Year 1459 – Village of Shuru
Voices rose outside.
Alaric couldn't stay glued to the window. He paced between the door and the crack that gave him a view of the road, heart racing.
"Open up, in the king's name!"
The shout came from too close. A fist hammered on a door down the lane. Someone squeaked in reply.
Alaric flinched. He pressed his palm to his own door, then pulled it back as if it were hot. Marla had said not to open it.
He wouldn't.
He peeked through the window again.
A group of Buckland soldiers had gathered in the center of Shuru. Their armor gleamed brighter than any metal Alaric had ever seen. White cloaks draped from their shoulders, edges already dust-stained.
Berthold stood in front of them, hands spread in what looked like a welcoming gesture, shoulders stiff. Tomas stood a little behind him, along with Harn and a few other men.
One soldier stepped forward, helmet under his arm. His armor was cut differently, with more decoration. A small white horse crest on his chest.
"Village name?" he asked brusquely.
"Shuru," Berthold replied. "Under the crown of Horsin."
"Horsin." The soldier's mouth twisted faintly, like he'd bitten something sour. "You're in the path of the Northern Army of Buckland, under Lord Marius Valen. By right of war and treaty, we will be taking what we require for the campaign. You will cooperate, and you will not resist."
"Of course," Berthold said quickly. "We're simple folk, Captain. We don't have much, but what we have, we'll—"
"Grain, livestock, tools, wagons," the captain went on, not looking at him. "We'll assess and collect. Men of age may also be conscripted to labor units as needed. Any attempt to hide supplies will be treated as treason against Buckland's crown."
"Treason?" Harn muttered. "We're not even yours."
Alaric couldn't make out Berthold's answer, but his hands fluttered, placating.
Soldiers spilled through the village like water, two or three to a house, shoving doors open without knocking.
Alaric jerked back from the window.
They're going to come in here too.
His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
Hide? Under the bed? Behind the stove? In the barrel now…?
The door rattled once under a testing hand. Then again, harder.
"Open up!"
Alaric froze.
"Mom said—" he whispered to himself.
"Hey!" Marla's voice snapped from outside. "Hands off my door. I'm right here."
Alaric sagged with relief, then scrambled back to the window.
Marla stood in front of the house, arms folded, as two soldiers glared at her. One reached for the handle again; she slapped his hand away.
"You can shout all you like," she said. "The hinges are old. You'll break them. If you want in so badly, you can wait for my husband like normal people."
"Watch your tongue," the soldier growled.
The other let his gaze wander over her, slow and ugly. "Feisty," he said with a smirk. "Bet she hides all kinds of things."
His friend snorted. "We can always search thoroughly later. After the captain's done."
Marla's jaw tightened, but she didn't back away.
Alaric didn't fully understand the words, but the tone made his skin crawl.
"Just get the list," the first soldier snapped. "We're not here to chat."
They brushed past her toward the storage shed.
Marla's face was pale, but her chin stayed high.
Alaric pressed his forehead harder against the window frame.
In the center of the village, argument had started.
"…I'm telling you, that's all we have," Berthold insisted, sweat shining on his forehead. "We've just finished harvest. The rest is already sent as tithe to Horsin's lord. If you take everything, we won't last the winter."
The Buckland captain frowned at the scribbled tally sheet a subordinate handed him. "This is… insufficient," he said coolly. "The Northern Army requires more."
"We can't give what we don't have," Berthold said, voice cracking. "We're farmers, not misers. Check the barns yourself. There's no hidden granary under the wells."
"Your needs are not the Northern Army's concern," the captain said. "Our orders are clear. Take what we can carry. Move fast."
"But we'll starve!" someone else shouted. "You can't just—"
A soldier clubbed the man in the stomach with his spear butt. The man went to his knees, gasping.
Alaric flinched.
The captain barely glanced over. "Complain again and we'll add labor drafts to the tally. Buckland feeds its own first."
"What about Horsin?" Tomas demanded, anger in his voice. "What about the people who live here?"
The captain's gaze slid over him as if he were a rock in the road. "You are in the path of the army," he said. "That's all that matters."
Alaric saw Tomas's hands curl into fists, then slowly relax.
"…Alaric," Marla murmured from below the window, more to herself than anyone. "Please be doing what I told you."
He was. But standing still felt harder than anything he'd ever done.
Outside, the sound of doors forced open and animals protesting rose like a wrong kind of festival.