I recognized the bend in the road and was hit by an onrush of memories. It seemed like forever since I’d last been here, on this path, with that old knotted branch still hanging low above me, the dense hedges visible on the rise, the sound of a brook babbling in the distance momentarily drowned out by the rustling of leaves.

Had it truly been that long? Almost a year, yet it seemed both longer and shorter.

A few weeks back a missive had reached my eyes, calling all loyal sons of Arkadia to the place where it all began. I’d been about to cross the border to the north when word had reached me setting my path southbound. What exactly had persuaded me to abandon my wandering and follow that missive, I could not tell you.

Your own mind can be a strange thing, both fickle and determined at once.

So much had changed in my life. I’d been accused of murder for stealing a pair of boots, thrown in the king’s dungeons for writing a piece of satire, chased by bandits, bitten by Tyrant, multiple times, robbed and beaten. I wasn’t the same mann I was a year ago, then again who is these days?

Yet one thing through all my misadventures had remained the same, I was still broke, a penniless scholar on the road.

Oh and what roads they are these days.

The lands are broken, with the merest whisper of rumors of dark things moving in the shadows of mann. Tensions mount between nations, incited by minor incidents that start out as spittle on the border and turn into fist sized hail threatening a storm of war.

False prophets by the roadside scream about the end of days, the rise of liches, vampires and all manner of strangeness, such as womenn giving birth to beastly children with the heads of ursas or entire herds of trisons exsanguinated by a ghostly white rabbit the size of a mann.

All superstitious bunk, of course, but even the sanest of scholars pays heed to danger.

Where rural folk see monsters of folklore, the roadwise traveler sees real danger. If the locals are afraid of something, you should be too, even if you don’t believe in it. In the seeds of superstition real danger can be found.

The King gets fatter off his own people with each passing day, taxing folk dry until they bleed, then pressing the wound for more. His guards are an ever present danger on the roads, accosting people with barely a glance for any infraction, real or perceived.

Still there is room for hope. Hope for a better future.

In the last year, resistance to the King’s tyranny has solidified. With Duke Raziel of Arkadia’s incitement to rebellion the political landscape had changed. Foreign powers now courted Arkadia, where previously they’d dismissed it out of hand.

All these thoughts and more ran through my head as I walked the path through a small copse of woodland to emerge into wide open farmland. Or at least that’s what it used to be.

The wide fields behind the Shady Pig had been transformed, a proper tent city now occupied the place. Banners and pennants from dozens of barons and counts flew from the various tents and pavilions, signalling their allegiances, or lack of, depending on your point of view.

In the middle of this cavalcade of banners stood the Shady Pig, the tavern where my and so many others journey had started, the birthplace of the uprising.

Before, it had been a dive, a backroom affair frequented by shady characters that gave the tavern its moniker. Filled with wanton wastrels and scoundrels of every color; wayward brigands, sharp-tongued confidence tricksters, skilled contract forgers and the occasional lost traveler had frequented the place. The perfect place to sow the seeds of rebellion, to start a fire that would cleanse this nation.

Now the place was different, gone were the trees outside replaced by a wooden palisade that surrounded the tavern proper and the brook that had run clear a year ago ran muddy with latrine runoff a short walk upstream.

I handed over the reins to Tyrant to a stable boy I recognized from my last visit, who nodded and headed towards the door, surrounded by menn gird and geared for war.

The grass in the courtyard was worn down by boots and the ground had turned muddy, soaking my cheap boots as I half waded through the mire towards the door, where I was accosted by two spear wielding guards who looked at me with a sneer on their faces.

Granted, I was not an impressive sight. After three days on the road with no spare clothes, unshaven and muddied I looked like a proper shipwreck of a scholar but the way they looked at me wasn’t like a vagabond to be run off, more like vermin to be squashed.

“Tavern’s closed.” The one on the left said. “Piss off.”

“Strange.” I replied. “It doesn’t look closed.” I said nodding to the window of the backroom where silhouettes were visible and more importantly audible.

“Business meeting with the owner, which means none of yours. Wait outside like the rest.” The one on the right responded, nodding to the tents.

I heard a clamor inside as someone shouted and something broke. The guards looked at each other, at me, at themselves again and rushed inside. I took my chance and ventured into the familiar tavern.

It at least hadn’t changed. The interior was still as run down as before, but it didn’t smell the same. Gone was the smell of stale beer and wet straw, replaced by an ephemeral freshness that was indescribable, as if someone had scrubbed the place top to bottom. Although the tables still bore marks from overenthusiastic and cut throat diners and the walls still looked like the home of a careless knife thrower there was an air of order and civility in the empty tap room that the Shady Pig had not had before, at least when I visited.

The guards and I looked upon the source of the commotion.

“Damn it! Good stuff, he said. Best drinks in the world, he said.” There was a clattering behind the bar as a voice kept grumbling. “I wouldn’t let my servants drink this piss, or even my colleagues.”

The sound of a cork popping and something sloshing. The hidden figure gagged. “Well, maybe my colleagues…”

The guards reacted with surprise as a young man with deep dark rings under his eyes and wild hair came up from behind the bar.

“Oh.” He said in surprise holding up the bottle. “Did you want some? Can’t say as I recommend it, but times such as these requires a drink or three.”

He stepped out from behind the bar and I saw that he was wearing alchemist’s robes. How could I tell, you ask? Because they were burned at the hem and covered in a multitude of strange, almost pearlescent stains.

“Ah, maybe.” The alchemist said. “Yes! Aha!” He rummaged around in his robes digging out various small vials and placing them on the bar. “There we go.” As he settled on a single vial.

“This should do the trick.” He popped the cork and poured the vial into the unmarked bottle, swirled it around and took a swig. He sucked in air between his teeth and coughed as he swallowed. “That’s the spot. Might be rotgut, but at least now it’s potent.” He held out the bottle. “Want some?” He asked the three of us, who shook our heads. “Suit yourself, you won’t find better.” Another swig and a sigh of contentment.

He seemed to realize something when he took a look at us. “Oh, do excuse my rude manners. Rofus Rovandil, at your service.” He said with a bow. “Alchemist extraordinaire.” His eyes narrowed when he saw me. “Do I know you?”

I had a dim recollection that he might be a familiar face but I had met so many people on the road, so I couldn’t say.

“I don’t think so.” I replied.

“Oh alright. It’s these damn potions, you see. Can cause right havoc on the memory if you’re not careful, which obviously I always am.” He gave a wide grin.

“So here to join up? Or are you already familiar with all this? The secret knocks and handshakes, finger wiggles and eyebrow dances.”

I chuckled. “I am aware, though I haven’t been here for a while. It’s changed.”

Rofus nodded. “It has, no more peeing in the corner like incontinent cats for one thing. So who might you be?” He asked.

“Scy, a wandering scholar” I said holding out my hand to introduce myself. He shook it.

The name seemed to hold some sort of meaning for him, since he nodded. “Oh, right. You’re one of Blackwing’s boys. His recruits.” He clarified upon seeing my confusion. “Quite a few of them here. Anyway I best be heading back. Just came out for a drink, but since they’ve got nothing worth drinking I had to make my own. Stick around though, might be something worth seeing later on.”

He left the three of us and headed to the back room. As he opened the door I could hear the sound of arguments but couldn’t see who it was and only caught a few words, out of context.

Meanwhile the guards had regained their senses and were looking at me, their intentions quite clear.

“Alright, alright.” I said holding up my hands. “I’m going.”

I headed outside to walk the camp. There was a certain fairground feel to the place, even as my boots sucked up more mud. An air of celebration, of relief. It was a cavalcade of mannkind, as greybeards sat on stumps and smoked, smiling at the children running between the tents covered in dirt and grime.

There were people from all over the kingdom, axemenn from the Lyrhian Highlands, archers from Skuldheim, sailors and fisherfolk from Arkadia, to name a few, all gathered in the back field of a little roadside tavern. It was as varied and colorful as any Sedecim or Tournament of Champions and all the more remarkable for its purpose. They were all here because they’d been called, called to rebel against a king they’d been suffering under for years.

“Over here.” A voice called out as I passed, an old man with a gap toothed smile. He was sitting round a campfire with a few others, steaming cup of something in hand. He patted an empty stump next to him.

“Sit yourself down, you look like you could use a rest.”

I gratefully took him up on his offer and planted myself on the slightly uneven stump. “Many thanks.” I replied.

“So what brings you here?” The old man asked. “You don’t like the an iron hewed warrior or one of the hopeless downtrodden masses.”

“I was called.” I replied.

The old man chuckled. “We were all called.” He gestured around him. “Many others were called. Most didn’t show.”

“Why not?” I asked out of genuine curiosity.

“Fear, mostly. Fear of losing what they got. Folk seem to think life under a bad king is better than death, fighting for a good one. Ain’t no shame in it, but fear’s a fickle thing. Once it gets a hold of you, it don’t let go and in the end death comes to claim us all. Can’t take it all with you, eh? Still haven’t answered my question though. Why are you here?”

It was both an easy and a hard question. I struggled to find an answer. “I’ve been running from things all my life. Responsibility. Fights. Fear. Rabbits. There’s more things I’ve run from than most. Now I don’t consider myself particularly skilled or brave. I’m just me, flawed and all. I’ve spent a good decade running from one end of the land to the other and seen a lot of things happen, some good, some bad. So if you’re asking why I’m here. I can’t rightly tell you. Not in so many words. It’s a mixture of curiosity and hope, I suppose, and the certain knowledge that if something isn’t done then it’ll only get worse. So maybe I just decided it’s time to stop running, to stand up and be counted for something greater than myself.”

The old man took a sip and sighed. “I suppose that’s as good a reason as any.”

“How long have you all been here?” I asked.

“Me? A couple of weeks. Most others a few days. People started showing up around two weeks ago, setting up camp, bringing in supplies, fortifying the place just in case.”

“It is risky.” I ventured. “And to be honest, I’m scared that this little gathering will draw the wrong kind of attention, you know the royal kind.”

Another smile. “Aye, that is a worry. Or it would be if someone hadn’t made sure that every known and unknown spy within a hundred miles wasn’t suffering from a bout of sudden-onset mortality.” He winked at me and stood up, joints creaking as he stretched. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I better stretch my legs before bed time otherwise I’ll be seizing up all day tomorrow. Master Chronicler, I bid you a pleasant evening.” He said with a nod and took off.

Wait a minute. I hadn’t told him who I was, had I? I was reasonable certain I hadn’t. The flames of the fire danced merrily casting shadows in the evening sun as I gazed into them, looking for answers. The remainder of my evening was spent wandering the camp, lost in thought, committing the sight to memory. As night fell I decided to remove myself from the camp, instead of looking for a suitable place to sleep amidst the sea of tents and pavilions. Months on the road had left me feeling slightly apprehensive about sleeping in this mass of mannkind.

I spent the night behind the Shady Pig’s stables, listening to the sound of a snoring donkey paddocked right beside me. The stableboy had made sure that Tyrant was fed and watered but there wasn’t a place to be had next to all the warhorses. Tyrant might like to think he was a horse, but he wasn’t, let me assure you. So no roof for him, or me for that matter.

Luckily it was clear night with only a few clouds obscuring the moonlight as I gazed upwards, tucked into my blanket.

Who knew what tomorrow might bring, despite the assurances of a random old man in a camp full of rebels. I chuckled at the thought. Then again, he had sounded pretty certain…

I awoke the next morning with a crick in my neck and something pulling my hair. Opening my eyes I was confronted by the sight of donkey teeth, munching away happily at something. A sharp tugging at my scalp told me exactly at what. The glutton was chewing on my hair! Surrounded by edible grasses, Tyrant had decided that a part of me would make for the perfect snack.

“I bet you’d make someone a good snack.” I muttered, raising my arms.

I pushed the bothersome beast away and rolled out of his reach. Talk about a rude awakening, the stench of donkey breath clawed at my nostrils like a daemon unwilling to let go. I rubbed my eyes, uncertain as to where I was. Then the events of the previous day coalesced and I knew the where and the why. It was a rough morning as I walked past the latrines upstream to a secluded spot where the water flowed cool and clear. Stripping out of my mud stained and road worn clothes I bathed myself in icy water, howling in shock when water touched my skin. One quick dunk was enough, I was certain. I soaked my clothes as well, hoping that a short wash was enough to get rid of most of the grime.

I shivered as I fished out a spare set of clothes, fumbling as I tried to draw the strings tight and close the buckles. Cold hands make for hard work. It was my better set, my only set fit to wear amongst polite company, but the muddy boots spoiled the look. Still it was better than nothing. The camp was awash with activity once I returned and a matronly woman had set up a huge cauldron in the courtyard. “Stew! Hot stew! Fresh from the pot!” She cried out to all comers. Her accent told me she was from Beaulieu. My stomach gurgled in response, crying for attention. Perhaps I should partake? After checking on Tyrant, who was happily munching on hay, my decision was confirmed. Time for some food. It took longer than I would have liked, standing in line with all the others, more expensive than I would have preferred, seller’s market and all that, and the stew wasn’t bad. I’d eaten worse. I’d cooked worse as a matter of fact. Still it wasn’t what I’d come to expect from the denizens of that fair valley. Supply problems, most likely.

Once I was done I handed my bowl back when a man emerged from the tavern, scroll in one hand, hammer and nail in the other. He nailed the scroll to the outside wall and curiosity drew me closer to examine it.

It was written in an elegant hand, the words standing out clearly against the vellum.

There shall be an announcement at midday in the courtyard.

The words lacked the grace and elegance of the hand but at least they were informative. Midday, eh? A quick glance at the sky told me there were a few hours to go. More than enough time to write a few lines…

The hooded figures emerged from the interior of the tavern. Seven in all, their faces clothed in shadow. An eighth figure followed from the doorway, steps slow, measured. They exuded power and influence, it was obvious by the style of their cloaks, the trim on the hems and hood, the cut of their tunics, the quality, the fabric, by their bearing, how they carried themselves, walking confidently even while hooded.

I and many others had gathered in the courtyard to witness the announcement.

The hooded menn drew up in a half circle in the yard, next to a crate that the eighth used as a makeshift platform.

All around them stood various notables of the kingdom, I saw the insignias of many counties, baronies, towns, villages, hamlets and other points of note. Sophos, Ismer, Beaulieu, Safreti, Midgard, representatives from the Magnum Opus, the Heartwood Company, the Expeditions and so many others it would take too long to list. Next to the doorway stood the alchemist from the previous day, Rovan-something.

In a far off corner of the courtyard I could see dignitaries from other kingdoms, an oiled Nirathi in colorful desert robes and a bearded Tryggrian, all fang and fur, who looked like he hadn’t seen bathwater in years.

Silence descended over the courtyard and the assembled menn and womenn’s faces took on worried tones.

I felt it in my bones, this was a momentous occasion, one which I was fortunate enough to witness.

Someone cleared his throat. It wasn’t a loud noise but it rose above the assembled mass, to be heard by everyone present.

As if on cue, the seven hoods were lowered revealing rather famed visages to the crowd. Six of the foremost peers of the realm stood there, their faces famed through portrait and statue and recognizable by all. Lyrhia, Lyon, Iron Guard, Wolfsden, Nordic and Skuldheim. Six dukes. Six faces.

The seventh was a figure I knew all too well, Count Blackwing of Ismer, the man who’d recruited me.

Shocked silence greeted the revelation. Yes, a lot of representatives of many different factions and nobles were present but this was beyond the scope of my and some of the other’s imagination, judging by people’s expressions. Six of the great powers of the nation assembled as one, looking stoic and resolute.

It was a risky venture but it was also a message, a message of unity, of courage. Yes, the dukes were here. They stood in open rebellion, unafraid of showing themselves or their intentions. The message was clear, if they did not fear the king’s reprisal then all those who had come should not either. It was a gamble of epic proportions as well, as I saw it. All it would take was one traitor and the King could take down all of us in one fell swoop while each duke was away from their power base.

I looked around, trying to gauge people’s reactions but there was naught but adulation and resolve reflected through their eyes.

Stunned silence turned to a roar of whispers, like a rising tide until a small boy came up to the eighth, still hooded, figure. He carried a staff with a rolled up banner, that was all too heavy for him, dragging the end through the mud leaving a trail in his wake.

The eighth mann took up the staff.

“Brothers.” The mann spoke, his voice strong and steady, not raised but forceful.

The crowd quieted in an instant.

“Brothers and sisters, friends from afar come to grace us.” he began again, inclining his head towards the delegates.

“Today is a great day. A day that shall long be remembered. I see all of you gathered here and my heart gladdens. Far have you come, drawn here by missives, by rumors, by despair, by hope and even by accident. Yet all of you gathered here, know why we you are here. You are here because hope has abandoned you, because right is not right anymore, because greed and envy, shame and scandal are the orders of the day.” He paused for dramatic effect.

I’ll admit it, he was good. His voice a smooth bass he had the knack that when he was speaking it felt like he was talking directly to you and I could see it working as heads nodded or bowed.

“You have gathered here to witness history being made. No longer shall we abide under the rule of tyranny! No longer shall we langer and toil while other reap the rewards of our efforts. The King has grown fat! He is a slothful glutton, nay, far worse, he is a prideful tyrant who scorns all those who have given him lawful service!”

Another pause. The anger was palpable. Resentment, rage, disgrace, all of those were reflected in his word. I could feel it, my fist clenching in anger and so did the others.

“He rapes and pillages his own people, putting them to the sword for a handful of copper! He steals from the widows and orphans whose husbands and fathers have died in loyal service to him! His grasping hands reach out to take what is yours, your homes! Your wives! Your children! Your labor and toil!”

Now people were shouting, raging.

“Today, it all changes. Today is the day we say ‘Enough’. No longer shall we be your slaves! No longer shall we lay down and bear it as the King shits from his golden throne! Today is the day, brethren, when we start our war!”

The roar that met him was awe-inspiring. Raw emotion, emanating from hundreds of throats. Anger, rage, hope, fear, desire, freedom… it was all there in spades. I could write reams and reams of what I felt and what I observed from others but for me it was humbling, most of all, as I raised my voice with the others. Never before had I felt this… awed.

The eighth man raised a hand to quiet the crowd and with his free hand he pushed back the cowl.

Duke Raziel of Arkadia stood before us, a grim faced expression on his face. Seven dukes. Seven of the most powerful individuals in the realm, all assembled. Intuitively I had already known who it was, it was obvious but seeing him again, after a year, was exhilarating. There was a fire in the man’s eyes, pure zeal and righteous fury.

He unrolled the banner. There it stood, the King’s own banner. Many were the raised fists, the hatred spewed at it.

“This is the symbol of our oppression. A symbol of decadence, of corruption, of cronyism. This is not my banner.” He shook his head sadly. “Long have I served under this banner as my forebears before me. I have bled under this banner, wept under this banner. I had sworn a life of fealty and fidelity under this banner. Yet this is no longer the banner I swore to serve! It ceased to be such on the day the King decided to turn upon his own.”

On cue, someone handed the duke a lit torch. Whoever had coordinated this little scene was masterful, I’ll give him that.

Shouts of ‘burn it’ began, at first cacophonic in disharmony until the crowd adjusted and a coherent chant of ‘Burn it’ emerged.

“Our ancestors worshiped the mighty phoenix, a creature, tales tell us, that rises from the burning embers of its own demise.” Raziel said as he held the torch to cloth. It caught quickly and the acrid stench of burning cloth filled my nostrils. The crowd cheered as flames danced, burning away the royal emblem.

“Yet we are not phoenixes! We are not firebirds doomed to die and rise from our own ashes! We are menn, flesh, blood and bone.” Another cue and Raziel drew out another staff from behind him, letting the burning staff fall to the ground, still smoldering.

“Not for us a tale of tragedy! No. We shall be eagles, reforged by bloodshed and war. And trust me my brothers when I say, we shall soar!” The standard he unfurled was white and blue, a silver eagle, wings wide, dominating the field.

Another deafening cheer assaulted my ears even as I shouted with them.

Once it had died down again, Raziel gave a wolfish smile, showing teeth. “Hear me brethren. I have but one thing to ask of you as you leave today. One message you must deliver. One duty to your nation.” A dramatic pause.

“Ride out today! Ride out to all four corners of our land, to every hamlet and village, harbor and homestead. Ride out and tell the people of what you have seen here today! I want it shouted from rooftop and stage, from crossroads and backwoods. I bid you shout these words.

‘Arkadia rises and the King will fall!’ ”