Against The World

The burning barn stood between Uriah and the six riders.

Flames raced across its roof, consuming old wooden shingles and sending columns of black smoke into the sky. Villagers hurried between the well and the fire, but their buckets barely slowed it.

A horse screamed from inside.

Melody heard it too.

Her ears snapped upright.

“There are animals trapped in there.”

“Get them out,” Uriah said. “Do not engage the riders unless they try to stop you.”

Melody nodded and sprinted downhill.

Mary followed more carefully, gathering her skirt in one hand so she would not trip. She headed toward the bucket line, calling to the villagers before she had even reached them.

Uriah kept his eyes on the six riders.

Their leader carried a burning torch despite the barn already being ablaze. A yellow hawk had been painted on his shield—the same symbol displayed on the cloaks of the other men.

Lord Harwick’s colors.

The riders noticed Uriah coming down the hill.

Their leader turned his horse and watched him approach.

“You there!” he shouted. “Stay back!”

Uriah continued walking.

The headache caused by repairing Greykeep’s gate had not faded. He could feel it pulsing behind his eyes with every step. It reminded him that his power had limits.

He would have to be careful.

“Did you set that fire?” Uriah asked.

The rider looked at his companions.

They laughed.

“I asked you a question.”

The man lifted his torch. “This village owes taxes to Lord Harwick. We are teaching them the cost of disobedience.”

“By burning their food?”

“By burning whatever we please.”

One of the villagers stopped carrying buckets.

He was an older man with a badly mended coat and ash smeared across his face.

“It was not about taxes!” he shouted. “You doubled the payment!”

The mounted men turned toward him.

The villager’s courage faltered, but he did not retreat.

“You took our winter grain,” he continued. “Then you demanded more.”

The leader urged his horse toward him.

Uriah stepped into the animal’s path.

The horse stopped so abruptly that its rider nearly fell from the saddle.

“Move,” the man ordered.

“No.”

“You do not know who we are.”

“I know enough.”

The rider looked Uriah over. His gaze lingered on the sword and hammer at Uriah’s hips.

“You are not from Lowfield.”

“No.”

“Then this does not concern you.”

Behind them, part of the barn roof collapsed. Sparks rose into the smoke.

Uriah heard Melody shouting inside the building.

It concerned him.

“What happens if the village cannot pay because you burned its grain?” he asked.

“That is their problem.”

“You destroyed their ability to meet your demand.”

“Then they will sell livestock.”

“And after that?”

The rider shrugged. “Their land.”

Uriah understood.

This was not punishment. It was theft carried out one step at a time. Harwick’s men demanded more than the villagers could provide, destroyed what little remained, and then claimed their farms as payment.

“Who ordered you to do this?”

The rider leaned down. “Lord Harwick’s authority is the only answer you need.”

“That was not my question.”

The man’s expression hardened.

He threw the torch at Uriah.

Uriah caught it.

For a moment, they both stared at the flames curling around his hand.

The fire did not burn him.

It felt almost weightless. Warm, but no more dangerous than sunlight.

Uriah closed his fingers.

The flame vanished.

The torch crumbled into cold ash.

One of the horses backed away.

The rider tried to hide his alarm.

“A warlock,” he said.

“I have no idea what that means.”

The man drew his sword. “It means you should have stayed out of this.”

He swung from the saddle.

Uriah stepped aside.

The blade passed within inches of his shoulder. He seized the rider’s wrist and pulled.

The man left the saddle with a startled cry and landed on his back in the muddy road.

Every villager stopped.

The other five riders drew their weapons.

Uriah looked at the man on the ground.

“Stay there.”

The man tried to rise.

Uriah placed one boot on the end of his sword.

“I was hoping you would choose the easy version of this conversation.”

Three riders charged.

Uriah raised one hand.

The road moved.

Earth rolled beneath the horses like a slow wave. The animals stumbled but did not fall. Their riders were less fortunate. Two tumbled from their saddles, while the third clung to his horse’s neck as it turned in a confused circle.

Uriah lowered his hand.

He could feel the drain of using magic.

He had moved too much earth.

Power made it tempting to solve every problem with more power. His body was already warning him how dangerous that habit could become.

The final two riders remained near the barn.

One lifted a crossbow.

Uriah heard the string snap.

He reacted without thinking.

The bolt stopped in front of his face.

It hung there, trembling in the air.

Uriah stared at it.

He had caught the torch because fire answered him. He had moved the road because earth answered him.

This felt different.

Invisible pressure surrounded the bolt, holding it in place.

Telekinesis.

Useful.

Also something he would have preferred to discover when no one was aiming at him.

He turned the bolt around and sent it into the ground between the crossbowman’s boots.

The man dropped his weapon.

“Anyone else?” Uriah asked.

No one moved.

A section of the barn wall cracked.

Melody burst through the doors leading two frightened horses by their reins. Three goats followed her, along with a cloud of smoke and one extremely angry goose.

“Clear the doorway!” she shouted.

Villagers rushed to help.

A little boy broke from the crowd.

“Dapple!”

He ran toward one of the horses.

A burning beam fell from the barn roof.

It struck the ground between the boy and the animal, scattering sparks. The horse reared, tearing its reins from Melody’s hand.

The boy froze.

Uriah moved.

Wind rushed past him, propelling him across the road. He reached the child, swept him into one arm, and raised his other hand.

The fire stopped.

Not only the flames on the fallen beam.

All of it.

Every flame consuming the barn bent toward Uriah.

The villagers cried out.

Fire streamed from the roof and windows in long orange ribbons. It twisted above the road, forming a blazing sphere large enough to fill the courtyard at Greykeep.

Heat rolled across the village.

Uriah held the fire away from the people and buildings.

The effort felt enormous.

His arms shook.

A headache became a spike driven through his skull.

He could not hold the fire for long.

Water, he thought.

The buckets in the villagers’ hands trembled.

Water rose from them in shining streams. More burst from the well, spiraling through the air until it surrounded the floating sphere of flame.

The elements struck each other.

Steam exploded over the road.

A white cloud swallowed Uriah, the riders, and half the village.

He closed his eyes and held the boy tightly.

When the steam cleared, the fire was gone.

The barn remained damaged and blackened, but it still stood. Smoke drifted from wet beams. The nearby houses were safe.

Uriah lowered the child to the ground.

“Are you hurt?”

The boy shook his head.

His mother ran forward and pulled him into her arms.

“Thank you,” she said.

Uriah tried to answer.

The road tilted beneath him.

Melody caught his arm before he fell.

“You are not fine,” she said.

“I did not say I was.”

“You were going to.”

“I was considering it.”

Mary hurried toward them. Soot marked one side of her face, and several strands of hair had escaped their ribbon.

“What happened?”

“He used too much magic,” Melody said.

“I used the necessary amount.”

“You nearly fell over.”

“After the necessary amount.”

Mary examined his eyes. “Can you see clearly?”

“Mostly.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“I can see one of you.”

“There is only one of me.”

“Then we are doing well.”

Mary did not smile.

Uriah’s attention returned to the riders.

Four were on the ground. One remained on horseback but had dropped his sword. The last, the crossbowman, stood perfectly still near the road.

Their leader glared at Uriah from the mud.

“You will regret this.”

“Probably,” Uriah said. “I regret several things already, including not eating breakfast.”

“You attacked Lord Harwick’s sworn men.”

“You set fire to a barn with animals inside.”

“They resisted lawful collection.”

“Whose law allows this?”

“Lord Harwick’s.”

Uriah looked at Mary.

“Is Lowfield within Greykeep’s legal territory?”

She understood immediately.

“Yes. The original deed includes the village and all farms east of the old boundary stones.”

The rider’s face changed.

“You lie.”

Mary removed the deed from her satchel.

The golden seal caught the sunlight.

The man went pale.

“You recognize it,” Uriah said.

The rider looked away.

“That document means nothing.”

“You seemed more confident before you saw it.”

The older villager approached cautiously.

His gaze moved between Uriah and the deed.

“Are you from the castle?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Harwick’s men said Greykeep had no lord.”

“That was true yesterday.”

The villagers began whispering.

The older man stared at Uriah’s weapons.

“You are the stranger who defeated the men at the gate.”

“That story traveled quickly.”

“One of them came through Lowfield last night. He said a sorcerer had stolen Greykeep.”

Uriah sighed. “Of course he did.”

Mary stepped forward.

“Greykeep was not stolen. The goddess’s deed recognized Uriah Grey as its rightful sovereign.”

The word spread through the crowd.

Sovereign.

Greykeep.

Rightful.

King.

Uriah heard that last one several times.

He raised a hand. “Before this becomes more complicated, what is your name?”

The older villager straightened. “Thomas Alder, sir. I serve as Lowfield’s headman.”

“Uriah.”

Thomas hesitated. “King Uriah?”

“Just Uriah for now.”

The villagers exchanged uncertain looks.

Thomas lowered his voice. “My lord, people like us do not call kings by their names.”

“I have been a king for less than a day. I think we can adjust gradually.”

A little laughter moved through the crowd.

The sound broke some of the fear hanging over them.

Uriah faced Harwick’s men.

“Hand over your weapons.”

The leader spat into the mud.

“You have no right to disarm us.”

“I have the deed.”

“You have a piece of paper.”

“I also have the sword you tried to use against me.”

The man looked down.

Uriah’s boot still pinned the weapon to the road.

Melody collected the weapons while Mary recorded their names. The riders objected until Uriah asked whether they would prefer to explain the burned barn without their swords or remain in Lowfield until Harwick sent someone to negotiate.

They chose to leave.

“You are letting them go?” Thomas asked.

“Yes.”

“They will return with soldiers.”

“I know.”

“Then why not hold them?”

Uriah glanced toward the villagers. Children watched from behind their parents. Everyone was exhausted, frightened, and covered in soot.

He did not want the first act of Greykeep’s restored rule to be filling a village with prisoners it could not feed.

“Because I want Harwick to hear what happened from his own men,” Uriah said. “And because we have more important work to do.”

He turned toward the damaged barn.

Thomas followed his gaze.

“We lost the western storehouse last month,” the headman said quietly. “Most of the grain left in that barn was meant for planting.”

“How much survived?”

“We will not know until we inspect it.”

“Then let us inspect it.”

Uriah took one step and nearly stumbled again.

Mary blocked his path.

“You are going to sit down.”

“There is work to do.”

“Yes. Other people will do it.”

“I can repair the barn.”

“You can barely stand.”

“I am getting better. It gets easier each time.”

Melody folded her arms.

“Sit.”

Uriah looked at the two of them.

Mary’s ears had angled forward in determination. Melody’s foot tapped against the road.

They were not going to move.

“All right.”

Thomas brought him to a bench outside the village meeting hall.

Mary made him drink two cups of water and eat a heel of dark bread. The bread was hard enough to challenge his teeth, but it helped settle the weakness in his stomach.

Around them, Lowfield went to work.

Villagers inspected the barn, carried wet grain into the sunlight, calmed the animals, and checked nearby roofs for sparks. Melody organized teams with surprising efficiency. Mary sat beside Uriah, writing everything the villagers reported.

Thirty sacks of barley had been stored in the barn.

Twelve were destroyed.

Nine were soaked but might be saved.

The remaining nine had escaped serious damage.

A plow had burned. Two wagons had been damaged. One horse had suffered a shallow cut, but the village healer believed it would recover.

No people had died.

That mattered more than anything else.

Thomas joined them when the count was complete.

“We cannot plant enough with what remains,” he said.

“Can you buy seed?”

“Harwick controls the nearest markets.”

“Are there other villages on Greykeep’s land?”

“Two. Stoneford to the south and Willowbrook near the river.”

“Would they sell or trade seed?”

Thomas rubbed his jaw. “Perhaps. If they believed Harwick would not punish them.”

Uriah looked west.

The six riders had disappeared over the hill. By nightfall, Harwick would know that Greykeep had a new ruler. By tomorrow, he might know Uriah possessed magic.

More men would come.

Maybe hundreds.

Uriah could repair walls and stop arrows. He could call lightning from the sky if his instincts were correct.

None of that would plant Lowfield’s fields.

“Thomas, how much tax did Harwick demand?”

“Half our harvest.”

Uriah stared. “Half?”

“It was one quarter until this year.”

“Did Greykeep collect taxes before it fell?”

Thomas looked at Mary.

She searched her memory.

“One tenth of the harvest during ordinary years,” she said. “Less after floods, droughts, or war. Some obligations could be paid through labor on roads and bridges.”

Uriah nodded.

“That sounds more reasonable.”

Thomas’s shoulders tightened. “Are you claiming taxes from us now?”

Fear returned to his face.

Uriah chose his answer carefully.

“I am claiming responsibility for the land named in that deed. That means the village owes something to Greykeep, but it also means Greykeep owes something to you.”

“What?”

“Protection. Roads. Fair judgment. Help when the harvest fails. Things I do not have the people or resources to provide yet.”

Thomas watched him.

“So what do you want from us?”

“Today? Help saving the grain.”

“And afterward?”

“A meeting. Everyone in Lowfield should have the chance to tell me what this village needs and what it can reasonably contribute.”

Thomas looked confused. “Everyone?”

“Farmers, millers, craftspeople, families. Everyone affected by the decision.”

“That is not how lords collect taxes.”

“I am beginning to notice that I am not very good at behaving like other lords.”

Mary smiled faintly.

Thomas glanced at the villagers working around the barn.

“You truly mean to protect Lowfield?”

“Yes.”

“From Harwick?”

“From anyone who would harm it.”

“With what army?”

Uriah looked toward Greykeep.

Its damaged towers rose above the distant hill.

“At the moment, my army consists of me, Mary, Melody, and thirty-one repaired swords with no one to carry them.”

Thomas blinked.

“That is not much of an army.”

“No.”

“What happens when Harwick sends five hundred men?”

Uriah remembered the ache behind his eyes. He remembered the enormous sphere of fire trembling above his hand.

Power he was getting better at wielding.

If he fought five hundred alone, nvictory might leave him unable to protect anyone afterward.

“Then I will need a better plan than standing in front of them by myself.”

Thomas studied him for several seconds.

Then the headman smiled.

“I know twelve veterans who may be willing to carry those swords.”

Mary stopped writing.

Uriah looked at him. “In Lowfield?”

“Harwick dismissed them when they objected to his collectors taking food from children.”

“Can they train others?”

“Some can.”

That was a beginning.

Uriah stood more carefully this time.

“Introduce me.”

Thomas led him toward the village square.

As they walked, the people of Lowfield watched. Some appeared hopeful. Others looked afraid. A few were openly suspicious.

Uriah could not blame them.

Yesterday, Harwick had claimed to rule them.

Today, a stranger had arrived with another claim.

If Uriah wanted them to believe he was different, stopping one fire would not be enough. He would have to prove it through every choice that followed.

A church bell rang once above the square.

The villagers gathered.

Mary stood on Uriah’s right. Melody joined him on the left, carrying the collected weapons across both arms.

Thomas stepped forward.

“People of Lowfield,” he called, “this is Uriah Grey, rightful sovereign of Greykeep.”

Whispers moved through the square.

Uriah raised his hand.

A faint warmth crossed his palm.

Golden light appeared beneath his skin.

Lines formed slowly, joining into the image of an open crown.

Mary inhaled sharply.

Melody stared.

All around the square, other hands began to glow.

Thomas looked down at his palm.

So did the village healer.

A baker near the well gasped as the same golden Crown appeared on her skin. More symbols awakened throughout the crowd—dozens of them, shining like small lanterns in the afternoon light.

No one spoke.

The Crown on Uriah’s palm pulsed once.

A feeling passed through him.

Not ownership.

Not obedience.

Belonging.

The people of Lowfield felt it too.

Several began to cry. Others smiled. An elderly woman sank slowly to her knees.

Uriah looked over the gathering.

He understood then that the deed was only paper.

The castle was only stone.

Greykeep had returned because its people still remembered what it was supposed to mean.

And somewhere far to the west, Lord Harwick was about to learn the same thing.

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