until I return.” Then he shuts the trapdoor and locks it.
“Kadmus,” he says, resting his hand on my shoulder. “These people will try to kill you and your friends. We cannot let that happen. You have to use this. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now follow me.” We exit the house and lock the door behind us.
There’s fire. Screaming. Clanging, yells of men.
I run down the hill, close behind my father, holding the sword in my right hand while my left hovers over my throwing knives. The stars are still out; it must be hours until dawn.
It’s not until we get into town that we see people. Townspeople run screaming. My father cuts down a shadowy figure and we keep running. “Bownan!” he yells. “Leon!”
Another few figures come down the street at us. Father puts them down with ease. Suddenly one jumps at me from a side alley, and I stumble back in fright. My father gets him from the back and says, “Come on Kadmus!”
“Bownan!” he yells again. “Leon!” A reply comes from behind a nearby building, which I recognize as Leon’s butcher shop. We make our way there, where we see Leon and Bownan each with their own sword, cutting through the bandits. They are accompanied by two guards.
“How many are there?” asks Father.
“We don’t know!” answers Bownan, his beard shaking.
“Too many!” replies Leon.
One of the guards responds, “Enough to stretch all of our forces across the town.”
“Where’s Captain Ruger?”
The second guard says, “We don’t know. He gave orders and then ran to the bridge with some of our men.”
Percival and his father, Darius, appear out of the smoke. Both are holding bows.
Darius speaks to my Father, “They came from the south, over the bridge. They’ve taken the tower there and are shooting from it, killing anyone they can!”
“Who are they?” he asks.
“We don’t know; their armor is different from any I’ve seen before.”
“We need to know their numbers,” says Bownan. “If there are only a few, we can stand our ground and fight. If there are many, we must fall back and fight elsewhere.”
“Or retreat,” says Leon.
Jericho, a tall skinny boy my age, appears with his father. His black hair is speckled with ash and his brown eyes dart perceptively over everything. I nod to him, and he nods back. Formal hellos are for another time.
“Darius,” says my father. “The old tower to the north. It has the war horn inside, at the peak. From there you can see their numbers. One blow for less than fifty. Two blows for one hundred. Three for anything more.”
Darius obeys without question. “Come, Percival!” Percival nods to me and then follows his father back up the street.
“What of us?” says Leon.
“We go to the town square,” says my Father. “Get the women and children safe.”
With that we take off at a sprint, the guards close behind.
Bandits pop out of almost every alley. Too often we pass the unmoving body of an innocent, slaughtered in cold blood. With every one we pass, my blood boils a little hotter. Men join our band, each bearing their own sword.
Once in the town square, we split into pairs; me and my father, Jericho and his father, and Leon and Bownan. “Find and gather as many people as you can! Return here!”
My father turns and kills another bandit. As of yet, I have not even swung my sword.
Together we make our way down the street, helping the men in their fights and making sure women and children are safe in their homes. In only minutes we return to the town square with a band almost thirty strong, and Leon and Bownan have done the same. About fifteen additional guards have joined us.
“Where have they gone?” asks Father.
Everyone looks about warily. “Have we won?” asks one of the men.
“Where have they gone…?” Father growls.
Some of them appear out of the darkness and into the street; at least twenty. Then more. Then we hear the horn blow.
It’s a loud, baritone horn. The sound has a bit of a rattle in it, but a constant pure tone.
The bandits are set back slightly. The first ends and a few long seconds pass. Then it blows again.
My father’s face hardens. “One hundred strong…” he mutters. “Where did you come from?”
The bandits are overcoming their fear of the horn, and they begin a charge down the street at our force in the village square. To our terror, the horn blows a third time.
Though we have little training, we fight for our homes. It