The Burden of Ash and Blood - 1. Chapter 1

Sam stared blankly into his bedroom, still reeling at his decision to leave home. It’d all happened so quickly, as though Ser Graeme had ensorcelled him into agreeing. That was ridiculous, of course. Sam had already made the decision. Graeme’s invitation only made it easier to follow through. But now, he needed to decide what was important enough to take on a journey with no set course, and managing the limited space of his saddlebags was his chief concern.

The poignant truth of the situation was clear. All his worldly possessions—what little he owned—would need to be left behind. That included his collection of books crammed on the shelves. He suppressed the temptation to bring along a couple favourites, certain they’d only fall to ruin on the road. Left here, they would at least survive, waiting for a day when he might return to claim them.

For now, however, he couldn’t stomach the idea of spending another night under this roof. The knight had understood this innately, and without any prompting from Sam, suggested they stay the night at Reabury’s inn. Come the next dawn, they’d leave the village Sam had called home his entire life.

He loathed the idea of abandoning everything his parents had built—running away from his grief rather than confronting it. His life here, simple as it was, had meaning. He was a part of the community. Mr Kent had taught him everything he knew about blacksmithing. The old soldier likely hoped that he would eventually take charge of the smithy. Sam groaned at the prospect of telling the man that, regrettably, all his efforts were for nought.

That damned bandit, in murdering Sam’s parents, had ruined all he held dear. The visceral details of that grim morning strove to break through, but Sam blinked it away, managing to pull himself back to the present. All that remained was the ache of the knife wound near his shoulder. Under Janna’s ministrations, it was healing well enough.

Still rooted at the threshold of his bedroom, he listened for any sign of Graeme. After suggesting Sam pack his belongings, the knight had headed outdoors. But where he’d gone, Sam had no idea. Even as the minutes drifted past, he could still feel the traces of Graeme’s warm grip on his hands. That firm touch had roused a hidden strength, providing an assurance that, somehow, he’d manage to recover from the ordeal. Perhaps one day he would, but he also believed he’d lost an important part of himself—a fragment of innocence crushed by the violent end of his parents.

Sam pulled in a deep breath and released it slowly, knowing there was nothing gained by ruminating on that grisly memory. Damned if it wasn’t always ready to crawl back in. Instead, he rummaged through his chest of drawers, retrieving a bag containing his silver coins and clothing for colder weather. He laid everything on the bed. Lined trousers, woollen shirts, thick stockings, and sets of underclothes. He glanced at the dark brown gambeson hanging over a chair. Well worn yet still in adequate condition, Graeme had given the padded armour to Sam before they’d headed to the Lÿmian ruins to rescue the kidnapped girl, Rebekah. Knowing it belonged to the knight and that he’d worn it, still brought up a bubble of excitement. Though meant for battle, it would serve to keep him warm throughout the winter months.

Movement outside the bedroom window caught Sam’s eye. Graeme was carrying old planks of wood from an outbuilding back to the house. He had yet to don his armour and helmet—what he described as his skin and face—but that didn’t stop him from hiding under a deep hood. Sam assumed Graeme would eventually grow comfortable enough to reveal his true self, but given the knight’s hesitancy, Sam didn’t want to risk upsetting him by asking prematurely.

Intrigued by the knight’s activity, Sam hastily folded the clothing on the bed and packed them into a bag. Propped against the gambeson was his shortsword, and he grabbed both before dashing to the landing. But then he skidded to a stop and turned to peer back into his bedroom, filled with the sombre realisation he might never see it again. This was where he’d slept every night of his life. Twenty-two years. The urge to say goodbye stirred within him, but it felt too childish an indulgence. After all, it was only a room. With a set jaw, he refused to give in to the maudlin impulse and turned away.

Outside, he found Graeme leaning wooden planks near the front door. A handsaw lay in the grass nearby. He approached the knight, who watched Sam awkwardly carrying his belongings.

“Can I aid you?” Graeme asked.

Sam shuffled his burden to steady his grip. “No, I’m good. What’re you doing?”

Graeme gestured to the windows. “You have shutters we can nail shut. However, I thought it prudent to bar the door with these planks.”

Sam envisioned the house with its closed shutters and barred door, grass overgrown—a sad, abandoned place.

“Where do you keep your hammer and nails?” Graeme asked.

“Um . . .” Sam shook off the cloying, miserable image in his mind. “They should be where you found those planks. I’ll get them for you.”

Graeme nodded his thanks and fell to the task of sawing the planks to appropriate lengths. Upon reaching the stables, Sam spotted Graeme’s own belongings. He dropped off his baggage beside them, then looked toward to the paddock. The horses—Winx, Tusk, Lonnie, Daisy, and the four others belonging to the bandits—were lazily cropping grass. Tusk, Graeme’s warhorse, maintained her usual aloof demeanour. Graeme said she would grow to trust Sam and Winx, but it would take time. Given they’d be spending countless days travelling together, Sam figured that would be sooner rather than later.

The wide door to the outbuilding creaked as Sam pulled it open. Inside sat all of Pa’s farming equipment. Ploughs, harnesses, eveners, old canvas sacks. Another vision caught Sam off guard. Pa’s fields gone fallow. The outbuilding collapsed, crushing the old equipment within, rotten and forgotten. He hurried to the far side of the building, gathered a wooden box of nails and a hammer from a rickety shelf, and then left the building and its foreboding premonition behind.

“Thank you,” Graeme said upon Sam’s return. “I have a few items left inside. Once collected, we ought to board up the house.”

Sam peered through the window, eyeing the closed door beyond the kitchen—his parents’ bedroom. “There’s one thing left for me too, but . . .” He let out a sigh. “It’s my Pa’s lockbox. It has the earnings from this year’s harvest. But it’s in their bedroom.”

Graeme followed Sam’s gaze toward the door. “You wish me to retrieve it?”

The idea of entering their bedroom still disturbed Sam. “Please? It’s hidden in the far corner of the wardrobe.”

“Certainly.”

Even the thought of Graeme entering that space left Sam queasy. “I need to tell Mr Kent I’m leaving, and arrange a room for us at the inn. I’ll make it quick, then help you close up the house.”

After Graeme agreed to the plan, Sam jogged the short distance to the stables, saddled Winx, and rode to the village. The familiar ring of Mr Kent’s hammer welcomed him as he approached the smithy. But with each step, his stomach hurt. He was nervous to give the blacksmith the news, to witness his reaction to Sam’s resignation. The hammering continued as he entered the warm workspace, but he kept his distance, waiting until Mr Kent dipped the heated metal into a bucket of water.

“Hello,” Sam said lamely with a cracked voice.

Mr Kent turned in surprise. “What’re you doing here, lad? I told you to only come back when you’re ready.” He frowned. “It hasn’t even been a day.”

“I know, I know,” Sam said with raised hands in an attempt to calm the man. “I’ve come to tell you that I . . . I’m leaving Reabury, so, um, I won’t be able to work for you anymore.” The words felt clumsy in his mouth, as though his tongue refused to work.

The blacksmith’s face shifted in a rapid series of expressions—disbelief and regret, followed by acceptance, and finally an understanding smile. His eyes bore such emotion Sam had never seen in him before. A twinkle in his eye could’ve been a pearling tear, but it disappeared after a blink.

“I understand. Completely. I do, lad.”

Sam had suspected Mr Kent had come to Reabury to hide from his past life as a soldier. Perhaps he’d borne witness to atrocities he’d rather forget. Now, his expression and words spoke volumes, and Sam felt confident with his guess.

“I feel bad for leaving. After everything you’ve done for me, everything you’ve taught me.”

“Aye? Even if you do move on, those skills will still be rattling in that head of yours, won’t they? Maybe you’ll make use of them again. Where you headed?”

“Uh, well, I’m not sure. I’m joining Ser Graeme—”

Mr Kent’s eyes grew wide, as did his grin. “So you’re acting as his squire? Who knows, maybe one day you’ll be knighted.”

Sam let out an embarrassed chuckle. “No, nothing like that. We’ll just be travelling together. See where the road takes us.”

The blacksmith replied with a speculative hum, one that implied he was trying to read between the lines. A warm flash reddened Sam’s ears, and he could feel the imprint of Graeme’s grip on his hands again. He kept telling himself it meant nothing, only a show of concern, but his heart had other ideas. The touch lasted too long, felt too intimate.

“We’ll be staying at the inn tonight and leaving at first light,” Sam added hastily, trying to keep his expectations about Graeme in check.

“Then I’ll see you this eve. We’ll drink to your health and safe journey. Both of you.”

He offered his hand, and Sam shook it firmly. “I look forward to it. Thanks, Mr Kent.”

The blacksmith smirked. “It’s high time you called me by my given name.”

“Theron?” Sam grimaced. “It feels wrong to me. Disrespectful.”

“I may be older than you, but given you’ve just tendered your resignation, I’m not your employer anymore. You call me Theron, yeah? I’m proud of you, lad. Excited for you.”

Sam beamed, wanting so much to hug him, but he knew Theron was no man for embraces. It’d only make him uncomfortable. “Thanks. It means more than you know to hear you say that.”

“Good.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Now I gotta get back to it. I’ll see you later.”

Sam left the blacksmith to his work and rode Winx into the village proper. The inn's door, as it opened, stirred a delicate chorus of bells, announcing the arrival or departure of its guests. Given it was late morning, the place—which also served as a tavern—was predictably quiet. Its keeper, Gabrian, appeared from the kitchen in the back.

“Sam!” The man, short and rotund, briskly closed the space between them. He wiped flour from his hands onto his smock and welcomed Sam with a clasp. “I know you wished to be alone after yesterday’s ceremony, but I wanted to offer you my deepest condolences. All of Reabury lost two dear friends, but of course we know that loss is especially hard for you.”

Sam’s throat tightened as he fought against tears. “It is,” he managed to croak. “That’s why I’m leaving.” After composing himself, he explained the plan while Gabrian listened in rapt attention.

“Goodness! Such adventure. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

The question surprised Sam. “I don’t really know. But I can’t stay in that house. Actually, that’s why I’m here. Ser Graeme and I would like to take a room for the night.”

Gabrian’s face burst with joy. “It would be a great pleasure to have you and Ser Graeme stay the night. No charge, of course.”

The innkeeper’s smile was infectious. “Thanks, but I can pay.”

“Nonsense! And I insist you two come for supper.” He gestured to his flour-laden smock. “I’m fixing up a slew of apple pies right now, and I’ve got chicken slow-cooking. It’ll be served with potatoes, carrots, onion, and—” He stumbled over his words and then averted his gaze a moment. “And your father’s turnips,” he finished in nearly a whisper.

“Oh,” Sam muttered. It was that moment he remembered the store of turnips in the cellar of the house. “That sounds really good. But if you won’t accept my coin, I’m going to pay you in another way.”

Gabrian shook his head resolutely.

“The thing is, this would honour my pa through you.”

Those words wiped the stubborn expression from the innkeeper’s face. “Obviously I can’t say no to that.”

“I’ve got even more sacks of turnips back home. Pa would be glad they didn’t go to waste.”

Gabrian smiled again, dimpling his plump cheeks. “Then I’ll use them well. They’ll warm the bellies of my guests during the cold months coming.”

They sealed the deal with a shake, and then Sam made for home, his stomach growling at the thought of the coming feast. Graeme would take that as a good sign.

Entering the house, Sam called out to Graeme but received no reply, and the guest bedroom was empty of the knight’s belongings. Stepping toward the kitchen, he eyed his parents’ bedroom door again. It remained shut. He knew now that resisting the urge to peer inside had been the right decision. There was nothing to be gained by satisfying that morbid desire. Tearing his eyes away, he pulled back a grass mat to reveal the cellar trapdoor. Below were four heavy burlap sacks filled with turnips. Mindful of his wounded shoulder, he bore the pain and carried them outside. Then he closed the front door for—he hoped—the final time.

Reaching the stables, he saw the lockbox resting next to their belongings. Graeme—now donned in his armour—stood in the paddock with Tusk, watching the other horses. He turned as Sam approached.

“Will you miss this?” he asked, gesturing to the land before them.

Sam let out a sharp breath. “I miss it already, and we haven’t even left yet.”

The knight laid a hand on Sam’s uninjured shoulder, and Sam involuntarily leant into its warmth. In response, Graeme gave it a squeeze.

“It’s a beautiful place, Sam. Remember it for its beauty, hold the happy memories of the past in your heart, and do not dwell on the reason you left it behind.”

Sam swallowed a lump in his throat as the knight's words settled over him. Refusing to trust his voice, he nodded instead.

They proceeded with the dreary task of nailing the shutters closed and boarding the door. Sam found himself unable to bear the sight of what the house had become, and he looked away before the image could linger in his mind. As Graeme had said, it was better to remember the past. Instead, Sam glanced toward the oak tree up on the hill.

“I’d like to say goodbye. Could you gather the horses and pack up?”

“Certainly. We have plenty of time, so do not feel rushed.”

Sam murmured his thanks and turned toward the slope, climbing steadily upward. The oak expanded before him—vast and unyielding—with each step. Dead brown leaves clung to its branches, their rustle crisp yet soothing in the delicate breeze. Cresting the hill brought the two mounds of dirt into view. He held there a moment, as though his feet were stuck in tenacious mud. But then with a heavy sigh, he sat beside the two graves.

“Mum, Pa, I’m leaving.”

Speaking aloud left him feeling strangely exposed, but at the same time, it helped him gather his thoughts. Nobody was around to hear him, to judge him, so he continued.

“Ser Graeme and I are leaving. In a way, he’s taking me under his wing, I guess. Yeah, I barely know him—don’t even know what he looks like. Well, that’s not quite true. I’ve caught glimpses of him. I don’t know why he hides his face. I think he’s . . .”—a smile broke across his face—“I think he’s handsome. But I don’t want that to affect what he might think of me. It’s clear he likes me. The feeling’s mutual.” He chuckled and wiped a tear on his sleeve.

“Gods . . . I miss you so much.”

He hugged his knees to his chest and choked back a sob. He held still as time slipped past, listening to the distant, cheerful birds—allowing their song to blunt the jagged edge of his emotions.

“Anyway, I wanted to say goodbye. I don’t know when or if I’ll be back, but I know you’d want me to be happy, whatever I do.”

He placed a hand atop the dirt mound, allowing his warmth to sink into the earth.

“I’ll try my best.”