Somassa

7 - The Horns, and Others

     "Don't forget the chickens, Pol!"

     "I won't now, Manja," replied Pol. The great, bearded man waved back to his wife as he walked from their small cottage, on the path that led down the hill upon which their house sat. The man carried an enormous basket of freshly harvested grains and vegetables on his back, which he was toting into the nearby town to sell.

    His wife, a tall, brown-haired woman, stood by the gate at the end of their garden pathway, watching him leave. Suddenly, from out of the door burst a small boy, no older than eight years old. He ran through the garden, but as he tried to slip past his mother to chase his father down the gravel path, Manja scooped him up just as he unlatched the gate.

   "Woah-!" she exclaimed, nearly being yanked down by his momentum. "Where do you think you're going, young man?"

   "I wanna go with Da! Please let me go to the village with him!" The boy squirmed and tried to break free of his mother's grasp, but she only squeezed him tighter, right in his side where he was ticklish.

   As the boy shrieked with laughter, the father turned around to walk back up the path. "If you're in the village, how are you gonna help me with chores here?" she asked.

   "It's alright, dear," laughed Pol, as he walked back up to the gate. "He can come. I could use some extra hands."

    Manja pouted teasingly at her son and husband. "Oh, fine," she smirked, "Leave me to break my back and let my hands wither away."

   "We'll be back soon, Ma," grinned the boy as he slipped to the ground from his mother's arms. "I'll only bring you the biggest chickens!" He flexed his arms and hopped ecstatically through the gate to his father.

   "Goodbye, little dove," said Pol endearingly as he pecked his wife on both cheeks once again. The boy followed his father as he started down the road, hopping across large stones next to the path until Pol picked him up by his arms and sat him on his shoulders.

    "You shouldn't waste your energy, son," he said, patting his legs. "Gotta be sure you're ready and not already worn out, just in case something happens."

   "Like what?" asked the boy, pushing his chest against the man's head to lean over and look him in the eyes.

   "Liiiike..." Pol began, trailing into thought. He then jumped into a fighting stance, his fists up in front of him, looking around in every direction. "Like if a bunch of brigands were to sneak up on us to try and steal our harvest," he said, face screwed into mock attentiveness.

   The boy giggled at his father. "Or if a pack of wolves came out of nowhere to try to eat it?" he asked excitedly.

   "That most certainly could happen," his father chuckled. "If wolves ever felt like baking bread and eating vegetables."

   They laughed together for a while, then began to walk in silence, enjoying the scenery. The path leading from their house gradually turned to a stone road flanked by low, stone walls. It was surrounded by small, rolling hills, amber in color from the waning autumn that was turning to winter soon. The tall grass and reeds waved in the cool wind. The road stayed relatively straight, not winding much unless to pass a hill or thicket of trees, and eventually it began to lay adjacent to a trickling river, not very deep, and no more than 20 ft in width. Not far ahead, there was a T in the road, where it turned right, leading to a bridge that crossed the river.

   As the father and son got closer to the bridge, a slew of loud curses and foul language could be heard from it, where a sizable horse-drawn carriage was poking into the junction. They finally got close enough to see a tan, portly half-orc man, red in the face and steaming with anger, who was frantically trying to reattach one of the wagon's rear wheels.