Making a good, first impression is as easy as a blind man winning an archery contest.

They’re coming.

“Whuu..” Wendell muttered.

They’re coming.

“Whuu—huh!” repeated Wendell, his head flipping about.

The candlelight flickered across the ceiling, the reeds of the thatch roof bending in the shadows. The wind whistled outside, yanking on the chattering shutters.

Wendell stirred again.

In the distance, the sound of metal rang. A pounding rhythm, piercing his sleep.

Wendell’s eyes fluttered. They opened slowly. A chill draft ran over his bare shoulders. He shivered. Where…am I? He opened and closed his hands. Fingers felt stiff. The rough, wool blankets itched the skin of his chest. He shivered again. Willing his arm to move, he reached up to scratch.

The ringing of metal on metal caught his attention. The reverberating echo hummed in his mind. Ping. Ping. Ping. It rang through the silence, helping him to focus.

Wendell slapped a hand over his own mouth, and tried not to scream. The jolt nearly sent him flipping over the edge of the bed.

Sitting motionless, barely an arms length from the cot, was a tiny child. A girl, he assumed, from the long hair. She sat on a stool, staring at Wendell, her dirty face devoid of expression. Her round eyes peered at him through the dark, the whites of her eyes, glowing. Slowly he lowered his hand from his mouth.

“Hello,” he said nervously, gulping air. “You scared me!” he exclaimed.

The child said nothing.

Wendell tried smiling. “I’m Wendell, what’s…your name?”

The child stared back at him, unblinking.

His eyebrows rolled up. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked, then bit his bottom lip. She wouldn’t understand that, would she? Which sparked a question. “Do you speak common?”

Nothing.

“Iskari? Evolu? Kutollum?” he sighed, “You wouldn’t happen to speak English, would you?”

The candlelight flickered in the breeze, sparkling in her eyes, but she said nothing whatsoever.

“Of course not,” Wendell sighed. “Alrighty then, would you mind going out, so I can get up?” He nodded towards the doorway, then waved his fingers, “Go on. SHOO!”

She flinch at the last word. Sliding from the stool, she walked to the doorway and stopped. Grasping the door frame with tiny fingers, she turned to look at Wendell once more.

He saw a tiny smile crept across her face, then she was gone.

Wendell shook his head. Weird kid.

His body felt stiff and tired—limbs heavy like lead. Wendell tired to sit up, but his head fell back agains the folded pillow. Pain jabbed him in the side, just below his ribcage. Ungh! His opposite hand shot across his stomach and he immediately regretted it. AHHHH! he winced. Feels like I’ve been run over by a truck! He blinked again, clenching his lids tight. Wow, that smarts! The flesh under his fingers felt tender. The…tree. He remembered the cold water, being tossed and knocked about over the rocks. Unable to stand, to swim or stay afloat—he was thrown over ledge after ledge, down the river. Until he hit a wedged tree. Probably would have been safe if my side was covered by my shirt, he thought. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself into a sitting position—letting his legs swing over the edge of the cot. It creaking under him as he moved. His stomach spasmed with the effort…forcing him to control his breathing or cry out in pain.

“Chuck?” he whispered.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

“Dax? …’Hannah?” but there was no answer.

He sniffed. Nothing smelled familiar either. Cows. Horses, maybe?

Wendell looked down at his chest, his hand suddenly slapping over his sternum in alarm. All pink…and no sign of Ithari. His fingers wandered over the place he knew the gem was sitting. He could feel the ridges protruding from his skin. Closing his eyes, he squinted tightly and then opened his eyes again, glancing at his chest. Nothing but skin. Skin…skin. He gulped…and lifted the blanket across his lap. He sighed in relief. Pants on. We’re good.

His shirt was folded on a small stool in the corner of the room. His socks resting neatly on top—his sneakers on the floor underneath the stool. He patted his hips and felt the shift of coins in his pocket. Everything’s here,…except for my protectors.

Wendell scratched his head and yawned. It was night outside, he could tell that much. Crickets chirped their contentment in the cold breeze.

Again the ring of metal on metal sounded. Ping. Ping. Ping.

What is that?And…where am I?

He let his feet slide onto the floor and immediately pulled them back. He shivered at the cold jolt.

Dirt? The whole floor was dirt. No carpet. No wood. He leaned forward and squinted through the candle light. The lower edges of the walls were layered rocks. Wendell could see grass or weeds poking through the slats in the walls. Huh. The building’s partially under ground. There were bundles of dried flowers and other plants, hanging along the walls or bunched together on shelves.

Wendell heard a pop. Then another. He exhaled. The crackling of a fire. It was coming from the other room.

Slipping on his shirt and socks, Wendell pulled back the cloth curtain, separating the room where he slept and the rest of the…? He started to step into the doorway—and hesitated. Asleep on a small mat of reeds, in front of the fire, was an older woman. Grey streaks adorned her dark hair, tightly wound into a bun. Her tattered dress was frayed, her hands and feet wrapped in dirty rags. Her arms were wrapped around two small children. A young boy and the little girl who had been watching him.

Cuddled together, they slept. The woman’s torn shawl draped over them.

Wendell looked back into the bedroom. The small, rickety bed had two blankets on it—a thin third folded into a makeshift pillow.

An empty wooden bowl and a small cup sat under the side, along with a wide-rimmed bowl with water and several used rags.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Wendell grabbed the blankets and gently placed them over his sleeping hosts. The girl, still awake, looked up at him. Wendell put a finger to his lips.

She smiled and slowly nodded.

Wendell grinned back, grabbed his shoes and gingerly slipped out the front door.

The brisk wind felt good over his skin. What do we do now, Wendell? Don’t know where we are or where to go. Knelling down, he slipped on his sneakers and tied the laces. He stretched his arms high and winced, a hand shooting to his side. Ok, you’re still working on me. He stopped and placed a hand on the center of his chest.

“I don’t know how…but,…I hope…” Wendell hesitated, feeling self conscious. No. He still felt silly doing this. Talking to an oversized version of what women wore on their fingers. “Thank you,” he coughed, “For…saving me, I mean.”

He waited, hoping to hear…something, but nothing happened.

Right. What was I thinking…

The stars were exceptionally bright, as were the twin moons, casting a blue glow over the village. It almost looked as if the whole valley was under water. Wendell could see the faint glow of Erimuri, the red and orange flower barely visible along the rim of the rotating moon of Iskari-Kalam. It was hard to believe he had been on another planet just…wait, how long has it been?

He looked around him…and tried not to panic.

Chuck, Alhannah, Dax…? They had been on their way to Til-Thorin, when he’d fallen over the waterfall. Images flashed through Wendell’s mind. Chuck, hurt, bleeding badly—the Hounds. Dax trying to find a clearing, so they could…

The saliva went down his throat like gravel as he swallowed.

He left me. Dax left me!

Wendell stood outside what looked like a farming community. The people who had cared for him were on the outskirts of the village. A small shack, a few fruit trees and two barns with a well in between. He didn’t see any livestock. A broken, overturned plow lay under an apple tree, next to a pile of rocks.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

How am I going to get to Til-Thorin now? Heck, how am I supposed to find my friends. He stopped to consider that reference. Friends. Well, Chuck and Alhannah, definitely, but… I’ve got to get out of here. Get to Til-Thorin. That’s where they’d go, wouldn’t they? He took a good look around him. Mountains everywhere. I grew up hiking and camping. I can do this. Just because there’s an army of flesh-eating men out there, looking for me, …it shouldn’t pose too much of a problem.

He bit his lip and fought the oncoming panic attack.

Keep cool, Wendell. You can do this. You just need some information. Tough things are ok. Bad things are… ok, SOME bad things are ok…but not knowing…being in the dark—that’s dangerous. Get your bearings…make for Til-Thorin ASAP.

A light flickered from inside one of the barns—flashing through the slats of the walls.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Right. Time to meet the neighbors. He wiped his hands against his jeans.

Wendell hesitated outside the door. He had no idea what to say. What would Chuck say? He pondered, then smirked, “Hello would be a good start,” he whispered—thoughts of the wizards comical expressions filled his mind. It made him chuckle, which helped. “Well, it will help to know where I am. Maybe they have a map I can use? He certainly hoped he’d have more luck than he did with the little girl. He opened the barn with trepidation.

“Hello?” Wendell called out, slowly pulling the rope handle. The hinges creaked loudly and he winced at the unexpected sound.

“Keep that door shut,” said a burly voice, “or you’ll set this barn on fire.”

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Wendell dashed inside and pulled the door closed behind him.

The barn was a post and beam rectangular building, with a stone laid floor—rocks set in the dirt and leveled out. At its center was a giant stone chimney, the mouth of which glowed…coals burning bright in the night. A forge, that gave off enough light to work by. Flames crackled. Next to the forge was a trough and a huge tree stump—on top of which was nailed a giant anvil. A broad young man, sweating heavily, plunged a strip of metal into the trough. It popped and screeched in protest. He quickly plunged it back into the heat, turning over and over again in the coals.

“What do you want?” the young man snapped. He did not turn around or even look up.

Not a good start! Wendell stood uneasily, hands reaching into his pockets. “I…wanted to say thank you…for saving me. I probably would have died without your help.”

The young man pulled the metal from the fire and turned, glancing at Wendell, then placing the glowing rod onto the anvil. A long metal rack hung from a wooden beam, its hooks holding various hammers, tongs and several leather aprons. He lifted a hammer down, tapped it against the metal of the anvil and then proceeded to strike the glowing section repeatedly, until it was flat.

Wendell shifted uncomfortably in place, but said nothing.

When the blacksmith stopped, he pointed at Wendell, using the hammer.

“I doubt that.”

“You…doubt what?,” Wendell asked aloud, though his palms were already starting to sweat again. His fingers went to his chest. He scratched.

The blacksmith pounded the metal with renewed vigor. “There’s something not right about you.”

Wendell smirked, rubbing the back of his neck, “You’re not the first one to say so, let me tell you..”

“I mean it!” Plunging the metal back into the fire, he spun around and slammed the hammer down on the anvil. He walked around the stump, sliding the tongs over one of the hooks overhead. “When my brother and I found you, there was barely a spark of life in you.” He looked at Wendell carefully now, studying him. “That was three days ago,” he said in a whisper, though it sounded like a sneer. “Three DAYS! NOW look at you!!”

Wendell fidgeted, nervously, “I’m sorry, I…”

“If my father were alive, he’d know what to do…and that’d likely be to throw you into the cold—taking no part in witchcraft or magic! But my mother,” he grit his teeth, “…she’s the kindest soul of this village. She watched over you, cleaned and bound your wounds, fed you, attended your burning fever…and then marveled as the hole in your side vanished!” He walked back around the stump, snatched a longer set of tongs and stabbed them into the fire. “Said you were a miracle.”

Flinging the glowing strip over the horn of the anvil, he quickly snatched the hammer and pounded out a semi-circle. “Miracles?…bah!” He spat on the ground, “I stopped believing in miracles when my father died,” he choked.

Wendell frowned. I know exactly what you mean.

“Look, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, or anyone here for that matter.” He sat down on an old stool and started tying his shoe laces. “I got separated from some friends of mine and fell over a cliff, trying to escape some Vallen.”

The blacksmith scoffed. “There haven’t been giants in these lands for generations.”

“Well they’re here now, so you…”

“So you say,” the blacksmith cut in.

Wow. You really are bothered by me being here! “Ok, how about we start over: my name is Wendell…and your name is?”

“Evan,” he said curtly.

Wendell paused in tying his laces. He looked up, hands still gripping the string. “What did you say?”

Evan looked up, annoyed. “My name is Evan.”

Wendell sat upright and couldn’t help but smile, now. “You don’t say.”

“I just DID say!” Evan snapped, “…have your great healing powers forgotten your ears?!”

“Right, about that…”

Evan pointed the hammer at Wendell again, this time with anger plainly displayed on his face. His brows curled downward, lips curling back into a snarl. “I don’t want to know anything about you, except when you’ll be leaving!”

Okaaay…wow. Wendell let out a quiet sigh, and rubbed his arms as if cold. “Well, if you could point me in the direction to Til-Thorin, I’ll leave now.”

Evan glared, “Then I guess I can start believing in miracles once more.”

“Sure. Til-Thorin? Know the way?”

For several long moments, Evan just stared numbly at Wendell. His nostrils flared, his brows low over his eyes, which looked intimidating in the red light of the fire. When he finally spoke, Wendell flinched.

“Outside those doors, turn to the right until you face the highest mountain peak. Start marching and keep the stream on your right side. Over that mountain, you’ll find the main river. Follow it up stream, staying IN the forest, until you come to Binmeer Lake. Follow the eastern edge of the lake, until you find the river pouring into the lake. Follow that north. A little over a week’s walk and you’ll be standing in front of Til-Thorin.”

“A week?” Wendell’s head fell forward. “As in seven days?”

“He’s a genius,” Evan mocked, shaking his head. He started striking the heated metal once again. “Anything else?” he yelled over the ringing.

Wendell stood up and turned to leave, but he stopped with his hand on the door. He could feel the money pouch in his front pocket. “Actually yes, I’d like to leave…”

“Then DO!” Evan yelled. With a snap of his arm, he threw the hammer at Wendell’s feet. It clanged against the stones of the floor, narrowly missing Wendell and slamming into the wall. “I don’t want your kind making any more trouble for my family than we already have…”

Wendell took a deep breath. Right. Off we go then.

The blacksmith was still glaring at him as he pushed open the door and walked off into the night.

A large owl glided silently overhead and landed in one of the fruit trees. Wendell slowed down at the edge of the field. The knots in his stomach twisted like pretzels and he felt a sudden surge of nausea. Wendell knew he couldn’t, in good conscience, walk away without trying one last time.

“I owe you my life, Evan,” he called back, “so know that Vallen are in these mountains. If they’re not stopped, sooner or later, they’re going to show up in this village.”

Wendell waited for a moment, then pushed on into the night when he heard the ring of metal on metal resume.

It was many long minutes before Evan noticed his hammering had no affect on the steel laying across his anvil. It was cold and twisted, unyielding to its masters efforts to shape it. He couldn’t remember when he’d snatched another hammer, or why he was pounding on a broken plow blade. Sweat trickled down his brow, salt stinging his eyes. Throwing the hammer at the center beam of the barn, he let the tongs and broken metal clatter to the ground.

Hands of steel reached out gripping the metal rack hanging above him. He let his head hang low. “Take my mothers bed, my sisters food and now I have to work my fingers to the bone just to survive this winter? Just to eat? Just to..”

“Evan?” called a gentle voice over the whistling wind, “Evan, are you alright?”

He sighed. “Yes mother,” he called back, “I’m…fine.”

“Is the young man with you?”

“His name is Wendell, mother,…and no—he left.”

A small figure appeared in the barn opening. A very tired, but happy looking woman walked in. Miriam’s thin shawl was wrapped tightly around her, tiny fists clutched to her chest. She looked around the barn. “He left? Why would he leave?”

“Mother, it’s chill, please go inside,” Evan pulled the chain, stoking the fire once more. “Please, go back to bed…I have work to do. It’s going to take a great deal of work and a miracle to keep us fed this winter. ”

Rounding the anvil, she reached out and took her son’s hand, gently lifting it to her lips. She kissed his rough, callused fingers and held it to her cheek. Tears fell from her eyes and streamed across her cheeks. She smiled brightly. Then she started crying through a nervous laughter. With her other hand, she opened the small pouch she’d made with her shawl.

It was filled with gold coins.

“No,” she beamed, “it won’t.”