In the last few years, our small settlement has had no peace. First come the forces from the north, laying waste to the crops and livestock. Then comes the inevitable counterattack from the south, undoing all that had been rebuilt. Plague and pestilence follow armies in a cloud - as does conscription. Both separate the youth from their parents with an equal lack of humanity or mercy. Our patch of land is a border town, and all we hope for is a quiet year in this long war.

But this year, the astrologer sees a portent in the stars heralding such a peace. Word has come that the forces of the north and the south have fought each other to a standstill. Our scrap of land and its meagre tithe is no longer under contest. No lord stands between our town and the fates that guide us. For a short while, our path is our own.

This time, when the avarice of others turns its eyes on us, perhaps we will be ready.