A Banner Torn (Book 1 Complete)

Kaelid:

The soldiers arrived while he was helping his mother hang laundry. The commotion drew everyone to the village square. He abandoned his chore without a second thought, ignoring his mother's calls.

Real soldiers. Not militia members who spent most of their time farming or crafting, but men who had fought in actual battles against real enemies. Heroes returning from the front.

He pushed through the crowd, trying to get closer. The soldiers stood in a loose formation, their armor bearing dents and scratches that spoke of hard-fought conflicts. His heart raced with excitement. These men had seen the world beyond the village boundaries, had lived the adventures he'd only heard about in stories.

"Look at their swords," he whispered to himself, noting the worn hilts and nicked blades. Each mark surely had a story behind it, a moment of danger overcome through skill and bravery.

His excitement faltered as he neared close enough to see their faces. These men didn't look like the heroes from fireside tales. They looked... broken. Hollow-eyed and gaunt, they scanned the crowd with wary expressions, as if expecting an attack even here in a peaceful village. Several bore visible injuries, missing limbs or angry scars.

Kaelid recognized Tarn, who had left the village two years ago. The miller's son had been strong and confident then, always ready with a joke or a friendly word. Now he stood silent and still, barely responding to his family's tearful greetings. His eyes reminded him of Uncle Doran's on his bad nights, when the pain in his leg kept him awake and memories seemed to haunt him.

The soldiers didn't linger in the village center. After brief exchanges with family members and village officials, they moved as a group toward the river, establishing a camp on the far bank rather than staying with relatives or at the inn. Kaelid watched them go, his earlier excitement replaced by confusion and a growing sense of unease.

That evening at dinner, Uncle Doran was unusually quiet. He picked at his food, his gaze distant.

"Did you know any of them?... The soldiers who came today?"

Doran's focus sharpened, his eyes finding his across the table. "A few. Captain Merren was a lieutenant when I served. Good man in a bad situation."

"Why do they look so..." he struggled to find the right word.

"Haunted," Doran supplied. "War does that. Takes more than it gives."

"But they're heroes, aren't they? They fought for the kingdom."

Doran's laugh held no humor. "Heroes. That's what the recruiters promise. Glory and adventure." He shook his head. "Reality is different. Mud and blood and watching friends die while you wonder why you lived."

Kaelid's mother shot Doran a warning look. "That's enough. He's too young for such talk."

"Not too young to be curious," Doran countered. "Better he hears truth than fantasies."

The conversation shifted to other topics, but he couldn't stop thinking about the soldiers. After dinner, he slipped away from the house, making his way toward the river as twilight deepened into night.

The soldiers' camp was easy to find, being a collection of tents arranged in neat rows with a small central fire. He approached cautiously, staying low and using the riverside bushes for cover. He wasn't sure what he hoped to hear, perhaps stories of their battles or lands they'd seen. Something to make sense of the disconnect between his expectations and what he'd observed.

He found a spot close enough to see and hear without being spotted, settling into the undergrowth. The soldiers spoke little as they ate their evening meal, and what conversation occurred was mundane, focused on the next day's journey or complaints about aching injuries. No tales of heroism, no recounting of glorious victories.

"Shoulder's acting up again," one man said, rotating his arm with a grimace. "Weather's turning."

"Healer at the garrison might have something for it, if we make it there before the passes close."

"If the bandits don't get us first," a third added. "Heard Kellen's squad got hit last week. Three dead."

"Keep your voice down," the first soldier hissed. "You want the locals panicking?"

He shifted position, trying to see the speakers better. His foot dislodged a stone, sending it tumbling down the slight incline toward the camp.

The reaction was immediate and terrifying. Three soldiers leapt to their feet, weapons drawn, while others dropped into defensive crouches. One man charged toward his hiding place, sword raised, eyes wild with something beyond normal alertness.

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"Contact!" the soldier shouted. "North perimeter!"

Kaelid froze, terror paralyzing him as the soldier closed the distance in seconds. The man's face was a mask of focused aggression, his sword poised to strike.

"Hold!" a commanding voice cut through the chaos. "Stand down, Sergeant!"

The charging soldier stopped just short of his hiding place, close enough that he could see the network of small scars covering his face and the whites showing all around his irises.

Captain Merren approached at a controlled pace, his hand on his own sword hilt but his manner calmer than his men's. "It's just a village boy," he said, his voice level but carrying authority. "One of our messengers, in fact. Aren't you, lad?"

It took him a moment to realize the captain was offering him an explanation for his presence. "Y-yes, sir," he managed, rising shakily from the bushes.

"Delivered your message?" the captain asked, his eyes conveying a clear warning to play along.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now run along home. It's late for young ones to be about."

Kaelid needed no further encouragement. He turned and ran, not slowing until the village lights came into view. His heart hammered in his chest, the image of the soldier's wild eyes and raised sword burned into his memory.

These weren't the heroes of his imagination. They were men damaged by whatever they had seen and done, jumping at shadows, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. Men like Uncle Doran on his worst days, when loud noises made him flinch and crowded spaces caused him to break into cold sweats.

He slipped back into his house, relieved to find his mother already asleep. Sleep eluded him for hours, his mind replaying the soldier's charge, imagining what might have happened if the captain hadn't intervened.

Morning brought unexpected news. Uncle Doran announced at breakfast that Kaelid and Rannek would be joining the village supply caravan traveling to the city.

"The caravan leaves tomorrow," Doran explained. "Last chance for trade before winter closes the passes. You and Rannek will help with loading and basic tasks. Marta will go along as your overseer."

"Marta?" he questioned, momentarily distracted from his excitement about seeing the city. "Why her?"

"She's been on this run before, knows what to expect," Doran replied. "And she's proven responsible in militia training."

His mother looked concerned. "Is it safe? With the soldiers mentioning bandits..."

"The caravan is well-guarded," Doran assured her. "And they'll stay a day behind the regiment. Brannic and I agree the boys should see something beyond village boundaries."

"Rannek's going too?" Kaelid's enthusiasm growing despite the lingering unease from the previous night.

Doran nodded. "Already arranged with Julid. You'll need to pack today and be ready at first light tomorrow."

The day passed in a blur of preparation and excitement. Him and Rannek met to discuss the journey, speculating about what they might see in the city. Marta joined them briefly, her manner more serious than usual as she outlined her expectations for their behavior.

"This isn't a pleasure trip," she reminded them. "You're there to work and learn. Stay close to the caravan at all times, follow instructions immediately, and don't wander off."

"We know," Rannek said, rolling his eyes slightly. "We're not children."

"You're not adults either," Marta countered. "And I'm responsible for you both. Don't make me regret agreeing to this."

Dawn found the village buzzing with activity as the caravan prepared to depart. Six wagons loaded with trade goods lined the village square, drivers checking harnesses while guards made final inspections of their weapons. Families gathered to see them off, exchanging embraces and last-minute reminders.

He hugged his mother, promising to be careful and obedient. Uncle Doran clasped his shoulder firmly.

"Keep your wits about you," he advised. "The city is different from the village. More people, more dangers, more opportunities. Watch and learn, but stay alert."

As they moved toward their assigned wagon, He noticed a small group standing apart from the main gathering. The Miller family stood near the path leading to the burial cairns at the edge of town, shifting slightly as He watched. He could see that they were standing around a very much smaller stack of cairnstones than the others on the hill. They all wore clothing of a flat, lifeless grey. Even from a distance, their grief was palpable in the way they carried themselves.

"Why are they wearing that color? I've never seen anyone dressed in flat grey before."

Marta's usual matter-of-fact expression softened into something somber. "It's the color of mourning," she explained, her voice low. " The baby didn't make it—born too early, too small. They're going to place her name-stone on the cairn before we leave."

"Her name-stone?"

"It's how we remember those who've passed. We mark their sites with name stones that tell who rests there."

Marta's eyes held unexpected gentleness. "They almost lost the mother too. Childbed fever came on suddenly, just a few days was all it took... one gone, and nearly both, if it wasn't for Elder Myra's care. She'd only just recovered enough to visit her little one's resting place."

He watched as the grey-clad family made their slow way up the hill path, the mother supported between her husband and eldest son. Something tightened in his chest, a feeling he couldn't quite name.

"It's not fair," he whispered. "The baby never even had a chance to live."

"Life isn't fair," Marta said simply. "That's why we have each other. To help bear what we couldn't alone."

The caravan master called for final preparations, breaking the moment. As they climbed aboard their wagon, Kaelid found his earlier excitement tempered by the morning's reminders of life's fragility. The soldiers broken by war, the family grieving their lost child, even Uncle Doran with his painful leg and haunted nights, all spoke to vulnerabilities he was only beginning to understand.

The wagons lurched into motion, wheels creaking as they began the journey that would take them beyond the familiar boundaries of village life. He looked back once, watching his home recede behind them. His mother stood with Doran, both raising hands in farewell. Beyond them, the Miller family was returning from Memorial Hill, their grey clothing stark against the autumn landscape.

He turned to face forward, toward the road ahead and whatever awaited them in the wider world. For the first time, he felt the weight of growing up, of seeing beyond childhood's simple certainties into life's more complex truths. It was uncomfortable, even painful, but necessary, like the ache in muscles after a day of hard training.

"Ready?" Rannek asked from beside him, his friend's face showing similar thoughts behind his attempted smile.

"I think so," He replied, and was surprised to find he meant it.