Arn and Talbit emerged from the treeline and glanced across the fallow fields. The old watchtower of their village seemed to gleam with its new coat of whitewash.
“Home at last,” Arn said.
“If it is still that,” his companion replied.
“Home is home.”
“Even after three years?” Talbit questioned.
“We aren’t the first ones back I can see,” Arn observed.
“Yes, the ploughings done and the tower’s painted.”
As they approached the boundary gate they could see that flags had been placed on either side of the entry.
“Looks like Anders or Wint made it here first, those are Lancer flags,” Arn commented.
“Makes sense, I guess,” Talbit reflected. “Horsemen getting here ahead of infantry men.”
“Well, we aren’t infantrymen any longer. I’m a farmer again and you’re a cooper.”
“Speaking of barrels, I wonder if they have reopened the ale house yet,” Talbit said licking his lips.
“I guess we will just need to go and find out,” Arn said. “Farming can wait.”