180 CLXXX. | 'Old cruelty...'

...171 years ago...

She didn't get the burial she deserved, but it was the best that Parson could manage after hours and hours of digging with only his bare hands. Even if he'd had a shovel, it probably wouldn't have helped much. The ground here was rocky and unforgiving.

By the time he was done, his hands were numb and bloody, and his stomach was so empty that he couldn't vomit anymore, despite his body still trying to.

It all became a haze as he sat there, looking over the shoddy grave and feeling the evening wind lick at the tears sliding down his face. He'd thought he'd ran out of those multiple times already. Tears. But they just kept coming back like waves.

At length, however, he could sit there no longer. Night was falling again, and his mouth was parched to the point that even just breathing through it was painful. So he finally stood and left his mother behind.

He needed to find water, first and foremost, and he knew exactly where to go. There was a rocky stream not far from town where he would sometimes take the flock to be watered. His mother had gotten angry at him for doing that, saying it was better to water them from the troughs at home, but Parson had kept doing it anyway from time to time, whenever he felt like she wouldn't find out. He just liked going there, and maybe he was wrong, but it seemed like the sheep liked it, too.

Now, though, the sight of it there, babbling down a gentle eastern slope, was not nearly enough to soothe his heart. He knelt down and drank from it until his thirst was quenched.

And then he didn't know what to do.

He cried some more.

He could still smell smoke from the village. The wind was blowing it this way, he noticed. And he thought he heard something, too. Yeah. The distant clopping of horse hooves. If he could hear them, then he was probably still close, he figured. He got up and ran, not even having a destination in mind until a thought struck him.

The hiding spot. The one that he'd dug with Damian and Steven. He wanted to check on it. Maybe one of them was there. And if not, it might still make for a good place to sleep.

In the darkness, he made his way. It might have been more difficult if he didn't know the area so well. He recognized almost every tree in relation to the village, and so it didn't take him very long at all to loop around and find the hideout.

He was the last to arrive, apparently. Damian and Steven were both already there, though neither were their usual selves. Damian, at least, expressed surprise at seeing him, but Steven just remained huddled up in the corner, eyes wide and staring out over his knees.

At length, Parson tried to touch the younger boy's shoulder, to rouse him in some way, but Damian stopped him.

"Better not," said Damian, and he brought Parson around to Steven's other side, the side nestled up close to the wall.

Parson saw a bloodied dagger in Steven's hand, hidden behind his leg.

Damian pulled up one of his own sleeves and revealed a shallow wound. "The little monkey nicked me with it when I tried to move him."

"We can't just stay here," said Parson.

"Why not?" said Damian. "It's safe here. Nobody'll find us."

It was true that they had hidden the entrance to this place pretty well behind a makeshift tapestry of leaves, but that was no guarantee, Parson felt. "What about food? Water?"

"I can hunt," said Damian.

Parson knew it. He'd seen the other boy kill snakes before with nothing but a stick and a rock. "It's still too dangerous to run around out there. We need to go somewhere far away from those soldiers. They'll kill us if they catch us."

Damian looked like he wanted to protest, but he didn't. After a moment, he merely nodded grimly. Then he looked over at Steven again. "What about him?"

Parson knew what the other boy was really asking. Should they just leave him here?

And Parson thought about it. Maybe it would be for the best.

But no. They weren't going to do that. Not if he could help it. Not after everything else they'd already lost.

Parson knelt down in front of him, mindful of the blade and the reach of the other boy's arm. "Hey."

Steven just sat there, not reacting at all.

"Hey," Parson tried again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

"Steven."

Again, no response.

"Steven!"

"It's useless," said Damian. "He's useless."

Parson sighed and stood back up. He looked around their hideout for something he could use. A couple blankets, some loose rocks, a few candles, and a whole lot of dirt.

He chose the dirt. He grabbed a handful and chucked it at Steven. "Look at me, you idiot!"

The boy did not. He just let the dirt hit him and kept his wide eyes forward.

"I don't wanna leave him behind, either," said Damian in a more conciliatory tone, "but if we have to--"

"We're not leaving him," said Parson, not even bothering to look at Damian. He grabbed one of the rocks next and wrapped it in a blanket. "Steven," he tried again as he readied his throw. "Steven. Look at me, Steven."

Steven did not.

Parson scowled and threw it, using perhaps a little more strength than he meant to.

The wrapped rock hit Steven in the side of the stomach. It had to have hurt, and yet even still, the boy did not react.

Parson growled angrily. "Say something!"

"I told you," said Damian.

Parson took a breath, looking around again. Should he try burning him with a candle?

No, probably not.

Parson took a breath and tried to think. His own hands were starting to ache something terribly as the numbness wore off. Maybe that was Steven's problem. He was just numb to pain.

In that case, maybe some other kind of stimulation would have more of an effect. The smell of food, maybe?

It was possible, Parson supposed. But even if they went out right now and caught something, would it be safe to cook it here, in their hideout? Or would the soldiers notice the smoke, like he had noticed from the town?

Why was everything so terrifying?

Parson rubbed his face, trying not to cry again. Not in front of these two. He couldn't let them see something like that. They'd humiliate him.

Wait a minute. Humiliation? Maybe that was another solution.

Once Parson was sure that he wasn't going to start crying, he walked over to Steven again and crouched down. There was only one thing he could think of that might set the other boy off.

"Steven," he tried one last time, to no avail as expected. That was fine. "...Jonah."

No reaction.

Parson wasn't ready to give up, though. After all these months, he'd almost forgotten Steven's actual name and was therefore briefly concerned that he'd said the wrong one, but after a moment, he became certain again. "Jonah," he said more forcefully.

Steven's eyes twitched, then moved to meet Parson's.

"Finally," said Parson. "Get up, Jonah."

"...My name's not Jonah."

"Hmph." On any other day, that might have been enough to make Parson laugh. "Yes, it is, Jonah."

"No, it isn't...!"

"Well, then get up if you want us to start calling you Steven again."

"My name's not Steven, either."

Parson would've sighed, if he wasn't so relieved just to hear the other boy's voice again. "Oh yeah? What's your name, then?"

"It's... it's Damian."

The actual Damian scoffed. "No, it isn't, you ass! Pick a different one!"

"F-fine... my name's Germal."

"Germal?" said Damian. "Is that even a real name?"

"It is! I read it in a book once!"

"Liar. You can't read."

"Can so!"

"What was the book about then, huh?"

"It was about a hero who brings light to the whole world!"

"Yeah, sure, it was."

"It's true, idiot! He saved everyone from the darkness!"

"Uh-huh."

"Whatever! My name's Germal now! You have to call me Germal!"

Parson stood back up. "Fine, whatever you say." He held out his hand. "But you have to give me the knife, if you want me to start calling you Germal."

The boy hesitated. "...It's my mother's."

And at the look on his face, Parson couldn't help hesitating, too. He had to be strong, though, he told himself. "...I'll give it back to you, just as soon I'm sure that you won't use it against either of us."

"What? I wouldn't... uh..."

"Yeah, you would," said Damian, showing his cut again.

"...Okay, but you better give it back soon." And he gave the weapon to Parson.

Parson wiped the blood off of it with his tunic. Some of it had dried and required a few extra passes and hard scrubbing, but he managed to get it all and return it to its accompanying leather scabbard. That was when he noticed an engraving thereon. He didn't know how to read, though. He looked over at the newly dubbed Germal. "Hey. You really know how to read?"

"Yeah!"

Parson showed the engraving. "What does this say, then?"

"It says, 'Courage before Evil, Preparedness before Courage.' It's a quote from a famous guy."

"Hmm."

"What famous guy?" said Damian, still sounding doubtful.

"Arkos," said Germal, though his expression diminished into a frown. "That's what my mother said, anyway..."

"I've heard of him," said Damian. "He built a bridge or something. With a quote like that, you'd think he was a warrior. What would he know about courage, anyway?"

"He'd know more about it than you," said Parson.

Damian folded his arms. "I'm braver than both of you combined."

A part of Parson wanted to keep arguing, but he just didn't have the energy for it. Not today. Everything hurt, and he was tired.

So he didn't say anything. He just grabbed a blanket and sat down quietly on the dirt floor.

Damian just frowned and watched him for a time. When Germal grabbed another blanket and joined him, Damian did the same.

Soon enough, they blew out the candles and tried to go to sleep. They didn't have anything to eat, but no one wanted to go out in the middle of the night to try to find something. Eventually, they huddled together for warmth.

Parson found it difficult to sleep, though. In the too-quiet hours of the dark--when there was nothing for his eyes or his ears to latch onto save his own breathing and his own heartbeat--all he could think about was his mother lying there in the dirt. That image wouldn't leave his mind. It was burned there.

"...Hey, guys?" came Germal's voice in the pitch blackness.

"What?" said Damian.

"...Why is there war?"

Damian didn't know what to say to that, apparently.

And neither did Parson.

"...Why is there war?" the boy repeated, perhaps thinking they hadn't heard him.

"How the hell should we know?" said Damian.

"It's just the way the world is," said Parson.

"But wouldn't it be better if there was no war?" said Germal.

"Who knows?" said Parson. "But if that were really true, then everyone would've stopped fighting a long time ago."

"People are stupid," said Damian. "That's all it is. We're weak and scared and stupid. Even the grownups. They act like they know what they're doing, but they don't."

Parson didn't know whether to agree or disagree.

And there was more silence, until Germal revived the conversation, "Do you think anyone else from the village survived?"

"Probably not," said Damian.

"Both of you, shut up," said Parson. "Go to sleep. We'll need our strength tomorrow."

And mercifully, they listened to him. And after a while, he realized that he could hear their breathing, too.

That helped a little.

Parson had a nightmare. He was being chased by a howling wind in the distance. It was far away, then all around him. The specter of death. Toying with him, like in so many Melmoorian fairy tales.

He was the first to awaken, and though he still felt tired, he didn't want to go back to sleep.

Germal seemed to be having a nightmare, too, from the way he was twitching and sweating. Parson couldn't stand looking at him, so he shook him awake. It wasn't much longer until Damian got up as well, and then the Trio set out from their little cave to find breakfast.

The sky was as clear and blue as it ever was. It made Parson angry, somehow. Like it didn't know or didn't care. The sun, too, was bright and obnoxious.

Maybe it would've been better to go out at night, after all, Parson thought.

It wasn't long before Damian tracked down a nice, plump jackrabbit, but even though all three of them chased it down, the quick little bastard still managed to escape into a burrow. The Trio was discouraged for a while, until Parson finally plopped down on a wide boulder and heard a high-pitched and familiarly terrifying shhk sound.

A rattlesnake, he noticed. Barely a foot away from him.

A hefty rock sailed in from outside Parson's vision and smashed into the coiled body of the snake.

"Get it!" yelled Damian. "Go for the neck!"

Parson watched it flail there in the dirt and grass for a second before he remembered the knife. Then he pounced on it, somehow managing to grab its neck and slice its head off. He was surprised to find that the rattling did not immediately cease.

They wasted no time building a campfire. Parson and Damian did most of the work, while Germal just watched and hopefully learned something, what with all the questions he was asking.

They peeled its skin off and roasted its meat. It wasn't going to be enough to feed three hungry boys, but it was something, at least. And for the first time in a while, Parson actually felt marginally happy about something. A successful hunt. Being alive.

"I didn't know snake tasted this good," said Germal with a mouthful.

"It doesn't," said Damian. "That's just because you're so hungry. Everything tastes better when you're hungry."

"Huh, really?"

"We need to talk about what we're gonna do next," said Parson. "We can't just stick around here and hunt snakes forever."

"What, you want to go back to the village?" said Damian. "There's nothing there for us."

"No," said Parson. "The soldiers came from the south, so I think we should head north."

"Hmm." Damian scratched his face while he chewed. "Yeah, okay. Sounds good to me."

Germal bobbed from side to side as he listened to the two older boys. "There's another village up that way, isn't there?" he said.

"Yeah," said Parson. "The soldiers are probably headed there, too. If we get there first, maybe we warn everybody."

"We won't get there first," said Damian. "They've got horses."

That was true, Parson supposed. Damn. "But maybe they'll stay here for a few more days. And then we can--"

There was a noise from behind. The boys all went deadly silent, listening.

More noises. Rustling in the bushes. Scraping metal? A sword being pulled from its sheath, Parson knew at once.

No words were needed. Parson ran away from the noise, and the other two boys followed. He glimpsed back in time to see a pair of uniformed soldiers convening on their campfire.

The boys kept running and didn't look back again.

They reached the open green of the eastern hills and just kept going. There wasn't much to hide behind out here, save maybe the hills themselves. Only the occasional wild brumby or flock of sheep dotted the landscape.

Some or even all of those sheep had probably belonged to the village a couple days ago, Parson figured.

At length, Germal started to lag behind, and the Trio finally stopped running.

"Already tired?" said Damian, though he sounded out of breath himself.

"No--I'm--just--" Germal dropped to his hands and knees. "Just--one minute..."

Nobody seemed to be chasing them, as far as Parson could tell, but they were still fairly exposed out here. He looked around for a place to stop but didn't see a particularly good spot. Only the nearest hill offered any kind of visual cover from the treeline in the distance.

It would have to do, he supposed. "Over here," he said, and he helped Germal back to his feet so that the three of them could conceal themselves behind the hill's slope.

He could still see a few slender trails of smoke beyond the treeline, which at least helped him keep track of where the village was. The eastern mountains that were now at their back did not look particularly inviting, as usual. The Storm Mountains always lived up to their name, and the Trio was close enough now to even see flashes of lightning within the dark clouds that perpetually concealed the mountain peaks.

"Now what?" said Damian, keeping an eye out over the hilltop.

Parson was still tired. And hungry. That snake hadn't been nearly enough. His only solace was the blanket that he'd managed to bring with him from their hide out. He was glad that he'd told everyone to take theirs.

"I said, now what?"

Parson heard him the first time. He just didn't want to answer him. But he supposed he had to. Germal was giving him that expectant look that Parson had seen a dozen times before. "...I still say we go north," said Parson. "If we go south, we'll have to cross a river. If we go west, we'll probably run into more soldiers. And if we go east, we'll run into that."

The other two boys eyed the storm for a moment, and then appeared to agree.

And so, after an hour or so of rest, they headed north.

They spotted more sheep along the way. Damian tried to kill one so they could eat it, but he only managed to wound it before it ran off. Then the hunt turned into a rather long chase, as the boys were already a bit tired from earlier. Parson was the one that finally caught up to the beast and finished it off. At that point, killing it was a mercy.

They made another fire while Parson stripped the animal for its meat. He'd seen his mother do it a hundred times but never done it himself.

He didn't do a very good job. Not like she would've done, anyway. Blood got everywhere, and some meat definitely went to waste, but it was the best he could manage. There would still be more than enough for the three of them, though.

They started cooking it immediately, and soon enough, the smell was making Parson's mouth water. He tried to wipe his hands clean onto his clothes and the grass, but it didn't work all that well.

They ate together. It was wonderful. Damian was absolutely right, Parson felt. Everything did taste better when you were hungry.

Parson gave Damian some crap for botching the kill. Damian defended himself by saying that he'd never hunted an animal that big before. Germal just ate in silence.

With their bellies finally full, they kicked dirt onto the fire and moved on, leaving most of the sheep for the worms or vultures or whatever else wanted it.

They still had a few hours of daylight left, and if they kept a good pace, Parson thought they might be able to reach the next village. Whether it would be a safe place to stay for the night was another story.

The hills just kept going, on and on along the foot of the mountains, but there was no shelter to speak of here, and Parson was worried it might rain, too. When they eventually started to see lights among the treeline, they knew they were close to the next village and so left the hills behind to go investigate.

They were wary, of course, and took their time approaching. The darkening twilight helped, though the lowering temperature did not.

From the concealing safety of the treeline, the Trio found a good view of the center of the village. Parson had been here a couple times before with his mother. It was called Lhustol, this place, and it had a nice creek running through it with a cobblestone bridge connecting the two sides.

Everything seemed calm enough at a glance. No burning houses or shrieking villagers.

But then a band of horsemen appeared at the far end of the town and rode over the bridge and right past where the boys were hiding.

Parson was frozen with fear as he watched, but he also got a good look at them. It wasn't just soldiers on those horses. There were kids, too. Girls.

Girls from Trintol.

Parson thought he saw Alisa Brandt among them. Her hands were bound; her brown hair was mussed; she had a black eye; and it was hard to tell in the evening light. But it could've been her. That torn dress looked kinda familiar.

Something stirred in the pit of his stomach. Anger like he'd never felt before. He wanted to just leap out of the shadows and attack the soldiers head on, but thankfully, his fear was keeping him in check.

He watched the horsemen ease to a stop in front of the tavern, tie their horses next to a trough, and then carry the girls inside with them.

Parson looked to the other two boys. They were already looking back at him.

"What should we do?" whispered Germal.

"We kill 'em," snarled Damian.

"How?" said Germal.

Damian didn't have an answer to that. He looked at Parson again.

Parson wished he could've agreed. He scratched his head, trying to think. Six soldiers versus the three of them? Maybe they could've taken one or two, but six? And all armed?

Impossible.

"We've gotta do something," said Damian.

"Yeah, but what?" said Germal.

Parson got an idea. "If we fight, we don't stand a chance, but... maybe we can at least rescue the girls."

"How?" said Germal again.

"The horses," said Parson. "We let 'em loose. The soldiers'll chase 'em. Then we go in and free the girls."

The other two mulled it over for few moments.

"Sounds good to me," said Damian.

"Yeah," said Germal.

"Okay, let's go," said Parson.

They moved closer, sticking to the treeline for as long as they could before finally stepping out onto the dirt road. They darted across the open street, mindful of the tavern windows, and snuck up to the horses.

Parson had never much cared for horses. Big, scary beasts was all he'd thought they were. And these ones weren't proving much otherwise. The first horse he touched was immediately hostile and swung its huge head at him, nearly knocking him over. It whinnied angrily, and the high-pitched noise cut through the otherwise quiet village like shattering glass.

He immediately heard a commotion from inside the tavern, and he just barely managed to pull Damian and Germal behind the corner of a house with him before a man's head appeared in the tavern window, no doubt checking on the horses.

Parson watched from just beyond the corner, and when it seemed like the man was about to look in his direction, Parson yanked his head back. He could feel his heart pumping just as hard as it had after all that running they did earlier.

After a while, he chanced another peek and saw that the man was gone from the window again.

He breathed a little easier.

"Don't touch the horses yet," whispered Damian. "Go for the reins first. Then we'll spook 'em."

"I don't know if they can be spooked," said Germal. "They're warhorses, right?"

That was a good point, Parson felt. And it might've also accounted for why that one horse was such an asshole.

"Hmph. Don't worry about it. I'll spook those stupid horses." Damian seemed confident.

Parson wasn't sure why, though. "What're you gonna do?"

Damian revealed a hefty stick that he must've picked up earlier. "Jam this up their asses."

Parson opened his mouth but had no words. Yeah. That sure sounded like a plan that Damian would come up with.

"You've still got that knife, don't you?" said Damian.

Parson pulled it out. "Yeah."

"If they don't run, just use that."

"What about me?" said Germal.

"Use your finger," said Damian.

Parson was a little surprised when Germal didn't complain. He actually looked like he might do as Damian said, but there wasn't time for Parson to tell him not to, because Damian was already sneaking over to the horses again. Parson and Germal followed.

They were more careful this time. The same horse from before still snorted and neighed lowly at him, and Parson tried not to let his fingers get too close to the horse's big mouth. It took a bit of time, but he finally managed to undo the tie on the post and move on to the next horse.

Soon enough, the boys' work was done, and they were ready for the next stage. Parson decided to take the initiative before Damian did anything drastic with that stick, and he poked one of the horses just above the tail with his knife.

It wasn't quite enough, but the horse was obviously displeased. Parson slapped its behind and gave a low, "Hyah!"

That did it. The horse scrambled away from him, bumping into the other beasts and disturbing them, too. The other boys slapped them, too, and Germal narrowly avoided a kick that probably would've sent him flying. Nonetheless, they accomplished their goal, and the horses all ran off into the night, creating enough of a clamor to alert the men in the tavern.

The boys scuttled up by the window just before a pair of men's faces appeared in it. A wooden barrel was all that hid them from view.

The men ran out of the building in time to see their horses bolting toward the horizon. And after a brief exchange of indistinguishable words that sounded like an argument, all five of the men ran off to chase them.

Wait.

Five?

Damian and Germal were already rushing into the tavern.

"Wait!" Parson tried to tell them as he followed.

Sure enough, the sixth man in his black-and-brown uniform was still there, standing by the stairs and having a word with the elderly bartender. He saw them come in and seemed confused, though not for long. Perhaps their body language or the looks on their faces gave them away, somehow.

"What do you rascals think you're doin'?" the man said, placing a hand on the pommel of his still-sheathed sword.

They all hesitated, none answering him.

"Boys?" said the bartender, apparently not understanding the situation. "You're too young to be in here. Run on home, now. Go on."

One of the doors upstairs creaked, and everyone looked up at the same time to see a girl standing there. It wasn't Alisa, but Parson did recognize those pigtails and big eyebrows. Claudia was her name, and she was definitely from Trintol. She looked frightened.

Perhaps Damian thought it best to take advantage of the distraction she provided, because the boy chose that moment to rush in headfirst. He didn't seem to care that all he had on him was a stick.

And for some reason, Parson followed his lead. Not wanting to be outdone, maybe. Not wanting to be a coward. So he bolted forward, too, knife in hand. He went for the man's side while Damian soon acquired the soldier's attention.

It didn't last long. The man's sword came free, and he cut through Damian's stick and chest in one heavy downward stroke. Blood splattered across the floor.

Parson wasn't even thinking anymore. He was already in the blind spot, so he just jammed the knife into the man's thigh and yanked it upward.

The soldier howled and turned on him. The sword flashed up in Parson's vision, but then Germal was there, holding onto the man's sword arm like a wild monkey and trying to bite at his hand. The other hand came in hard and clobbered Germal in the face. The boy barely held on as the man changed his sword hand. Dangling, Germal couldn't do much more than watch as the blade skewered him through the chest, all the way to the hilt.

Parson had found his way to the man's back and jammed the knife through the uniform while he climbed up. The man flailed, and Parson tried to hang on, still pulling the knife out and jabbing it in repeatedly, working his way up to the man's neck.

And he found it, too. The knife dug deep into bare flesh just below the soldier's ear. The man stumbled back and slammed Parson against the wall. He finally lost his grip and dropped to the floor.

Disoriented, Parson scrambled to his feet, but the monster of a man rounded on him one more time. Despite being covered in blood, despite blood even spurting out of his snarling mouth as he struggled to breathe, the soldier still drove his sword through Parson's stomach and tore the blade out through the side.

Parson fell. He heard himself scream in agony and watched as the soldier staggered back and dropped his sword. There was so much pain coursing through Parson's whole body that it almost reverted back in on itself, numbing every sensation at once.

He tried to move, to get up, but it was all he could do to crawl. His body wasn't listening. Even just breathing was becoming difficult. And the blood. There was so much blood. All over the floor.

Damian hadn't gotten back up. Nor had Germal. Even the soldier was on his back now, hardly moving at all and still coughing up red.

The girl from upstairs arrived in his field of view. Claudia. And a few others, too, though it was hard to recognize them. His mind was foggy, and it was a strain even to think. He looked for Alisa Brandt, but she wasn't there. Maybe she never had been.

Oh well.

Didn't matter, he supposed. Would've been nice to see her again, though.

The girls were huddling around him and the other two boys. What were they doing?

Oh, they were crying.

Stupid girls. They should've been running. The other soldiers could come back at any time. He tried to say something, tell them how stupid they were, but his voice didn't work anymore.

Then, finally, darkness took him.

But of course, that was not the end.

"Hello there, brave boy," were Overra's first words to him. "Looks like you could use a hand."

It took a while for him to understand what was happening. Even after the reaper explained it twice, he still wasn't sure he got it all.

But he could keep living. And he could be strong. Those things, he understood. There wasn't much more to think about besides that.

Aside from one thing.

"...What about my friends?" he asked.

"Little Damian and Germal? Don't worry. I've got friends, too. Their names are Feromas and Nerovoy. They're talking to them as we speak."

"So we'll all get to come back?"

"That's right," she said.

"You're... not lying, are you?"

"Oh, you dear boy. That's not a very good method of testing someone's honesty. But don't worry. I'll teach you. All in good time." She paused. "Oh, but yes, I am telling the truth. Worry not."

That hadn't done much to curb Parson's suspicion, but he didn't know what else to say.

"Hmm," said Overra. "Very well. If you would like the complete truth of it--and I assume you do--then I must admit that the three of us were originally only going to revive Damian and his family. Feromas is Damian's great grandfather, you see. That was why we returned to fair little Trintol in the first place. But sadly, we arrived too late. And when we saw that Damian was not among the dead there, we decided to search for him--and good thing we did. We nearly arrived here too late, as well."

And again, Parson wasn't sure he understood. How much time had passed? He had no idea.

"You should be glad," said Overra. "You're lucky boys. The three of you are going to help us change the world."