"Man is asked to make of himself what he is supposed to become to fulfill his destiny."

-Paul Tillich

All of us guards sat around a campfire in a clearing by the side of the old dirt highway and finished our evening meal. To my left was a man named Owen who liked to hang around and bother me, though he probably thought he was being witty and helpful. He was a few years younger than me, and though Owen had probably told me some of the other details of his life, I did not care enough to remember them. To my right was our captain, Grant Auriga. Grant was a fighter in his prime. Each day seemed to be his greatest, and there was no situation he couldn't handle. He never demanded attention, but people always gave it to him. Whenever Grant spoke, people stopped what they were doing to listen to him -- that was how powerful his presence was.

Undoubtedly Grant Auriga was the greatest man I've ever met -- a true hero, a god among adventurers -- and so it is my honor to impart his story.

Everyone was quiet while we considered the events of the day and munched on bread crusts and other leftovers.

The corpsman made his way toward us from the wagon we carried our personal supplies in. It also served as a makeshift hospital when we were carrying sick or injured guards. That used to be a rare event, but the past few weeks had seen many men in and out of the supply wagon; some went back to work, some went to a roadside grave or pyre.

Grant looked up at the corpsman, who stopped in front of him.

"I'm not used to losing people," the corpsman said in a low tone.

Grant sighed. "None of us are. Wrap him up and we'll throw him on the fire tomorrow morning."

The dead man had been on on forward patrol two days ago when he was rushed by a group of highwaymen. We caught up in time to kill the robbers, but the guard was badly wounded; I was amazed he held on as long as he did.

Grant dumped out the rest of his drink. "Too many men are dying."

"Bandits are getting smarter, captain," said one of the guards in our group.

Grant nodded. "This last raid looked like it was organized. Crudely executed, but organized. They're more tactically skilled than ever before."

Many of the men grunted their approval.

I took a sip of water. "I think our reputation makes us a prize."

No one had ever captured a caravan guarded by our Eastern Trade Caravan Company. For a while that meant that few thieves were stupid enough to attack us, which drove our fees to new heights and expanded the limits of world trade. But there were downsides as well: the value of the goods we guarded went up; the trade routes became longer and more dangerous; and more recently, the thieves increased in quantity and quality.

"Maybe," Grant said, nodding, "Maybe that's part of it." He looked down at his empty flagon. "I think there's another factor on top of that, or rather as a result of it. Lately we've been seeing more of those tattoos."

Grant referred to the symmetrical green shoulder tattoos that many of the most skilled road bandits had. Reportedly they were earned in an elaborate and bloody initiation ritual at a secret thieves academy deep in the northern mountains -- or so the drunken myths passed around taverns and campfires said. Each successive story about the origin of the tattoos was more elaborate and bizarre than the last.

"They're ganging up. What do we do about it?" asked one of the other men.

Grant smiled and looked up at the inquisitive guard. "We fight harder."

"And die more often! I think we should get paid more." Owen said as he sneaked a glance in the direction of the fancy tent the caravan master -- the company man -- dined and slept in. "The bandits are getting better, and that's the third man we've lost on this trip," he finished.

Grant looked Owen in the eyes; being between the two made me shift my weight and rearrange my sitting position.

"You in this for the money?"

Everyone chuckled at Grant's question.

"With the value of the goods going up almost every mission, our fees must be going up, too. So why aren't we being paid more?" Owen asked.

"Look, kid," the captain replied, "What else are you gonna do with your life, huh? Be some damned... sentry in a castle? Or a courier, maybe!" he said, perking up and making his eyes wide, "Carrying messages from place to place for a few copper coins?" Grant squinted his eyes slightly and leaned in. "Or a town constable, putting the drunks in jail and getting a knife in your back for breaking up a street fight?"

Owen had nothing to say in response to the captain's playful derision.

Grant continued. "You get paid enough here, and you've got more than your fair share of adventure and excitement. Life could be worse for you."

Owen said nothing, but shook his head as he stared at the fire.

"Maybe someday we'll take the fight to them, eh?" Grant said, looking distantly into the fire. "Find their secret academy of thievery and burn it to the ground."

The caravan master came out of his tent and ordered Grant to clean up and get the guards organized for the night. We got to our feet and took care of the fire and our supplies, then set up our bedrolls and bug nets.

I never really got to sleep that night, to my recollection. I was on the verge of it several times, but though my body stayed numb and peaceful, my mind could not rest. I couldn't stop thinking about what Grant had said about our line of work. It was exciting for sure, but Owen was right about the pay. It didn't bother me so much in the short term because I always had enough money for whatever I needed, but there was rarely anything leftover after life's necessities were taken care of, and I had a running list of things that I wanted to save up for: a new sword, a new set of clothes, a knife to use as a sidearm, a bow and some arrows so I could learn how to shoot -- a whole bunch of things. Realistically it would take years of frugal living to save up enough for all of that. And what would I do when I was too old to be a caravan guard anymore? How would I make money then? Owen's curiosity was justified. Why weren't we being paid more if our company was being paid more? Did they think we were so unimportant, so expendable that we weren't worth sharing the wealth with? On the other hand, the captain was right, too -- there was nothing else I could do with my life that would pay this much, little as it was.

I thought about switching with the guards on night watch duty so I could at least be productive with my time, but I kept hoping I'd fall asleep. When dawn came I was relieved to have a good reason to get up and do something other than ask myself dangerous questions and think so intensively about my future.

Each morning began with a quick, small breakfast, then partner workouts. We stretched, then practiced our swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat so that when we got out onto the road, we were ready to fight at any time.

Grant saw that I was tired and distracted. "Best way to get killed," he began as I nodded, "is not to sleep," we said in unison.

I put my hand up as though to stop further commentary. "I know. It wasn't on purpose. I wasn't up drinking or anything. Just couldn't stop my imagination."

He and I prepared to run through our exercises together.

"You've got to learn to put those thought patterns out of your mind. Stop them, don't get emotional over them, and relax," the captain said, saluting me with his weapon.

I saluted back. "I don't like the idea of not thinking. It seems kind of... stupid."

We began our usual series of thrust-parry exercises.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't think," he said. "I'm saying that sometimes your mind goes off on meaningless, unproductive adventures. Those are distractions. The reason why being tired is so dangerous isn't necessarily because your body isn't able to fight -- it's because your mind is weak and easily entertained by how you feel, and other superficial things around you."

Despite my frame of mind, I was nimble as ever in my reflex exercises. I'd done them so many times that it was impossible to do them incorrectly anymore. "Grant, why do you do this?"

"You mean the technique drills? Or caravan work?"

"Caravan guarding."

We finished the exercise and saluted again. "When I was younger, I wanted to be an adventurer -- going from place to place, beating up villains and criminals for big rewards, that sort of thing."

Grant and I practiced our lunges. "Then I got older and realized that what I'd been fantasizing about all those years was nothing more than being a mercenary or a bounty hunter, and you'd never really know if you were working for the good guys or the bad guys."

He changed direction to avoid a mud puddle. "And now I'm starting to think that there aren't really strict limits on good guys and bad guys."

"How can you say that?" I asked. "The bandits who attack us are bad guys, clearly."

"Not that clearly," Grant said. "Many of them have families to support, some have been tragically displaced by war and famine and misfortune, I'm sure. If they weren't trying to kill us, I'd have real sympathy for them. But we're being paid to kill them, and so are we the good guys or the bad guys?"

"That's easy," I replied.

Grant stopped the lunge drill. "We are nothing more than bounty killers, but the bounties are low and the body counts are high."

I shrugged. "Better them than us. We're making an honest living. We're protecting innocent people, and they're robbing caravans."

The captain smiled and nodded. "That's the only thing that keeps me going."

The guards assembled when the drills were done, and we all gathered firewood for the dead guard's pyre. The captain and the corpsman carried the shrouded body from the supply wagon to the smoking pile of branches and heaved it on top before joining the rest of us on the perimeter.

"What was his name?" the caravan master asked.

Grant stared blankly into the pyre as the flames from the previous night's campfire caught on to the new branches. "Arch Stanton."

The caravan master looked down at his ledger, found the name in the list, and drew a careful line through it with a lead pencil. "Hmph. More paperwork." He then turned toward the wagons and motioned for the roustabouts to prepare the wagon train to depart.

I felt more awake than I usually did at that time of morning, but having stayed up all night a few times before, I knew it was only a matter of a few hours before the first wave of tiredness and mental disorientation would hit me.

The first hour on the road was easy that day. I remember it clearly -- the birch trees by the side of the road, the chill of the wind on an otherwise warm spring day, and the way that the budding leaves built a crescendo as steady gusts approached us before we could feel them. It was just cold enough that if I breathed slowly, I could see my breath as I exhaled. I noticed then that my mouth was wetter than usual; the first sign of fatigue.

I remember the caravan master calling for a stop as the horseback scout rode back to us and reported something suspicious. I went ahead with two other guards to investigate what turned out to be a tree that had fallen in the middle of the road. It was through a dense patch of forest about 20 miles from the nearest town. No one else was on the highway at the time. The birds were quiet. The tree looked like it had been cut. All of the signs were there -- we were about to be ambushed.

Just as I stopped the men with me and thought about preparing to turn around to warn the others, a volley of arrows struck us from the tree line. I took one in the chest; though my leather breastplate managed to stop the broadhead from penetrating my ribcage, the force of the blow and the minor cut the razor edges inflicted caused me to stagger and fall onto my back. The guards with me were not so lucky; one was not wearing his armor and caught a broadhead in the abdomen. The other took a hit in the arm, and then in the back as the next volley caught him trying to run for our group. I stayed down, knowing that I was unable to retaliate immediately, and that I was safer flat on the ground. The two men beside me grunted and moaned in pain as they lay dying.

We knew two things that the bandits didn't: They would soon run out of arrows, and our co-workers were already on their way. All we had to do was survive for a few minutes while the bandits exhausted their arrow supply and our comrades grouped up and advanced to help us. The rhythmic thud of the march-steps of a dozen men echoed closer as more arrows whizzed above. One squad of caravan guards made their way toward us with a staccato beat as they stepped in unison, the large square shields held in front of them easily repelling all arrows. The second squad remained behind with the caravan to guard it and protect the first squad from flankers. The wagons would advance slowly so as to not fall more than a hundred yards behind the men up front. It was a routine practiced tirelessly by new recruits before they could go on the road with us; like our morning drills, it was so deeply etched in our brains by repetition and stress that it was impossible to screw it up.

Another full volley of arrows passed overhead and bounced off of the wall of shields as they marched up to and then just beyond us, allowing the corpsman to tend to the wounded.

I got to my feet, yanked the arrow out of my armor, and held my hand up to stop the corpsman. "I'm fine -- see to the others."

The captain was just behind the shields, sword drawn, ready to charge. I drew my own weapon and joined him.

"Glad you could make it."

"Glad to be here," I replied.

The thumps of arrows on reinforced shields got slower and louder as our line approached the trees and the bandits ran low on missiles. Roadside ambushes like this one were never designed to last very long, so when the initial brute force failed to subdue us, the thieves were caught unprepared. Soon the arrows would stop, and it would be time to charge on foot.

You never knew what was beyond that wall of shields. It could be a row of heavily armed mercenaries, or it could be footsteps and dust as the bandits fled in the opposite direction. Each counter-raid was unpredictable in that regard, though rarely was it an entirely new experience.

Grant called for the chargers to form up behind the shield-bearers. After a solid minute of no arrow attacks, the captain gave the command; the shields stopped their forward progress and stepped sideways while the men behind them dashed forward looking for targets.

Grant and Owen and I split into our triangle -- we always fought in groups of three, with two up front and one behind to guard against flankers and sneak attackers -- and ran for the treeline. I could see a commotion in the brush as the bowmen struggled to either flee or arm themselves with melee weapons.

Up until then, raids had always been haphazard -- badly prepared to deal with the might of our crew, and over relatively quickly. The thieves we were up against didn't plan on facing armed guards, or if they did, they weren't smart enough to execute a proper ambush. Right up until that particular raid, all of this was true.

Instead of escaping into the forest, the bowmen had retreated a few yards, regrouped, armed themselves with swords and daggers, and instead of nervously holding their ground, they charged at us like madmen.

All three of us stopped fast, then took a step back to survey the unexpected onslaught and decide whether to run or fight.

"Hold your ground!" Grant bellowed to the nearby guards.

There were at least twenty armed thugs rushing toward us through the trees and bushes, and only three groups of three to defend. I had never seen the captain put us in so much danger, or get us involved in such unfortunate odds before; that observation scared me more than the fact of the murderous horde closing in on us.

The thieves were upon us before I could think more about the insanity of our situation. The first wave went down fairly quickly, but the less crazed bandits behind them were smarter and more cautious.

Grant and I were side by side facing the majority of the group, and Owen was behind us facing the road. Someone must have tried to flank us, because Owen bumped into me while dodging an attack. I had my own attack to deal with, and the preoccupation with what was in front of me and what had unexpectedly happened behind me caused my parry to go a little off course. The bandit's blade hit mine hard near the hilt, sending a powerful vibration down into the grip that caused me to lose my hold on it. My sword fell to the ground, leaving me unarmed facing multiple opponents.

The first thing you learn when you train with our company is: everything is a weapon. There are no sacred objects when you're fighting for your life; nothing is off-limits or unethical. An umbrella, an ale flagon, a broken chair, your heirloom wedding ring -- all weapons when you need them to be. Swords are luxury; we don't even train with them until we've proven that we can fight with our hands, feet, head, and anything we might have on our about our person or can grab in the general vicinity. There's even an old story about a long-retired captain who fought off two thieves with the severed arm of a third.

My first improvised weapon of the fight that day was my fist; I issued a quick jab to my attacker's nose, briefly stunning him. I then grabbed his sword arm, and my second improvised weapon was my attacker's body, which whipped around me and hurled into two more advancing robbers as I pulled him and spun around, using my hips and back to put extra power into the throw. My opponent dropped his sword as I twisted his wrist, and in less than two seconds I was properly armed again as the advancing bandits paused to deal with the man I'd just thrown into them.

By the time my adversaries had gotten back on guard, my companions had been successful enough that the bandit leader called a retreat, prompting his men -- including the ones in front of me -- to scurry into the forest. We would not pursue; our sole duty was to the caravan.

On the other hand, I'm often wrong.

"Follow them! Don't let them escape this time!" Grant commanded as he charged after the fleeing robbers.

A lot of patterns changed that day; either something wasn't right in the world, or the world got sick of the same old routine and decided it was time for a change. Or maybe the lack of sleep was starting to make everything seem surreal. I was reflecting on the overall weirdness of the day in the split second it took for the captain to run out of sight. I couldn't let that happen -- I was his backup -- so I sprinted after him.

Bodies of dead and dying bandits littered the brush ahead of me, providing yet more obstacles for me to dash over and around as I tried to catch up to Grant. The bushes abruptly gave way to a small manmade clearing where a dozen tents were set up around a dying fire. The captain was just a few strides ahead of me, running full speed toward the remaining bandits.

With a mighty slash and a fierce growl, Grant wounded three startled bandits and kicked a fourth back into the fire. Two others closed in from behind, but I stabbed one and engaged the other, hoping Grant was regaining his situational awareness in the process.

Parry, thrust -- the bandit in front of me was dead. Despite the fantastic tales told over ales in bars, most fights are over quickly.

"Get back!" one of the bandits -- whom I took to be the leader -- yelled. "He's mine."

The handful of remaining thieves dragged their wounded friends to the far side of the clearing; our men found their way to us through the forest and lined up on the other side. Grant and the apparent bandit leader faced each other in the middle, near the fire.

The bandit leader pointed at Grant. "You'll pay for this slaughter! You're not supposed to pursue!"

Grant said nothing; he merely deepened his stance, tightened his grip, and maintained a heightened awareness of his adversary's every move. As the bandit leader wound up for a mighty swing, the captain raised his blade to meet the man's wrist, slicing into it as his opponent brought his arms down to execute the attack. The bandit's sword never found its target; the deep wound to his wrist caused him to drop his weapon. Grant reacted to that with such speed that it almost seemed choreographed, slashing across the bandit leader's unarmored abdomen. The resultant wound caused some of his guts to spill out, which sent the bandit leader into extreme panic. Grant allowed the man to suffer a moment, then beheaded him.

"Round them up," he commanded, his voice hoarse from the stress of fighting.

We executed the injured bandits, tossed their bodies onto the campfire-turned-pyre, and bound the four survivors and marched them back through the forest toward the wagon train.

Owen was waiting for us on the road as we exited the woods. "All of you are crazy."

Grant scowled. "You're a coward. You should have kept with the group."

Owen waved us off. "Look, I'm not a hotshot hero like you. My life's not worth what they're paying me. Double my salary and you'll get a blind forest charge or two out of me."

Miraculously, every one of our men who went into the woods came out alive and in reasonably good health, a few cuts and bruises aside. From Owen we learned that both of the guards who had been shot at the beginning of the battle were still breathing, but grievously injured. I was in much better condition.

"That looks worse than you're letting on," Grant said, pointing to my chest as we walked back toward the wagons.

I looked down at the X the arrow had left in my chest armor, and noticed that some blood had seeped out of the superficial cuts underneath, leaving a dark red streak down my torn shirt. "It's nothing."

"I'll take your word for it."

Owen leaned in and looked at my wound. "Someday they'll start poisoning their arrows."

I shrugged. "Maybe, but not today."

"You're lucky."

I squinted. "No, I'm smart. I wore my armor. Did the others? No, they didn't, and now they've got arrows in their guts."

Owen snorted a tiny laugh. "Armor's for sissies."

Grant pushed Owen's shoulder aggressively. "Go tell that to the men who got hit!"

Owen paused to let the angry moment pass, then said: "I think I'd rather question the prisoners -- find out where their secret academy is, if there even is one."

Grant nodded stiffly. "Yes, go do that."

We rallied to help the roustabouts clear the fallen tree from the road, then reassembled and got the caravan back underway. If there were no other unusual events, we would be on the last day of our trip; it was only another 20 miles to Brandstadt, our destination. Originally the caravan master hoped to arrive by mid-afternoon, but with the delay from the attack, we would have to hurry to make it to town by dusk.

Around noon I was truly fatigued. If I closed my eyes for longer than a blink, I could feel my mind begin to shut down, even for a few minutes. My muscles ached from the fight that morning and the lack of rest the previous night, yet I plodded on, knowing that I could sleep as long as I needed to once we got to town.

Actually that wasn't true, but it was what I had to tell myself in order to keep going. Our work was not done once we passed the town border; we had to check in with the merchant, do a role call at the company office, ensure that all of the goods were delivered safely, and then we had to line up and get paid. Sometimes this process took an hour; sometimes it took several. I found it comforting, however, to cheat a little and say to myself that we only had four more hours until Brandstadt.

Though we had moved as quickly as we could, we did not arrive in time to save the injured guards. They'd gone without intensive medical help for too long, but it might not have mattered anyway considering the severity of their injuries. The corpsman did what he could to stop the bleeding, but the broadheads had gone too deep and the tools he had available to him were too limited. As the first one neared his final moments, the corpsman sent someone up to tell the captain, and the caravan came to a stop.

Grant and I hastened to the side of the dying guard.

He was pallid and had a dazed and distant look in his eyes. "Did we get the bastards, captain?"

"That we did."

With a shiver, our colleague expired. The other was peripherally aware of the first guard's death, and motioned to us with his remaining strength.

"Promise me," he said, then wheezed. "Promise you'll..." he was unable to finish.

The captain took his comrade's hand and nodded. "When we get to town, we'll find out where their base is and destroy it. No more good men like you will take an arrow like that again."

Owen found his way to us and peered over my shoulder. "They're not going to make it?"

I shook my head solemnly.

Owen smirked. "I found out where they're being trained."

Grant gently laid the dying man's hand at his side and turned toward Owen. "Where?"

"Dracheburg Valley. There's a stronghold there."

Grant squinted. "Dracheburg? Not much there, it's desolate... secluded."

"That would make it the perfect place to assemble and train a gang of robbers," I offered.

"Yeah, but there's nothing to steal there, not for fifty miles at least. How would they turn a profit by training highwaymen?" he asked.

"Maybe they pay tributes for the right to plunder certain roads?" Owen said.

"Nah," I replied, "How would they collect it?"

Grant looked at Owen and pointed toward the prisoners chained to a nearby wagon. "Go find out."

While Owen continued his interrogation, Grant and I got back to the head wagon and commenced our journey.

The captain looked back to see if the caravan master was paying attention, then turned toward me. "I meant what I said back there."

I looked at him quizzically. "I don't understand."

"About finding the bandit stronghold."

My voice was starting to become hoarse from lack of rest. "Do we have a caravan going there?"

"No caravans go to Dracheburg that I know of. Like I said, there's nothing there and no one to trade with. It's the last of the holdouts from the feudal era; the people of Dracheburg never overthrew their landlord, and he's become reclusive and lazy. The fields are overgrown, the people are slowly dying, and no one has the money to pick up and leave. I know -- it's my hometown. That's where I come from, Dracheburg."

I paused to consider the implications. "So you're just..." I turned to look at the caravan master to see if he was paying attention. "You're going to quit?"

Grant took a deep breath. "It's time. Remember that conversation we had this morning -- the one about making a difference, about being one of the good guys? I've done this long enough. It's time to do something more meaningful. It's time to stop these bandits once and for all, and liberate my home from their vicious grasp."

"But we don't even know if they're there; we don't know if those bandits were telling the truth."

He shook his head. "There's a bandit training camp someplace -- that I am sure of -- and it makes complete sense that it would be in Dracheburg. Besides, I haven't been home in a long time; it would be good to go back and see my family."

I looked down at the road below me. Grant Auriga was my hero, my mentor, the guy who held us together and made us a team. If he left, I couldn't figure out how I'd find any enjoyment in my work. It wouldn't just be different, it would be intolerable.

"Do you want to come with me?" he asked.

Fatigue clouded my thoughts, though if I'd been well-rested and had more time to think about it, my answer probably would have been the same. The only difference would be that I'd have been more aware of the risks involved.

"Of course. Yeah -- I'll go with you."

Grant smiled confidently and held out his hand. We grabbed each other's wrists in a gentlemanly salute.

As we began dreaming of the new adventure before us, a familiar milestone came into view.

Brandstadt 1 mi.

A gust of cold wind hit us in the face as the afternoon bled into sunset, a reminder that winter wasn't so far behind that it couldn't reassert its presence on a whim. It was going to be chilly that night, which gave us all the more reason to hurry.

"I'll race ya," Grant offered.

My second wind had come and gone; every muscle in my body ached, my mind was hazy, and my situational awareness was dulled. It was worse than being drunk. There was no doubt that Grant would beat me in a foot race, but if I took him up on it, maybe I could find a place to lie down for an hour or two before they called me in to guard the cargo as it was unloaded.

"Yeah sure, why not. You'll win, though, I already know."

"I'll go easy on you."

The moment we passed the milestone, the race was on. The only reason I could feel my legs moving underneath me was because the muscles were so sore and overworked. Otherwise my legs felt like stilts, and if I thought about them too much, it seemed like I might forget how to use them. Only the cold evening spring air coming in through my nose kept me alert.

I took an early lead; Grant was serious about going easy on me, or perhaps he too was fatigued from the battle that morning and was honestly trying his best. I sprinted at about 80% of my capacity, hoping to maintain my lead at a barely comfortable pace. Just as the town archway came into sight around a bend in the road, Grant caught up to me. I increased my effort to 90% and then to a full sprint, moving my body as quickly as it could go, my breathing barely keeping up with my body's energy demands. Still Grant surpassed me and took a significant lead.

Knowing he was destined to win the race, the captain looked back at me, smiled broadly, and said something. But the wind rushing past my freezing ears, my heavy breathing, and the sound of my feet padding along the dirt road drowned out his voice.

Just as I was about to figure out a way to ask him to repeat himself, Grant tripped on a rock and hit the ground hard. His feet had gotten tangled up in the split second that he had to try to correct his balance, and he fell back diagonally in the direction we were running. There was no time to steady himself; he fell hard and fast, and hit his head on a rock by the side of the road.

I expected him to get up and struggle to catch up and win the race, but he stayed down and didn't move at all. I decelerated safely and turned to see if Grant was alright while I put my hands on my knees to catch my breath. At any moment he would roll over and curse and I would playfully taunt him.

But Grant was not alright; if he was, he'd have at least moved. I waited one more long second before I accepted that he was grievously hurt, then sprinted toward him.

"Corpsman!"

I looked back the way we'd come. The caravan was almost a half mile away, and we'd been the front men so there was no one to relay my calls for help.

Dread overtook me as I stood up and cupped my hands over my mouth. "Corpsman!"

One of the guards on the second wagon took notice and trotted back to get the corpsman.

I kneeled by the captain's side to see how bad it was. He'd landed on the rock with the back of his head, which was bleeding dark blood. Grant's body began to twitch; slightly at first, then violently. I tried to hold him still. "You're going to make it, buddy."

I looked back to see who was coming to help. The corpsman and Owen were trotting toward us.
"Hurry!" I commanded.

I looked back at Grant and deliriously searched for something to say to him. "All the shit you've been through... this is nothing. You're going to make it!"

"How is he?" the corpsman asked as he came within earshot.

"It's bad, hurry up!"

I backed away once the corpsman reached us. "We were running, and he fell and hit his head on that rock."

He leaned over to look at Grant's injury, and paused a moment. The cold look in his eyes erased all of my hope. Though the whole day up until then had been on the edge of surreal -- from lack of sleep, nearly being killed by an ambusher's arrow, and other unusual events -- seeing Grant Auriga mortally wounded in front of me finally pushed it over the edge.

A wave of debilitating unreality hit me. 'This can't happen,' I thought.

The cold early-evening air chilled me to the core as the corpsman put a rag under Grant's head where the wound was. The captain stopped convulsing shortly thereafter, which made my heart leap. But he put his ear close to Grant's mouth and listened intently, then he pulled a small mirror from his satchel and held it up to the captain's nose. No fog appeared.

The corpsman looked up at me. "There's nothing anyone can do for a head injury like that. It swells up the brain and..."

He trailed off. I could hear him speaking, explaining why Grant's injury was fatal and untreatable, but none of the words made any sense except for the last four: "The captain is dead."

My vision started to go gray, and my skull tingled as though I'd stood up too fast. I lost track of my breathing, and staggered forward toward a rotting fence by the side of the road. I grabbed hold of one of its beams and kneeled down in front of it, no longer able to stand up. People said some things behind me, probably asking if I needed help, but I couldn't respond.

I had seen so many gruesome events in my life, so many violent things happen to other human beings. I even perpetrated a significant number of them myself. None of it ever disturbed me, but watching my friend and mentor die so easily right in front of me was too much to handle. I puked for a minute or so, though it was all dry heaves beyond the first two volleys because we'd delayed our evening meal until after our arrival in Brandstadt.

After another few minutes, my vision came back to normal, and my hearing improved. My legs were charley-horsed and unable to extend, so Owen and the corpsman helped me beat them back into shape and get to my feet.

By that time the wagons had caught up to us, and the caravan master stopped to see what was going on. Someone explained it to him while I stared at Grant's corpse and wondered how he could have been so full of life and energy just ten minutes ago, and now lay dead forever in front of me. How could he have survived so many battles, cheated death in the face of difficult odds so many times, then died because of his own random clumsiness? Even that was a long shot -- Grant was in top physical condition and his reflexes were legendary among our crew. It was the worst, most horrifyingly unlucky thing that could have possibly happened in the entire universe at that moment.

The men loaded Grant's body onto the wagon with the other two dead guards; I rode on the edge of the tailgate with them, too exhausted to walk on my own.

The Brandstadt town gate came and went. I had been looking forward to passing under that arch since I woke up that morning. Suddenly there it was and I didn't care anymore; I was too physically tired and emotionally devastated.

We stopped at our patron merchant and checked in. Even though I had been deemed too sick to walk, my sense of duty impelled me to respond to the caravan master's call to line up while the merchant inspected the goods. I took a position at the wagon directly in front of the one I'd been riding in with the dead men. A representative crate from each wagon was opened to ensure that the goods were the correct ones for this merchant, undamaged by the journey, and arrived in the expected quantity. If there were any problems, our caravan company would have to pay the difference.

The merchant stopped at the wagon I was guarding, and ordered the roustabouts to open a crate for him.

He looked me over as the rousties applied crowbars to the lid of the most convenient crate. "You look like hell."

I'm sure I must have appeared to be ill; from what I could see in the dim light, my skin was clammy and pale, and I probably had dark circles under my eyes. My brain was too scrambled to respond, and the merchant turned his attention toward the crate anyway as the lid was pried off to reveal...

I stared in disbelief. "Women's... clothes?"

The merchant laughed greedily. "Made of the finest silk from the most remote tailors in the--"

Before he could finish, I pushed him aside, took the crate in my arms and tossed it out into the street while screaming unintelligible obscenities at our patron.

My fellow guards were on me in an instant, restraining my exhausted body and dragging me off toward the barracks. It was a humiliating end to a horrible day, and all I could do was weep.

***

The cave was dark, cold, and silent. I couldn't see very far, and my torch withered and flickered in the breeze. The dying flame was my only comfort -- it was all I knew and all I could sense. I held it out in front of me to increase its reach, but my efforts only shrouded me further in darkness. As my fear grew, the flame dimmed.

I kept looking behind me, sure that something was there but finding only the gloom of my own shadow, created by the torchlight in front of me. I was sure that something hideous and horrifying was hiding in my blacker-than-black shadow, but when I brought the light to my other side to expose it, it was gone.

I called out a nervous greeting, but the only response was the echo of my voice as it carried down the tunnel. I became angry and frustrated, and searched desperately for any sign of life, be it friend or foe.

A terrible roar came from behind me, causing such surprise that my heart nearly stopped beating. I wheeled about to face a huge dragon emerging from the darkness of my shadow. I drew my sword, but somehow lacked the strength and agility to wield it properly.

The torch went out, and all went black momentarily. Fear paralyzed my body and my thoughts, and all I could do was listen. Then a whisper's echo crept down the cave passage: "What are you?"

I was in front of a lake at night. A thick forest surrounded the narrow beach, discouraging me from leaving the area. The light from the moon and stars illuminated the figure of a woman emerging from the water, fading into view as she advanced toward the sand. Her hair was short and blonde, and she wore a minimal white silk dress ornamented with gold rings. Her presence brought me out of the horror of my nightmare.

"It makes no sense," the pale woman said.

"I don't know what you mean," I responded.

She motioned toward the water. "Come with me."

The lake was scary; there surely was something horrid beneath its surface that would attack me. I thought I saw something swirl beneath the surface, and immediately sensed that I was being tricked. I turned to walk away, but found myself back in the tunnel, facing the dragon. Again I was paralyzed with fear and all I could do was watch as its jaws bore down upon me.

***

I woke up in a barracks cot soaked with sweat. The guards had given me an extra blanket to combat the cold air when they dragged me there the previous evening. At first it kept me warm, but then as I continued to sleep into the next morning, past noon, and into mid-afternoon, the cold air had turned unseasonably hot.

My mind, at last, was cleared of fatigue, though I still felt groggy from being asleep for so long. I immediately shed the damp blankets and maneuvered my way out of the cot; they were stacked three high in the barracks, which didn't leave much room to move, so you had to carefully roll out of them to avoid hitting your head or falling on the floor.

I stood up and recovered from my dizziness, then shuffled out the door. The barracks were deserted, which made me feel like I'd missed out on something. The rest of the guards were somewhere else without me. As I exited the main room of the barracks, one of the roustabouts was playing a solo card game in the recruiting office, which was between the main room and the exit.

"Caravan master's waiting for ya, Captain," he said, picking up his playing cards and packing his satchel as he prepared to leave. Apparently his task was to deliver that message to me; I wondered how long he had been waiting.

"I-" I began, but my throat was clogged with dust and phlegm. I coughed and cleared my throat, then continued in a rough-cut voice: "I'm not the captain."

The teenager walked hurriedly out the door with his satchel and a fishing pole. "You are now."

The company office was in a separate building across the street and two doors down. It was well-furnished and accommodating, and the guards were not allowed in unless specifically invited. It was a business office designed to attract merchants and investors, not a place for men like me to hang around.

I stumbled into the street, blind from lack of adjustment to the unrestrained sunshine, and sneezing from road dust and bright light.

"Watch it!" a surly passerby threatened as I absent-mindedly bumped into him.

"Sorry," I muttered, changing course to avoid him.

The bells attached to the door jingled as I entered, and again as I closed the door behind me.

The receptionist looked at me sternly. "Do you have an appointment?"

The caravan master was sitting on a couch waiting for me. "He's with me."

He stood up and motioned for me to follow him; we walked down a hall and into a small office littered with papers, trophies, and ornaments.

"I hope you got some rest."

"Yeah," I replied. I've never been one for small-talk.

"About last night's incident," he began as he sat behind his desk.

I sat down in the guest chair and shook my head. "I'm sorry about that, it was... a lot of things."

The caravan master looked puzzled. "Hmm? Oh. Well, I mean, we of course find that behavior unacceptable and you have an official write-up in the works someplace, but I think we can overlook it, considering the merchant wasn't really all that upset. And we do understand the circumstances. Actually it's those circumstances that I was originally talking about -- I'd all but forgotten about that outburst until you mentioned it."

"Has Grant been buried yet?"

The caravan master opened his desk drawer and retrieved an unmarked bottle of liquor and two glasses. "Not yet. Tradition has it that the new captain buries the old one."

"I think I see where you're going with this."

He poured into both glasses, handed me one to drink, and recorked the bottle. "Captain Auriga was an integral part of our team."

I smelled the drink; it seemed to be whiskey. "Irreplaceable."

He looked hard at me. "No one is irreplaceable."

The whiskey was sweet and thick, like a liqueur. "You're going to make me the new captain?"

The caravan master smiled. "You're the only man qualified for the job. You know the drills and strategies, and you've made no enemies among the other men. You are the natural choice."

Grant wasn't the first captain I worked with. I remember an older guy who retired and became a recruit trainer. I recall him being a good leader, but it was so long ago that I couldn't think of his name anymore. Both he and Grant were born to lead men, if not in battle in some great war, then at least into the forest on a counter-ambush raid. I was not a leader; I could barely think and act for myself. Not only was I unqualified to replace Grant, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that I didn't have the requisite abilities.

"I'll bury Grant, but I don't think I'm a good choice for captain," I said, finishing my drink.

"You're the best candidate, though."

I set my empty glass down on the caravan master's desk. "Only by virtue of Grant dying. I hadn't planned on continuing with the company, even if the captain hadn't died."

"What? Why?"

The drink started to take effect; I hadn't eaten anything in a very long time, so there was nothing standing between the alcohol and my digestive system. And it was a lot stronger than ordinary whiskey; the caravan master knew what he was doing.

"Because the pay is terrible, the risk is unreasonable, and I don't enjoy the work anymore. Truth be told, Grant was going to quit, too."

That revelation visibly surprised him. "He never expressed any dissatisfaction to me. Hmph. Anyway, never mind that. Just stick around for a day or so with your new promotion, and see how you like it. We've got another caravan leaving tomorrow -- just a short run to Karoburg, small crew, easy work. I'll even back-date your new pay scale to the previous job."

I'd zoned out in a glaze of alcohol and didn't immediately respond.

"Well?"

I took a deep breath and came back to my senses. "Who is Grant's next of kin?"

He shuffled through the top layer of papers on one side of his desk, focusing at last on a list of names. "He has family in Dracheburg. A... mother and a sister," he said, tossing the form back onto the pile irreverently.

"Before I go anywhere or do anything, I should bury Grant and then take his things to his family," I said.

"We have couriers to take care of that. I need a man to lead the Karoburg crew, and you won't be back by then."

I stood up. "He was my best friend! I'm taking his things to his mother and sister in Dracheburg. Thanks for the job offer, but I've got other things to do."

The caravan master slammed his fist down on the desk. "You are promoted to captain of the guards, now stop arguing with me, get out of my office, and be prepared to leave tomorrow!"

I put my glass down haphazardly on his desk and made my exit. On my way out of the office, I collected my pay for the previous run. Everyone else had gotten paid the night before, so my earnings had been left with the treasurer at the office. At first I was impressed because it was more money than I'd ever had in my possession at any given time, but then I realized that it still wasn't enough to do anything meaningful with.

Waiting along with my pay was a new, neatly folded captain's uniform. It was much like the standard guard's uniform, except the shirt had a raised collar and there was a single gold star on each shoulder. I needed a new uniform anyway, and I wanted to follow all of the proper protocols for Grant's funeral, so I took it with me.

As I stepped back out into the bright afternoon sun, the receptionist hung the Closed sign on the door and shut it behind me. The company office typically closed earlier, but it put me in the mindset that I had to hurry to get changed and collect the captain's body from the mortuary before the undertaker left for the evening.

The mortuary was underneath the Brandstadt infirmary. Since it snowed for nearly half the year in Brandstadt, it was necessary to keep corpses in storage until the ground was soft enough to dig into. Pyres were always acceptable at any time of the year, but a lot of old-fashioned people still preferred to bury their dead. It was tradition in our company to burn bodies when on the road, and bury them if we were close to town. The company would pay for the two dead guards to be buried by the local gravediggers, but Grant was to be buried by his successor, and at least for the next few hours, that was me.

The town mortician scowled at me as I approached. "Been a while now. I'd hoped not to see you again."

He was in his 60s, and very good at preparing the deceased, but very bad at dealing with the living. As I stared at the odd little man for a long moment, I pondered the ambiguity of his statement, then wondered if he distanced himself from live people because he saw the agony of grief and the guarantee of death on a daily basis.

'Or maybe he's just an asshole,' I thought.

"I'm here to pick up Captain Auriga."

The mortician nodded slightly, then turned and walked down the ramp to the storage area, with me close behind. Each step lower strengthened the coolness of the air and the power of the smell of formaldehyde, pine wood, and decay. Fortunately, Grant's coffin wasn't far from the door.

The Brandstadt mortuary was unusually large for the number of bodies it stored. "Why is this place so big?"

The strange old man let out a frustrated sigh. "You don't remember anything, do you?"

"My long-term memory is horrible," I admitted.

"It's large because at one time, we had a lot of bodies to store."

He flipped up the lid of Grant's coffin. "Captain Auriga's been washed, positioned, and dressed in his best."

Grant looked solemn and strong, even in death. I grinned a little, thinking that the only reason he didn't get up and start living again was because staying dead was tougher. But I didn't hold the smile long; my best friend and mentor had but a few hours more above ground in the world he'd left behind. Grant's hair was cut into a flat-top, as he preferred, and his face had been carefully shaved. He'd been dressed in a new guard captain's uniform, and his boots had been shined and laced neatly. Our company had provided a ceremonial ringmail cuirass for him to wear. His sword had been sharpened and polished, and he held it to his chest, with both hands wrapped around the hilt, blade pointed toward his toes.

I nodded my approval, and the mortician repositioned the lid and nailed it permanently into place. It suddenly hit me that I'd just seen Grant for the last time, and I was nearly overcome with grief. It was all I could do to hold it inside as I watched each nail drive through the lid.

We loaded the coffin and a temporary headstone into the mortuary's horse-driven hearse and made the half-mile journey to the Brandstadt Cemetery.

Eastern Trade Caravan Company had its own section there, separated from the general population with a low, spiked, iron-wrought fence. The larger fence around the entire graveyard was designed to keep scavenging animals out, but this lower fence was there mostly to keep ordinary townspeople from trampling our company's graves. By the time we arrived, the town gravediggers had already buried one deceased guard, and were about halfway through digging the grave for the second.

The mortician and I unloaded the coffin, and then positioned the temporary headstone at the plot reserved for Grant.

"We'll have the permanent one in place sometime next week," he muttered, handing me a shovel.

Without another word, the old man got back in the hearse and left.

I cut a border in the grass along the rope-marked grave area, then removed the rope and stakes. The gravediggers were laughing and joking with each other as they worked, which infuriated me. I wanted to go over and yell at them for having no respect for the dead; on the other hand, this was their daily work, and I had no right to tell them that they couldn't find some superficial enjoyment in it.

When they'd finished burying the guards, the gravediggers came over to me and offered to help. I felt badly for being secretly upset with them earlier, which gave me all the more incentive to tell them I'd continue on my own. They left their pulley system for me to use to lower Grant's coffin into the grave once it was deep enough. Up until then, I had been so focused on digging that I hadn't thought about how to safely get the coffin into the grave.

I started to really get sore when I approached my target depth of three feet. Digging graves always seemed so easy when people talked about it, but in reality it took longer and resulted in more aching muscles than I'd anticipated. I was athletic, but not used to the kind of workout that digging demanded. The sun was setting as I finally reached the correct notch carved into the shovel's handle. I lit a lantern, positioned the lowering mechanism, and loaded the coffin into it.

I leaned on my shovel and took a deep breath. 'Well, this is it.' And with that thought I completely lost my composure and openly sobbed.

Sweaty and sore after finishing the burial, I approached the local bar where most of the caravan guards congregated. Two of my comrades were on the bar's porch, leaning up against the outside wall, too drunk to stand properly.

"E-even...in... captain!" one of them slurred. The other was too busy trying not to puke to offer any kind of greeting.

I walked in through the open door to a raucous crowd of locals and guards, all playing cards or dice at tables, or drinking at the bar, or smoking pipes by the fireplace. If this were a normal night, Grant and I would be by the fire listening to the old men talk about their adventures.

"Hey -- it's the captain!" someone shouted.

A majority of the room turned toward me and grunted or called out a greeting. Men gave me playful pushes or arm-punches as I made my way to the bar.

The bartender had an ale in my hand ahead of the rest of the men waiting to drink. "On the house!"

I nodded and took a sip.

"Say somethin', captain!"

"Yeah!"

The room quieted down as everyone turned their attention toward me.

I stared into my ale flagon. "I'll say something," I said.

My words were spoken too softly, which caused some of the men to clamor for silence.

I cleared my throat silently and projected my voice a bit more. "But what I'm going to say isn't about me, or about us, or what we do. There's a time for that, and this isn't it. I'm going to tell you that I've just come from the graveyard, where our leader is at his final rest. Do not raise your cups to me; raise them to the greatest hero that I -- that any of us -- have ever known."

I raised my flagon. "Grant Auriga!"

The crowd responded in kind, and shortly went back to its previous business.

The bartender had started placing wooden coins near me, but I didn't notice until the stack had grown to three.

"What's all this?"

He pointed toward me. "Free drinks."

I held up my hand. "I'm not much of a drinker."

The bartender either ignored me or was too busy to pay attention. My ale flagon was never allowed to get empty no matter how many wooden tokens I gave away to the people around me.

As the evening wore on, more and more guards came up to shake my hand and talk to me, giving me their advice, asking me to make changes to the way the company runs things, and in general trying to serve their own purposes under the guise of helping me grow into my new promotion. I was evasive at first, but became more talkative with each of them as I had more free drinks and put more distance between me and the sad events of the past two days. For a moment I wondered where Owen was, but then stopped myself, thinking that it was a good thing that he hadn't found his way to the bar that night -- I didn't want to put up with his childish banter.

I remember going out back to piss, and talking to someone on the way back, sitting down on a bench by the back door because I was tired from standing at the bar. And then I was waking up, still on the bench out back, still slightly drunk, shivering from the cold, with a terrible headache. It was at least two hours after dawn, which meant that the caravan was probably leaving as I was sitting there. That made me think that some guard would come looking for me soon, so I got to my feet and ambled toward the public stables. From there I would be able to see down the street to the company office without being noticed.