time someone noticed the superior workmanship of his blade and how the quality didn’t match the young bastard gripping the hilt.

The man spoke to his comrades in Craician, of which Rufe couldn’t understand more than a few words. Then the man, apparently the leader, spoke to Rufe again in Cormiran. “How lucky for you that you might be worth more to us alive than dead. ”

One soldier lunged. Rufe parried the blow, only to face another opponent and another.

None sought to push an advantage. They were tiring him out.

What did they mean by him being more valuable alive than dead?

He was no one important and knew no military secrets—only a duke’s bastard son.

If they planned to ransom him, they’d be sorely disappointed when no one replied to their demands.

One man grinned, approaching from the left as another came from the right.

They both attacked. Rufe threw off the bearskin and blocked one blade aimed for his sword arm before whirling to block another.

He could only defend himself, unable to go on the offense.

There were too many of them. He imagined himself a stag surrounded by wolves.

Eventually, his strength would fail—the predators would close in.

If only he’d been wearing plate armor instead of his uniform, which barely offered protection from the cold, let alone a sword. He parried a thrust, arm heavy and vision fuzzy.

A blade slipped past his defenses, scoring a hit on his thigh. Fire raced up Rufe’s leg. Maybe they were only toying with him and had implied they were keeping him alive to give false hope.

Rallying his flagging strength, Rufe let out a battle cry. “Yahhh!” He charged into the midst of the men. While they had the advantage of numbers, he’d been better trained, even if he’d only recently been tried in combat.

He parried, he thrusted, letting seasons of training guide him. The leaves beneath the snow slid underfoot, but he stayed upright, bringing his sword crashing down. A man screamed, reeling away, clutching his cheek.

The wound in Rufe’s thigh burned, but he couldn’t worry about non-fatal injuries now. He likely had more cuts he’d feel in the morning—if he lived to see a new day.

More fighters left the fray, but he didn’t flatter himself that they fled a superior fighter. They were flanking him. Minutes were all that remained of his life. His limbs grew heavy. He could barely lift his sword.

Rufe collapsed onto his knees, skin sweat-slicked despite the cold, fighting hard to breathe. His exhales steamed in the frosty air. He dropped his sword, hanging his head in defeat, and braced for the killing blow.

The leader squatted in front of Rufe. “You’re a good fighter, lad.

If I didn’t already have plans for you, I’d ask you to join us.

But this…” he nodded toward the fallen sword, “tells me you have value to the Cormiran Empire, and I am a man who knows the use of valuable things.” He stood, commanding, “Bind his hands and bring him.” He took Rufe’s sword, which might’ve been more painful than the leg wound.

As long as Rufe had his sword, hope remained.

Hope walked away with his sword.

Two men wrenched Rufe’s arms behind him.

Damnation that hurt his aching shoulders.

Rufe bit into his lip, drawing blood, trying not to cry out.

The brutes bound his wrists together, leather cords biting into his skin.

Captured by the enemy. At least he was better off than his comrades, but for how long?

Stories came back to him of the horrible treatment survivors endured, tales of brutality beyond most people’s beliefs.

He could endure torture—or worse—at the hands of these brigands and remain alive.

They laughed, running their hands over his body, claiming his daggers. One leered, running his hand up the inside of Rufe’s thigh. He struggled. The man grinned, moved his hand to Rufe’s biceps, and nearly dragged him back to the burned-out village.

All his company most likely dead, Rufe alone remaining.

Even if he survived and returned home, his life would forever be changed.

Or maybe the shame would send him to another land to live as a mercenary, taking the memories of the fallen with him.

Certainly, he’d never again be the Rufe Ferund who’d sought adventure on this mission.