Malles leapt on top of the stump and surveyed my battlefield. The nefarious orcs were regrouping along the hill over yonder. The brutes snarled and roared, swinging their axes through the air as they called for his blood. But they were no match for Malles Mikkal, the most powerful paladin to ever bless the ranks of the Silver Hand.

Malles jumped down and charged them all. One hundred orcs raced towards him. One hundred orcs would die this day. He was fearless, running straight through their ranks. His mighty blade hacked them apart, scattered arms and legs and heads all around him. The weapon glowed with holy enchantments, empowered by the Light itself. Malles raised his palm and fired bolts of holy magic into the fleeing orcs. Malles was going to chase their craven green hides into the dark caves they called home, and fight all the way up their evil warchief and –

"Malles!"

Malles tripped, and rolled headfirst into the side of the toolshed. He righted himself and sat up, rubbing his aching head. "What, Jen?"

Jensine laughed and grinned at me. "Whatcha doin'?"

Malles scowled. "None of your business."

Jensine walked up to me. "You haven't been playing with Papa's axe, have you?"

"No –"

"Because you know what Mama said." She held up her finger, like she always did when quoting the house rules. "Mama said at your age playing is unhealthy, and that you're nearly a man now and you have no time for playing. Mama said that you could hurt yourself, and if you have time for playing you have time for chores."

Malles stood up. He and Jensine were standing behind their family's household, in the yard where most of the household chores were done. A chopping block stood in the corner, next to a pile of wood. A clothesline was strung across it. The yard was surrounded by a fence that connected directly to the walls of the house.

The house itself was a single-floor dwelling, with only four rooms total. On either side there were other houses, mostly built the same way. In the peasant town of Hearthglen, there were few wealthy families. In fact, the only resident that could be considered rich was the town governor, Taelan Fordring, who lived in Mardenholde Keep, a small castle that overlooked the entire town from the hill above it.

Malles lived in the house with his parents and younger sister. Jensine turned sixteen a little over a month ago. She was a short girl with long, flowing black hair, which both she and our mother were extremely proud of. Some mornings Mom goes on and on about all the men Jen would attract while combing her hair while I fantasize about cutting it all off. Jen's eyes were a deep shade of green, and freckles dotted her always-smiling mouth. Their mother, Marley Mikkal, thought Jensine looked like a younger version of Lady Menethil. Malles thought she looked like a hyperactive frog.

"Don't you have someone else to annoy?" Malles asked her irritably.

Jen's eyes dropped to the blade at Malles' side. "Not really," she said with a smirk. Malles hated that smirk. That was the look that got him into trouble.

The weapon in question was a large double-edge hatchet their father, Robert "Bobby" Mikkal wielded during the Second War, when the orcish Horde invaded the kingdom of Lordaeron after their triumphant sacking of Stormwind and assassination of King Wrynn. Bobby Mikkal, himself nineteen at the time, used his father's blacksmithing forge to make the axe and fought against the Horde for Lordaeron. Malles was proud of his father, and at a younger age often sat at the fireplace the axe was stored over, staring up at it and thinking about the dozens of orcs that had died underneath the sharp blade. But the axe was not your typical woodcutting hatchet. It was a weapon of war, and after Bobby had beaten Malles raw for taking it down Malles had been told not to touch it for any reason.

But the impish boy had never been known for his abilities to follow orders. Malles tried to hide it behind him, but it was too late. "You know you're not allowed to touch Papa's sword!" Jensine's eyes lit up. "He beat you so hard last time. Ooooh, when I tell him –"

"Don't you dare."

" – he's going to hit you harder than that time you slapped Tammy from across the street in the face!"

Malles kicked a dirt clod at her. It sailed through the air and exploded against Jensine's tunic. It was a small wad of dirt, but it left a large rust-colored stain across Jensine's chest. She glared at him. "Momma made that for me! Now you're in really big trouble!"

Malles was at her side in an instant. "Jenny-Jen," he said. "Let's be too hasty. How 'bout a deal?"

Jensine blinked up at him. Malles was turning seventeen the next day. He was tall for his age and very broad shouldered. Their father was the town's resident blacksmith. Malles often helped his father craft his wares, mainly hunting rifles and farming equipment, as well as blades for the local militia. Sometimes Malles helped Bobby mine materials from the mountains. The rigorous work had toughened Malles considerably. Most of his body was made up of rippling muscle. Often the girls in town would come to watch him as he crafted tools and weapons, working shirtless to stay cool. Bobby didn't mind, and even encouraged the gawking; the girls were always accompanied by their fathers, uncles, or older brothers, the Mikkals' target customers.

"What deal?"

Malles leaned in close and whispered in Jen's ear, "Dad paid me yesterday. So if you keep your mouth shut, I might buy you that doll you wanted."

Jen squealed. "The one in Mrs. Rudy's shop? Oh she's so pretty, with her little dress and…"

She rattled on, but Malles didn't care. He knew he had won. Eventually, he cut her off by placing a finger on her mouth. "Come on. Let's go to town."

"Jensine Mikkal!"

Malles moved like greased lightning, throwing himself down on top of the axe as Marley stepped outside. She looked mad. "Get inside right now! You're supposed to be helping me make dinner."

"But, Mama –"

"I don't want to hear it, Jensine!" Marley grabbed Jen by her forearm and dragged her through the back door. "If you have time for playing, then you have time for working! Just look at you, covered in dust, what have you been doing…"

Malles leaned against the wall, smiling. He loved when Jen got in trouble. Such a nice change from the norm –

"Oh, Malles." Marley poked her head back outside. "Your father said he'd be done with work around this hour, so you need to get ready."

"Okay." He checked to make sure the axe was still hidden from view. "Where's my bow?"

"In the closet, hon, where it always is. You should grab the rifle, too, Dad wants you to meet him at the shop."

"No problem." Malles waited for her to leave, then picked up the axe. He peeked inside, watching her. When her back was turned, he snuck into the sitting room and placed the axe back over the fireplace. When Marley turned back around, Malles had Bobby's rifle slung over his shoulder and was stringing his bow. Malles grinned at her, making her smile. Behind her stood Jen, face scrubbed raw and holding a set of dinner dishes. She stuck her tongue out at him. Malles' grin extended to his ears.

The carriage clanked down the stone road, slowly but surely. Traffic was horrible this time of day, as all the laborers and apprentices went home to eat their dinner with their families. But the driver was not concerned. He was in no rush to get to his location. He was a town resident, so he knew the local streets well. The horses remained nervous, but he was used to that. They had been skittish since he set out from Andorhal the previous night. Nothing to worry about, though. Everything was going the way it should.

He continued down the road, taking a right at the mayor's mansion. A couple meters past it the road branched off into the property of the local granary. Here was where Hearthglen received its shipments of grain from the neighboring towns and cities. Hearthglen's population was mostly made up of the lower social class of the kingdom of Lordaeron. The bread this granary produced provided them all with a constant source of cheap and filling food. Bread was used in many of the peasants' dishes, and managed to find its way onto household tables every meal. Often the cheap bread was all that stood between the poor locals and starvation. Bread was the lifeblood of Hearthglen.

The driver laughed to himself. He could practically smell the irony. Tonight would be entertaining, no doubt about that.

The horses pulled the wagon up to a loading dock. The driver jumped down and unhitched the horses, leading them away from the wagon and towards the nearby stables. The horses offered no resistance. They wanted to get as far away from the wagon as possible. He handed the reins to the stable boy. "Take good care of them, will you? We had a rough journey last night."

The boy nodded. "I'm sure you did, sir. That was a bad storm, wasn't it?"

The driver smiled. "Yes, it was." He tossed the boy a gold piece. "Give them the best stalls you have available, my boy."

The boy pocketed it. "Yes, sir!" He took hold of the reins and took the horses inside.

The driver walked back to his carriage. He opened up the back of it. Inside were the eight barrels of grain, still lashed to the carriage walls. He climbed inside and began unloading the barrels. As he worked, one of the granary workers came up to him. "We've got people that can do that for you, if you'd like."

The driver unloaded his last barrel and jumped down. "I'd prefer to do it myself. Make sure it's not damaged."

The worker handed him a clipboard. "It's grain, buddy. Not dwarven jewelery."

The driver took the clipboard and pulled a lead pencil from one of the pockets in his robe. He signed on the line and handed it back to the worker. "True. But I don't need the granary breaking open a barrel and saying it was damaged during transit. You know how it is."

The worker nodded. "I hear you. Just covering your ass." He laughed. "Which is a smart thing to do these days. All those recent taxes…people are starting to get mad. They're looking for ways to make quick money."

The driver scowled. "I don't know what the crown was thinking. Putting orcs in internment camps? That's why they tax us so badly, because they can't afford to maintain them. We should just execute all the orcs. People remember the First and Second Wars. I can't see orcs beating us and leaving us alive."

"I know, right?" The two men stood and talked for a while, discussing the damage the new taxes were causing. "My wife wonders where all my pay goes," the worker complained. "And so do I. Surely the camps can't cost that much. Not unless the filthy things breed like rabbits."

The driver shook his head. "My wife talks about moving down south to Dalaran, or maybe even Menethil Harbor. Out of Lordaeron. But we can't afford the trip."

"Shame." The worker looked up at the sun. It has starting to move towards the west. "My shift should be over soon. You heading out after this, or staying a while?"

The driver smiled. "I might be tempted to stay the night. Why don't we go out for a couple drinks? My treat."

"Sure." The worker picked up a barrel. "The Rooster has a decent selection. You know where that is?"

The driver nodded. "You want to meet there after you get off?"

"Yep. Might bring the wife along. Otherwise she won't let me go."

"That's women for you." The two men laughed and went their separate ways. The driver walked back down towards the town, a small smile on his face.