Where am I?
It was a dark night, the moon and the stars hidden behind thick clouds. Only one light shone: it was red, and it came from a hole in the ground. There was a man on his knees beside it, intent on pumping a bellow. The more he pumped, the brighter the light was, but never bright enough to reveal more than the outline of his frame. Several rods were sticking out of the hole, like long, thin fingers of some evil creature.
He stood up... No. No, he didn't. Both of his ankles were tied to the feet of the chair he sat upon, and another length of rope was looped around his thighs and the seat of the chair. His wrists were tied together, with the back of the chair between his arms and his own back. His mouth was stuffed with cloth, and another strip of cloth was wrapped all around his head to prevent him from spitting it out. He could not move. He could not talk.
A wolf howled in the distance, and the man by the fire took a brief pause to look whence the sound had come. More wolves replied from all around.
This doesn't bode well.
The man went on, pumping tirelessly. The fire grew brighter and brighter, but the hole was deep. It might have grown as bright as the sun itself, but he would never be able to see the face of his only company. Unless...
He saw the figure bending over, as if checking on the fire, and in that moment the fire shone light on his face. A soft jaw, a small nose, long hair held back by a headband.
Is it really a man?
The answer came to him when the lips moved:
"We're out of wood, love."
The answer was no: it was not a man. It was a boy.
"We ain't out of fire, though. Keep it going, we'll be done soon."
Another voice replied from behind him. It was also boyish, yet stronger, warmer, full; a voice that could wake the dead from eternal slumber and at the same time scare them back to their graves. A voice that was somewhat familiar to him, but where had he heard it?
He saw the world spinning all around as the realisation struck him. One week earlier he had lost his fourth cart. Brigands had attacked him, pulling him off it and riding away with the horses and the payload. But how could have anyone found out that the brigands were in facts not brigands, that they did not even draw weapons, that they had paid for the cart beforehand and that everything was scripted and arranged like a play?
Realisation was not the only thing that struck him: the punch was so powerful it threw the chair off balance and flipped it on its side. With his head ringing like a crystal flagon, he opened his eyes. The second boy was on him, and he ripped the cloth around his head and pulled the rest out of his mouth.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that won't happen again, I swear" the man sobbed.
It took nothing to shut him up. The lad got down, putting forehead to forehead. The man couldn't see his face, but he could see his eyes: green, vibrant green, more green than the colour green itself.
"Where's my iron?"
