I sit, idly picking at the scab on my left forearm. The nearby fire is getting low, and at this time of day, it’s causing odd shadows. This particular scab is healing nicely, I notice. The skin underneath is pink and healthy.

Pink, fresh skin, newly produced by my healing body. A common sight, yet one that the magi never see – they heal themselves with the power they steal from the Gods. No scabs, no pink skin needed when you just replace what is lost with a wave of your hand. Is it even truly their own skin, I wonder? An experienced battle-mage heals himself daily or more – is there anything left of the original man?

Idle thoughts. I look at the wound that has healed so well. The hair on my forearm is coarse and dark, which makes the empty space seem oddly light. I’ll have to keep that in mind when I take to the shadows. A new vambrace, blackened with mage blood and held over a fire, perhaps. That might work.

The thoughts are simply a foolish attempt to distract myself from the pain. A new wave of nausea and wracking agony pass through me, and my vision hazes over as I struggle not to vomit. Need to think about other things. Don’t let myself think about the pain.

My thoughts turn to the past, to a happier time, calming me and slowing down my breathing and my heartbeat. It eases the pain somewhat, and I embrace the memories as a vision through the pain-soaked haze.

*

The moon hangs low in the sky, so large that it seems almost threatening. The autumn air is crisp at this time of night, with the scents of wood smoke and cut grass battling for olfactory dominance. Harvest has always been one of my favorite times of year. The entire commune comes together, harvesting one field after another, together. If I were a bard, no doubt I’d wax rhapsodic on some sort of harvest harmony drivel, but I’m certainly no poet.

I stand up slowly from my perch, stretching my limbs and willing my muscles to not ache. The will falls short, however. My hours of watch from the shadows of the bell tower – the highest vantage point for a long ways – have taken their toll. I long to do some stretching exercises to limber up, but I don’t dare. My watch ends in another hour, and then I can go for a stroll with Melinda, down by the riverside. For now, I keep my movements slow, keeping to the shadows, and stay vigilant.

Raiders are always showing up around harvest. They hunger like anyone else, and they do not have the knowledge (or inclination) to do the work themselves. There are a few of us with some small ability with a blade. We keep watch, intercepting anyone who tries to sneak away with some of the bounty. If a large party approaches, we warn the others and form a ragtag militia. It isn’t perfect, but most bands of raiders will have heard of our methods, and pass by. There is plenty of prey in this world. Raiders are not wolves. They are curs. They don’t like to hunt prey that might bite back.

I’ve been doing the watch for a few years now. Not nearly as long as old Culty, but longer than the other two of us. The others are both green, and very excited for a grand adventure. They get bored when there’s nobody to chase away. Boredom suits me just fine. There’s a reason old Culty is missing a finger on his left hand.

Lost in my reverie, I almost do not spot them. More than my inattentiveness, this band is using the deepening darkness of the late evening, the sleepiness of a hard day’s work, and an invisibility spell to try to sneak in unnoticed. They’ve not accounted for someone watching from above, however, and so I am able to see the faint shimmering of the air as they pass by.

Odd, for raiders. They won’t get out with much of a haul, using this approach. What are they after? I think about it for a moment, and then decide that it doesn’t matter. We need to stop them.

“Up spears! Rally to the Green!” I call. It’s a succinct and effective system that old Culty came up with. Up spears tells everyone that we have a hostile force and to come out swinging whatever weapon they have – no quarter, no investigation, no questions. The call to rally is an order to form up and fight as a unit, as opposed to defending your own home. The Green is what we call the center of the commune.
Dreary-eyed farmers start to open doors and windows, looking out to see what the commotion is. I continue the call, still in the shadows, and begin ringing the church bell as well. That should bring in those who are tending the sheep on the outskirts. This raiding party is too well prepared. We’ll need everyone.

I crouch low, thankful that I had at least stretched a small amount, and drop to the roof nearest the bell tower. I begin a shuffling-scrabbling run across the roof toward the Green. The raiders haven’t dropped the invisibility spell yet. That’s odd. By this time they should be unlimbering axes and makeshift clubs, or making to snatch-and-run with one of the carts from harvest.

I’m still pondering this when a fireball erupts, seemingly from nowhere, to explode in the middle of the growing crowd on the Green. My friends are sent flying in all directions, some a charred, ruined husk. I say a quick prayer to whatever Gods might be listening, asking that please, let Melinda not be one of them. But then I am striking.

Again, they still were not expecting anything from above. I’m not sure why – they must have heard me, and the bell for certain. Perhaps they thought I would stay up there and shout? Whatever the reason, I’m thankful, as I strike clean on the one who lobbed the fireball. The fireball has forced his invisibility to drop, and the Gods have favored me. He stands directly below me. My sword enters from the right side of his neck and somehow misses bone, traveling straight through, exiting out his lower abdomen. A killing blow.

I’ve no time to revel, however. The strike has left me without my sword, with no time to extract it from his corpse. I roll to the left, anticipating a spear or halberd to skewer the air where I had been. The strike never comes, and for a moment I am confused, eyes casting about for a weapon of some kind.

Suddenly another of the raiders utters a bunch of gibberish, waves a hand, and my eyes are the only thing that I can still move. My muscles are tensed, rigid, and unresponsive. The magician steps up and looks me over, sneering. “Find the woman!” he yells.

And somehow, I know. They’ve come for Melinda.