Free Wind

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         Kenric hopped up to sit on the ledge of the crumbling ruins of a once 50 ft. high wall. His legs swung carelessly back and forth, heels bouncing off the wall lightly. He stared out at the sun, scanning the horizon, drinking in the pinkish glow of the sun through the clouds. Only three more months of seeing that sunset, those hills, sitting on this wall. He sighed. Only three more months before he was off to war. He could remember that day nine months ago when Soldiers in uniforms of royal purple and wine red barged into his house without warning. His wife was in the middle of cooking dinner and he had just finished a day at the forge, his young son in his lap talking nonsense as toddlers do.
         "Kenric the blacksmith, you are hereby recruited into the Royal Army.” The tall man barked at him, his six-foot frame filling their family’s tiny kitchen. His scarred hand rested on the hilt of his sword, beady eyes taking in the dark interior of their home as if waiting for an attack even here. His tailored uniform was weathered and threadbare.
         Kenric stared while trying to quiet his wailing year-old son, Leif. He handed the child over to Neara, his once-again pregnant wife. "Excuse me?" He stepped in front of Neara and Leif, as if he could shield them from this declaration. He pushed a calloused, leathery hand through his thick chocolate brown hair. His sharp hazel eyes searched the stone-like faces of the silent soldiers behind the tall speaker. “I don’t even know how to craft weapons. My knowledge is in repairing pots and pans, shoeing horses, or fixing the occasional farm equipment. ”
         "You have been recruited. No packing is needed. The Royal Army will provide all food, shelter, and clothing you will need. You will spend one year in training, then the next seven years-or until the war ends-fighting wherever need be. There is always room for a blacksmith in the army." The man sneered, absent-minded stroking his Captain’s stripes as if this were all beneath him. The entire speech sounded hollow and rehearsed, as if he’d said it hundreds of times. There was no emotion other than the contempt in his voice, the haughty look in his eyes.
         “Travelers have said the war is coming to an end. Some have even said that the King of Miirean has withdrawn is claim to the southern lands all together. They’ve said they’re all surrendering,” Kenric pleaded, his knuckles white from gripping the edges of the table. “It’s been eight years. Surely we are near an end. ”
         The Captain’s face reddened, “You act as if you don’t owe something to your country. We’re all doing our fair share to ensure a victory for King Baccin and for the Kingdom of Orinayl. Where’s your patriotism? Where’s your sense of honor?” He gripped Kenric’s shoulder, ripping him away from the table. “I don’t have time for this.” Kenric could only stutter incoherently as he was guided out to a wagon, already half full of other village men and boys, boys as young as ten. He managed a backward glance at his sobbing wife and hysterical child.
         He looked around at the other men in the wagon. He saw defeat etched in every man’s face, the same defeat that was probably mirrored in his own. He looked at the boy sitting next to him, a scrawny 11-year-old with red eyes, a dripping nose, sniffing quietly. At least Kenric was thirty. He sighed, feeling his own depression subside slightly, and offered the boy his handkerchief. The child looked up at him, watery blue eyes wide with sadness.
         "I don' need yer stinkin' charity," the boy spat at him. He was trying to sound tough, to be strong. But, the boy’s voice quivered and broke. He was hunched, knees to his chest, silent tears streaking dirty cheeks.
         Kenric smiled grimly to himself. Only eleven. In that moment, Kenric had witnessed the loss of a child's innocence. “No charity from me, son. You see, I promised an old wizard once that I would give to a boy between ten and thirteen years old in exchange for a magic stone. He needs the snot, you know.” Kenric said in bored tone, pretending to examine his fingernails.
The boy sniffed and tried to look uninterested. “Why would a wizard need snot?” He asked.
         “Well, for potions, o’ course! The best troll potions come from boy’s snot. Extra sticky, you see,” Kenric smiled as if sharing a secret. It was a bit selfish, entertaining the boy, because it distracted him from his own uncertain future.
         “Trolls aren’t real!” the boy declared with certainty. He looked at Kenric, head tilted slightly sideways, clearly weighing his troll knowledge against this new information. “Right? ”