The boy's hands were cold. His clothes were wet.
They were soaked right through. But this did not bother him.
He felt only the miserably numb chill in his hands.
His parents were late. His name was Nux'iko.

But no one would remember that. They would only remember his deeds.
They would only remember the legend of the little boy.
The boy who's parents never came home.

The rain seemed to echo his fears, a rising crescendo.
It drums against the thin wooden door, the entrance to their
humble home as he's mother called it, when she was feeling
especially kind. He missed her.

He wanted to go and look for them, it was not far to the well,
except he promised his mother he would look after his sister.
She lay beside him, a small dull bundle of cloth.
Her deep scratchy breaths hurt him. He knew that she was suffering.
The fresh water would help.

His heart fell into the pit of his stomach.
A reaction to the sound. The sound of horses. Many many horses.
The horses of the Money Lords. People are about to die.
For they were the Murai.-wicked-