The hooves of a caravan of horses rushed through well-traversed paths, cutting through outreaching branches that tangled riders and steeds alike. The sound of harsh winds, flapping branches, and foliage was accented by the cries of wounded boys. The caravan rushing towards a bold plume of smoke signaling the Roosters. Marcy’s horse raced into camp, and the hooves caught the ear of old Rutger.

  “You faced the Wildmen?” he asked.

  “Savages,” she said, her feet thumping as Marcy dismounted. “You say they don’t attack often?”

  “Correct,” Rutger answered.

  “Then it may be best to put out these fires,” she said. “If they tested the villages, who’s to say they won’t assault here?”

  “They very much know where we are,” he replied. “The others?”

  “They’re bringing Doter Knights and wounded… and the fallen.” She paused. “It’s best if I hide myself.”

  “Very well, take refuge within the cabin, but the boys will be curious of such actions, they may consider it a weakness. They are not fond of retreating,” he said.

  “I know,” she replied.

  As the caravan approached, a seasoned warrior, wearing a scowl upon his face, lead a formation of knights and musketeers. His long feathered hat punctuating the green with color. Beside him rode Marcus, the blonde, long-haired boy who escorted them.

  “How many of your kind are there?” the feathered knight asked, his strong voice demanding authority.

  “Each orphan is but another droplet in the ocean of regret,” Marcus replied, his eyes moving to a wagon of newly orphaned children, their cries bittering the taste in his mouth, the sights of his own brothers lying motionless upon blood-soaked fields. “We are many. Every battle, we grow...Today was different. It’s rare we ever see a patrol this far out.”

  “There are twenty of us in total,” the knight replied. “The many tragedies do eventually reach the Queen’s ears.”

  “Queen?” Marcus interrupted. “There is no ruler who truly can claim this land.”

  “Nonetheless,” the knight said from behind his beaked helmet, “people know stories of your kind, Roosters.”

  Marcus turned his head, along with a few other brothers within hearing distance.

  “Really?” Marcus asked. “What do they say?”

  “They speak of rescue, of great deeds done by young boys draped in ragged leathers,” the knight replied. “Some say you never retreat from a battle. That is quite bold.”

  “Handmade leather armor is more like it,” Marcus said. “Take that correction back to the speakers of tales.”

  A third voice caught their attention. “And what is the name of the brave warrior before us?”

  The thin man was dressed in red, flame-engraved armor, unlike his fellow knights adorned in white, rose-engraved armor.

  “I am Marcus,” he replied, scanning the strange knight. “And you?”

  There was no reply. A long pause of silence struck against Marcus ego; turning his head forward, Marcus released a light whistle, his horse neighed and picked up pace toward the wagons of injured boys. Near them rode Lucas, his short hair dripping heavy with sweat. “How goes?” he called to his approaching brother.

  “I fear our company has business,” Marcus confessed. “That woman, you see her?”

  “I saw her ride off,” Lucas said. “I was busy with combat. Where were you after the wounded were settled?”

  “Don’t test me,” Marcus replied. “How many brothers are wounded?”

  “Too many, a dozen or so?” Lucas replied.

  “Damn it,” Marcus exhaled. “I hope that woman went with a message of who’s arriving for supper.”

  From the corner of their eye, three scalps appeared from the thick brush. “What’s happening?” The familiar voice of Tom the elder escaped the green, his face slowly emerging from the veil of forest. Alongside him appeared his brothers, Tom Tom, and Tom the younger.

  “So much wounded,” the elder said.

  “So much,” Tom Tom repeated.

  “Wildmen,” Lucas said. “Get back to camp. We have company.” His eyes shifted to the rear of the caravan.

  The brothers turned their heads as the rays above pierced the canopies, reflecting a captivating shine.

  “What is that?” Tom the younger asked.

  As the riders approached, the brothers saw the flash of colorful feathers and adorned armor stride boldly across the forest. Under a feathered hat, a tired-faced musketeer shared a smile with Tom the younger, who replied with a wave and a gesturing smile.

  “That’s a knight,” Tom the elder said.

  “Yeah, a knight,” Tom Tom repeated.

  “Quiet,” Tom the elder said, pinching Tom Tom, who groaned. “Time to go home. I think some Roosters are hurt,” the elder commanded. Without a word, he turned, trailing through the forest from which they came, his brothers close behind.

  Following a path of broken branches, they ascended through the familiar clearing that housed the now bustling encampment. Their fellow orphans ran with buckets of water. Among the bucket boys was Cole, who nearly stepped over himself, his eyes glued upon the foreign sight of the Doternite patrol. Klawn the healer ordered boys to and fro, his enlarged tent retrieving much-needed medical supplies, where over a dozen wounded groaned as their bodies lay under the warm rays’ embrace, no canopy to shield the light above, exposing their wounds for the healer to see clearly.

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  “You three!” Rutger’s voice turned the heads of the Tom boys. “Don’t gawk, aid your brothers.”

  “Sorry!” Tom the elder said before running off to receive orders from Klawn.

  “Yeah, sorry!” Tom Tom added, trailing behind his elder brother.

  Master Falix kept his eyes on the boys until they split, their duties now separate from their kindred spirits.

  Tom the elder found himself before Fernando, in the center of the unfolding commotion, bearing the wounded and preparing an aid caravan to return to the village.

  “What do you need?” Tom asked Fernando, a boy too busy to notice his friend. “Ferny!” he called, ordering his attention.

  Fernando shared a glance with his fellow Rooster. “We need water to boil from the river.” Glaring behind him, he caught sight of Marcy wandering away from the crowd. “You!” he called, drawing multiple eyes and locking onto hers. “We need as many hands as we can get. Go with Tom and fetch water.” Authority laced every word.

  She nodded from beneath her hood, marching toward Tom the elder.

  “Very well,” Tom said, a stroke of nervousness escaping him. “Follow me.” He lifted a large empty bucket and glanced at another resting beside her. “It’s not far.”

  Marcy trailed behind him down a path rushing with boys coming and going, each carrying buckets of their own.

  “So you’re the woman who wants to train us?” Lucas said, his voice escaping the surrounding brush. The shirtless boy walked into sight, carrying a large bucket over his shoulder. “I’m wondering what you can offer?”

  “Now’s not the time,” Tom urged.

  “Why don’t you go take another fall off the poles, Tom?” Lucas said, examining Marcy.

  “He’s right,” Marcy replied. “This is not the time.”

  “I know,” Lucas replied, his feet beginning to move. “I just had to ask while I still could, I guess.” He turned his back, disappearing into the crowd of ever-moving boys.

  “This is a lot of water,” Marcy said, moving forward with the flow.

  “There are many wounded,” Tom replied.

  “What did he mean by that?” Marcy asked as they continued.

  “Lucas is always speaking thunder. He has no control over his tongue,” Tom the elder said, the sound of water breaking through the snapping of twigs and movement of feet. “He likes to open his mouth when the Masters aren’t around.” Passing into a clearing, the two witnessed the rushing of white water through large boulders that created bubbling rapids, splashing the shoreline.

  Tom walked alongside the large boulders littering the shore, finding a place where mud met water. He sank his feet into its loose embrace, his muscles tested by the rushing current. Tom reached forward with bucket in hand. “Here!” He said, pulling the much heavier bucket towards her.”I’m sure you can find your way back with that.”

  He turned his back to her and reached forth into the rushing water with a new bucket. She lifted the hefty bucket and placed it upon her shoulder, following the tide of boys back to the encampment. There, they emptied them into a single large container where the water boiled. Beside them sat the wounded and tired Doter Knights. As Marcy did her duty, head hung low and hood worn high, she sensed the presence of stalking eyes.

  “You’re an odd sight,” A voice said.

  Turning, she locked eyes with the withered face of the red-armored warrior.

  “As are you,” she replied.

  Scanning her, he held his tongue.

  Seeing no words escape him, Marcy broke away and returned to her assigned duty. The red-armored knight kept his eyes on her until she disappeared into the crowd. Turning away, he looked toward a passing boy.

  “You!” His voice carried, drawing the attention of more than just the boy.

  “You have something to say, Doter Knight?” Falix’s voice cut through the crowd. Pacing toward the frozen boy stuck between his master and the foreign knight, “Go.” The boy gave a quick bow before retreating.

  “I am curious about much, dear Master,” the red-armored knight said, his voice laced with condescension.

  “Who do you think you are?” Falix asked.

  “This is Doternite territory. We own this jungle,” the knight replied.

  The clanking of metallic boots approached from behind the knight. Turning his head, he felt the aura of the patrol captain, who removed his beaked helmet, revealing a scarred face and bald scalp.

  “Forgive my fellow knight,” the patrol captain said. “He is a guest of ours as much as yours.”

  “We are kind hosts,” Falix replied, many boys glancing toward them as they went about their duties. “We only ask for peace and respect. Not just for us, but for the forest. She belongs to nobody. We belong to her.”

  “Very well, kind host,” the red-armored knight spoke. “I am Sir Laurence Garcia, a hunter. We heard of the plight of the forest and came as good stewards. I am here to hunt bandits and bring judgment to outlaws. I’m sure there are none among your lot.” His eyes scanned the glancing crowd, finding the familiar eyes of that hooded woman with the scarred face. “If you know of any, there is a mighty reward and eternal thanks from the Crown.”

  Marcy turned, traversing the pathway to the river, that sense of threat accompanying her. Upon the river’s bank knelt Tom, along with a half dozen full buckets of water, his legs sunk to the knees within the grasping mud.

  “Need aid?” She asked, reaching down for the boy from an adjacent boulder.

  “Thanks,” he replied, a single eye closed from the sting of sweat. “Fewer and fewer boys make it back.”

  “There is plenty of water. I think that will do,” Marcy replied.

  “I hope so. Never seen so much wounded,” Tom said. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Ask.” She said.

  “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “I had many deadly masters.” She replied.

  “Why?” He continued.

  “I…” She paused. “I don’t think this is the time.”

  “It’s never the time.” He said.

  “I was expected to kill for a noble cause.” She confessed. “I forgot why along the way, now I’m here.”

  “You’re lost, kind of like us…” He pondered aloud.

  She nodded, her keen instincts keeping alert to the feeling of a spy beyond the riverbank. “I think we should go.” The rustling of leaves and the cracking of branches across the river held their retreat.

  Pulling himself from the mud, Tom lifted an empty bucket to shield himself. “Who goes there?” he called.

  The rustling grew, accompanied by the sound of heavy breathing. From between the foliage, a gnarled face, covered in branches and dried black tar, extended itself outward and flumped to the ground. Behind it, loud rustling revealed the sight of William, the bastard son of an outcast Doter knight. His short hair was drenched with sweat, and his palm was wielding a bloodied sword.

  “This thing,” William said between heavy breaths. “This thing attacked me. Three of them. The fools.”

  “Three,” Marcy said. “Sounds like the right size for a scouting band, maybe testing your strength.”

  “Maybe,” William said, boldly approaching the boulders, his eyes scanning the shallowest portion of the river. “I can’t stay there. I brought what I could.” He said, lifting a small wool bag before he leapt forward into the river.

  “You fool,” Tom said, navigating the boulders to aid William.

  With brash strength, William tested the shallow rapids. The water up to his waist gave way as the boy pressed forward with goods held above his head. “I need not your aid,” he said, ascending above the water and placing his feet on the muddied shore.

  “That’s fine,” Tom said, jumping down. “So what, now you wish to reside among roosters?”

  “I need not YOUR aid,” William said. “Where’s Master? Never mind. I’ll seek him myself.” He brushed past Tom. “This is beyond troublesome.”

  “We should go back,” Marcy said. “If the Wildmen came this far, they will be back.”

  Tom looked to her with tired and fearful eyes. “I fear William’s right. This is trouble.”

  Marcy scanned the brush, “I agree, they will be-” The snap of a twig stole the words from her, its origin unknown.

  “Crap.” The word escaped her.