The smell of smoke filled the air.

A fire blazed, and bells rang.

"Khalkans!" The villagers roared.

A boy peered his head through an open window, his gaze pierced through the veil of night, to spot a dozen or so barbarians on horseback brandishing hooked swords that glimmered underneath the moonlight.

He heard his father barricade the door, and his mother ran towards him with concern in her eyes.

"It's the Khalkans," she said, her voice laced with panic. "Go to the cellar and stay there until we come and get you, alright?"

…

"Go!"

He climbed inside and closed the small wooden frame behind him. He blinked until his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Barrels of mead, smoked meat, and wine were stacked upon one another, and he nestled himself among them and waited.

He peered through the cracks in the wooden panels and saw the Khalkans raid and pillage his village.

Men and women screamed, children cried, and babies wailed. The Khalkans were merciless with their assault. Women and girls were torn from their parents's arms, and any man or boy who resisted was felled by a hooked blade to the neck.

The sight of crimson blood made the boy cover his eyes. His lips trembled, his heart raced, and his mind was filled with worry.

Suddenly, the wooden door to his home flung open.

The boy shifted his gaze to see three Khalkan warriors step through the threshold of his home.

They were greeted by a tall man with a dark, matted wooden board within his grasp, its blunt end angled towards the interlopers.

The boy had always thought his father strong. He once saw him slay a boar while armed with a spear.

But the Khalkans...

He had heard the tales of their ferocity and their savagery; the tales spoke of their proficiency with horseback. They were large and well fed from the consumption of horse meat and goat's milk; his father had never looked so small.

A Khalkan raised his hooked blade and swung downward, and his father’s right arm was severed from his body. He had not been given the chance to scream before his left followed suit. His father collapsed onto the floor, and the Khalkans laughed amongst one another as they stepped over his body.

The boy gasped, and his eyes welled with tears. A sickness overtook him as he witnessed blood ooze from his father's wounds. The crimson liquid filled the floorboards. How could a man bleed so much?

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

A woman's wail came from behind the kitchen barrel. The Khalkans halted their rummaging and turned towards the source of the sound, their smiles revealing their crooked teeth.

One of the Khalkans tossed the barrel to the side, revealing their prize.

A Khalkan grabbed her and hoisted her up by her hair. She kicked and screamed, but the barbarian's grip remained firm.

She struggled, clawed, and fought against their grasp, but they were strong and well-built with the appetite of wolves. They threw her onto the floor, and her face met with the wooden planks with a sickening crack. She coughed and sputtered, her face caked with blood.

One of the Khalkans mounted her, and she shrieked and squirmed and sobbed and begged as his fingers ran across her thighs.

The boy looked away, and tears streamed down his face. He covered his ears when his mother shrieked, and he prayed and hoped that it would stop, but the moans, groans, and howls echoed throughout the cellar.

He had never known a human capable of screaming like that.

Her wails were like screeches from a banshee, and the Khalkans laughed as they took turns wrestling her to the ground, pinning her again and again, and—

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the screams pierced through, unrelenting. Each cry was etched deeper into his mind, a relentless reminder of the nightmare unfolding in his home.

The silence had been the loudest. He knew that his mother would not stop unless they made her stop.

...

The three Khalkans ransacked his home and took whatever food and valuables they could get their hands on. One came close to the cellar, dreadfully so. The sight of him caused the boy to whimper, but he covered his mouth with both of his hands to not allow even a pocket of air to escape him.

Suddenly, a horn sounded, and the Khalkan man froze. He grunted and picked up a barrel that contained the family's salt stores before moving back towards the entrance.

The boy stayed put in his hiding place; he dared not move.

Minutes passed, maybe hours—he could not tell, save for the growling of his stomach and the parchedness of his throat.

A chilly wind bit upon his back, crawling up his spine like a spider would its web.

Were his parents still alive? The boy was hopeful, but the silence was so loud.

If they could walk, then surely they would have come to him.

If they could talk, then surely they would have called out to him.

He wanted to peer through the wooden panels to see for himself, but he could not bring himself to do so. He instead chose to remain hidden, and the night passed by.

He awoke without realizing that sleep had taken him, and he had been greeted by a deafening silence.

The boy crawled out of his hiding spot, careful not to make a sound. He crept out of the cellar; his hand reached for the door, and he pulled.

But it was too heavy. He heaved, putting his weight against it, and nothing happened.

"Father! Mother!"

His voice was a hoarse whisper, for his throat was dry. He was young, barely a teenager, and his strength had yet to come. He tugged at the wooden panels, but they did not move. He looked around and saw a small gap near the corner of the room. He ran towards it and peeked.

He saw the sun. Its bright rays stung his eyes, but he was too weak to shield himself from them. The smell of smoke and ash filled his lungs, and he coughed, wheezed, and gagged. His home, his village—so many houses were burned and ransacked. So many bodies littered the road. The pungent stench made the bile rise from his stomach and into his throat. He retched and threw up what little was in him onto the wooden floorboards.

He turned away and walked over a pile of debris, a shattered chair, cracked barrels, and saw the bodies of his mother and father.

He ran over and dropped to his knees. He held his mother's head, and her lifeless eyes stared back at him.

The sight of his father made him ill. His arms had been chopped clean off, and blood stained the wooden floor. His mother's body had been battered, bruised, and beaten bloody.

She was beautiful; everyone thought so. Why did they have to hurt her like that?

The boy hugged his mother and buried his face in her bosom, and she was cold, stiff, and lifeless. The stench of barbarians clung to her.

Why?

Why?

Why?

He did not know what to do.

So he cried.