A Banner Torn (Book 1 Complete)

Brannic:

The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal filled the forge, a sound as familiar to Brannic as his own heartbeat. He worked methodically, shaping a plowshare that would turn earth come spring planting. His scales absorbed the forge's heat, the warmth pleasant against his rust-brown hide. The metal glowed orange-red under his precise strikes, bending to his will with each blow.

A commotion from the village center interrupted his concentration. There were voices raised in surprise, the shuffle of many feet, the distinctive jingle of military gear. Brannic set his hammer down and moved to the forge entrance, golden eyes narrowing against the autumn sunlight.

Soldiers. Perhaps twenty of them, trudging wearily into the village square. Their armor bore the insignia of the King's Fourth Regiment, the unit that had recruited from this region. The villagers gathered around them, some rushing forward to embrace returning sons or brothers, others hanging back with anxious expressions.

Brannic's gaze swept over the group with professional assessment. Dented breastplates, notched sword blades, shields bearing the scars of multiple impacts. A ledger of repairs formed in his mind, categorizing the work by urgency and complexity. Only after cataloging the equipment did he truly see the men who wore it.

They were damaged in ways metal could never be. Haunted eyes stared from gaunt faces. Several limped or leaned on companions. One man's right sleeve hung empty, pinned at the shoulder. Another's face bore a fresh scar that pulled his mouth into a permanent grimace. All carried themselves with the wary tension of those who had learned that death could come from anywhere, at any moment.

Brannic recognized three of them as village sons. Tarn, the miller's eldest, who had left with a boisterous laugh and promises of glory. Now he stood silent, eyes fixed on some middle distance, responding to his weeping mother's embrace with mechanical pats on her back, even as she struggled to stand so soon after the traumatic birthing. Joreth, the cooper's boy, who had once been quick to smile and quicker to jest. His left leg ended at the knee now, replaced by a wooden peg. And Valen, who had apprenticed briefly with Brannic before the call to arms had seduced him with visions of heroism. Valen's body seemed intact, but something vital had vanished from behind his eyes.

Such waste. Such terrible waste.

Brannic felt no surprise at their condition, only a weary resignation. He had seen this pattern repeat too many times across too many years. Young ones marching off to war, bold and full of glory, returning broken or not returning at all. The lucky ones came home with scars that would eventually fade. The unlucky ones came home with wounds no forge could mend. The unluckiest became names carved on memorial stones.

The regiment's officer, a lean man with a captain's insignia and a face aged beyond his years, spotted Brannic and approached with purposeful strides.

"Master Smith," he greeted with a respectful nod. "I'm Captain Merren. My men have equipment in need of repair before we continue to the garrison."

"I see that," Brannic replied, his deep voice neutral. "Bring what needs immediate attention to the forge. I'll assess what can be done before you depart."

"We camp across the river tonight," the captain said. "We'll bring the worst of it within the hour."

Brannic nodded, noting how the captain kept his men at the village edge, how they formed a loose perimeter even here in friendly territory. The war had changed them all, written new instincts into their bodies that would never fully fade.

True to the captain's word, three soldiers arrived at the forge carrying armloads of damaged equipment. Brannic directed them to place everything on his sorting table, then began his inspection. His clawed hands moved with practiced efficiency, separating the items into groups: quick repairs, complex work, and beyond salvaging.

"This shield is finished," he told the waiting men, holding up a buckler so dented its shape had warped beyond usefulness. "The metal can be reclaimed, nothing more."

"The captain said to ask what you'd take in trade," one soldier said. "We've goods from the southern provinces."

"I require no payment for basic repairs," Brannic stated. "The village council will settle accounts with your quartermaster."

The soldiers exchanged glances, clearly unused to such arrangements. War taught suspicion of generosity.

"We'll inform the captain," the lead soldier finally said. "When might the work be completed?"

"By morning," Brannic replied. "I'll bring the finished pieces to your camp."

After they departed, Brannic stoked his forge and began the repairs. The work was straightforward, if time-consuming. Hammering out dents, resharpening blades, replacing missing rivets and worn straps. His mind wandered as his hands performed their familiar tasks.

He thought of young Kaelid and Rannek, watching the militia train with eager eyes. Would they too someday march off to war, seduced by promises of glory? Would they return as these men had, carrying wounds visible and invisible? Or would they become names on stones, memories fading with each passing season?

The waste of it all struck him anew. Not just lives lost, but potential. Tarn had shown promise as an engineer before the recruiters came. Joreth's clever hands might have created works of beauty. Valen could have been a fine smith, given time and training. Now one was a hollow shell, one was crippled, and one was haunted by memories left unspoken.

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By the time the repairs were complete, night had fallen. Brannic gathered the mended equipment and made his way toward the soldiers' camp across the river. The autumn air carried a hint of frost, a reminder that winter approached and the mountain passes would soon close until spring.

The soldiers had established their camp with military precision. Tents arranged in neat rows, sentries posted at regular intervals, a central fire kept deliberately small to preserve night vision. They had chosen a position with clear sightlines and multiple escape routes, Brannic noted. Even here, they prepared for attack.

Captain Merren met him at the camp's edge. "Master Smith. You've completed the work already?"

"Simple repairs," Brannic replied, handing over the bundle. "Nothing that required special attention."

The captain inspected several pieces, nodding with approval. "Fine work. We're grateful." He hesitated, then added, "Would you share our fire for a time? It's been many months since we had the company of anyone not in uniform."

Brannic considered declining, then reconsidered. "For a short while."

The soldiers made space for him near the fire, though most kept their distance. Dragonkin were uncommon in these lands, and their natural wariness was compounded by battlefield instincts. Only the captain and two others joined him directly.

"You've been settled in this village long?" the captain asked, offering a tin cup of something that smelled of strong spirits.

"Ten years," Brannic replied, accepting the cup but not drinking. "My mate and I came from the eastern ranges."

"A long journey?"

"A necessary one."

The captain nodded, understanding the unspoken. Many had been displaced by the war's expansion. "We'll move on tomorrow. Final supply run to the garrison before winter closes the passes."

"The village is preparing its own supply caravan," Brannic noted. "The last chance for trade goods until spring."

"They'd do well to wait until we're a day ahead," one of the other soldiers said. His face bore a network of small scars, like someone had pressed a hot grid against his skin. "Roads aren't safe these days. Deserters turned bandits in the western hills."

"The village militia is capable," Brannic said, though he filed the warning away.

"Militia," the scarred soldier scoffed. "Farm boys with pitchforks."

"Enough, Sergeant," the captain said quietly. "We were all farm boys once."

A movement in the bushes at the camp's edge caught Brannic's attention. His superior vision easily penetrated the darkness to reveal a small figure crouched among the leaves. Kaelid, no doubt drawn by curiosity about the soldiers. The boy was too far to overhear their conversation, but close enough to observe.

Brannic chose not to reveal the boy's presence. Let him watch and learn. Better to observe these men from a distance than to follow their path.

"Your village has been fortunate," the captain said, drawing Brannic's attention back. "Spared the worst of the fighting."

"Thus far," Brannic agreed. "Though we've lost sons to your regiments."

"Some returned today."

"Not as they left."

The captain's expression hardened slightly. "No one returns as they left, Master Smith. That's the nature of war."

"A poor bargain," Brannic observed. "Trading youth and potential for scars and nightmares."

"You speak as one who knows battle."

Brannic didn't answer directly. "I know its aftermath. I see it in your men's eyes. I've seen it in too many eyes across too many years."

A tense silence followed, broken when one of the sentries approached and whispered something to the captain. The officer's hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt as he rose.

"Someone in the bushes at the north perimeter," he explained to Brannic. "Probably just a curious villager, but my men are... cautious."

"Understandably," Brannic said, also rising. "I should return to the village. Dawn comes early."

As he departed, he circled wide to approach the spot where he'd seen Kaelid. The boy was no longer there, but broken twigs and disturbed leaves marked his hasty retreat. Brannic hoped the sentries hadn't frightened him too badly, though perhaps a healthy fear of jumpy soldiers was a lesson worth learning.

The following morning, Brannic found Doran waiting outside his forge. The former soldier leaned heavily on his cane, his face drawn with pain. Bad night, then. The arrival of the regiment likely stirred unwelcome memories.

"The regiment moves out at midday," Doran said without preamble. "Heading to the garrison at Highpass."

"So I heard," Brannic replied, unlocking the forge door. "Come inside. The morning is cold."

Once inside, he stoked the banked coals of his forge, bringing warmth back to the space. Doran settled on a bench, stretching his bad leg before him.

"Kaelid was asking about the soldiers," Doran said. "Full of questions about battles and glory."

"Unsurprising," Brannic commented. "Boys his age often mistake violence for adventure."

"I told him little. Some things shouldn't be shared." Doran's hand tightened on his cane. "But he'll keep seeking answers unless given something else to focus on."

"The village supply caravan leaves tomorrow," Brannic noted. "The last run to the city before winter."

Doran nodded slowly. "I've been considering that. Perhaps the boys should go along. See something beyond the village boundaries."

"With proper supervision," Brannic agreed. "The militia girl, Marta, has proven responsible. She could serve as their overseer."

"You think it wise? The regiment mentioned bandits in the hills."

"The caravan is well-guarded," Brannic said. "And the experience would be educational. Better they learn about the wider world in measured doses than rush headlong into it unprepared."

Doran considered this, his weathered face thoughtful. "Maerwen will worry."

"Mothers always do. But she trusts your judgment, as does Julid."

"Very well," Doran decided. "I'll speak with the caravan master and arrange it. The boys can assist with loading and basic tasks. Marta will keep them in line."

After Doran departed, Brannic returned to his work, but his thoughts remained on the boys. They stood at the threshold between childhood and what came after, that precarious time when decisions could set the course of entire lives. He had seen too many younglings make the wrong choice, seduced by visions of glory that turned to ash in their mouths.

Perhaps seeing the city, with its complexities and opportunities beyond soldiering, would broaden their understanding. Perhaps witnessing the regiment's broken men would temper their romantic notions of warfare. Perhaps they would choose paths that built rather than destroyed.

Perhaps. But youth rarely heeded the warnings of age, rarely saw the patterns visible to those who had witnessed their repetition across decades. Youth believed itself exceptional, immune to the fates that befell others.

Brannic hammered a glowing length of metal, each strike precise and purposeful. The steel yielded to his strength and skill, taking the shape he intended rather than the one it might have assumed if left to chance. If only young lives could be guided with such certainty, such clear purpose.

But they could not. Each must forge their own path, make their own choices, bear their own consequences. The most one could do was provide tools and knowledge, then watch as they shaped themselves, for better or worse.

He could only hope that Kaelid and Rannek would choose wisely when their time came.