Choking smoked billowed from the forest as Ako, Deryn, Eira, Fern and the rest of the search party found their way to the village clearing.
Deryn let out a hacking cough as he placed Ako on the field. The dewy blades of grass welcomed him home eagerly, tickling him and happy to see him safe and back in one piece. He ran his fingers through the damp grass as he looked up at the sky, the orange sunset growing redder as it was covered by thick, black smoke.
Eira and the cooks sat next to him to catch their breath. Deryn coughed up a ball of phlegm and spat it back towards the forest. Fern let out excited chants, swinging her axes around.
“We need to get back and warn the village about the incoming raid,” Eira panted out. They gazed distantly into the forest, the flames dancing in their eyes. “Dozens of them are coming. It will be a bloodbath. Many of us will die.”
Ako held up a hand. “Just give me a minute,” he wheezed. The dusky sky quickly sapped out any warmth from the ground. He grew cold very quickly, and started to cry uncontrollably. His chest felt both heavy and empty with guilt. He’d ran into the forest without a contingency plan, been captured, been attacked multiple times, and put his partner, his best friend’s partner and daughter, and three random strangers in grave danger by needing rescue. He had been ready to die, he didn’t want to be saved. “I don’t deserve to be alive right now,” he cried. Eira ran their hands through his hair lovingly.
Deryn kept coughing. “Are you okay?” Eira asked.
“I’ll be… fine,” he sputtered. “Aeron is safe by the way, Ako.”
Ako let out a relieved sob. Aeron certainly deserved to live, he thought.
Deryn hoisted Ako to his feet. “Let’s go back to mine,” he said. “We will rush weapons to the villagers, then reinforce the stable and wait out the raid.”
“I’m going to ring the bell now,” Eira said.
Deryn planted a firm hand on Fern’s back. “Go get your father, darling.” He looked at the axes in her hands, giving her a cheeky smile. “You can keep those if you survive tonight.” Fern beamed with glee, and ran back home.
Deryn, Ako and the cooks went back to the stable to collect weapons as Eira rushed to the town square. They approached the bell and dropped their backpack of food on the ground, but panicked - they didn’t have anything to strike the bell with. Eira desperately looked around. They saw a loose piece of cobblestone in the square, picked it up, and banged the bell many times. Lights flickered on all around the square, with grumpy villagers wondering what the ruckus was about.
Suddenly, Eira had a vivid vision of an arrow firing at them from the forest. They ducked instantly. Something whizzed silently above them. An arrow shot right through where their head had been a second ago, cutting clean through the chain that held the bell to the post, leaving a trail of blue light in its wake. The bell fell straight into the well, landing with a dull thud as it hit the mud at the bottom.
More arrows started to rain down from above, some flaming. Eira grabbed the backpack and held it above them. They winced as arrow after arrow pummelled into the backpack, only stopping because of the heavy food inside. They ran back to the stable, screaming wildly as they passed by other houses. As they ran through the stable doors, they cast the backpack down outside as it burst into flames from the arrows.
Ifor held his palm up at the edge of the flaming forest. “Hold,” he said calmly. “Fire!” He pulled his palm into a fist, and the hunters behind him let out an infernal volley. Brama seethed next to him with a dark, vengeful rage. Ifor repeated this until the hunters exhausted their quivers. The plains village started to smoke and simmer as thatched roofs caught fire.
Ifor turned back to the forest hunters. “Brethren. We are a small but mighty force of warriors. We must stay focussed on our mission tonight. Our captive fled in cowardice. He must be brought back to home tree alive. That is the principal objective of this battle.” The crowd let out supportive, but disappointed chants.
Brama whispered something under his breath, staring to the distant south. “What was that?” Ifor asked.
“Burn them all,” Brama said softly. “Burn them all!” he screamed. He turned back to the hunters. “Every single one of them. Every man, woman and child will be kissed by our blades or our flames.” The hunters let out more emphatic battle cries. “None of them survive to see another one of their precious sunrises. Every house will be reduced to ash. And we will send them back to where their kind came from, and dump their bodies in the river.
Ifor looked at Brama in horror. The crowd raised their daggers into the sky with Brama, the forest’s flames bouncing off their weapons and casting rainbows all around. He wanted to say something, but Brama was his superior commander by bloodright - both due to his superior kill count and as the son of the reigning chief. He dare not question him. Ifor turned back to the village, reluctantly raised his palm, and thrust it forward, directing the hunters to quench their thirst for blood.
Genista felt the warmth recede from above her root cocoon. She tried to push it free, but her entire body was weak and covered in severe burns, and her throat and mouth still ached from her tussle with her prisoner. A surge of adrenaline pumped through her muscles, and she blasted the roots off of her with magic.
She stood up in agony, the southern wind piercing into her blistering wounds. The inferno had moved to another part of the forest, leaving a charred wake of destruction all around her. She felt the earth rumble as horses rushed into the village in the distance. Her blood ran hot - this was supposed to be her battle, her claim to bloodright. She was going to recapture her prisoner, and his friend that escaped her the other day, and both of them were going to die by her blade.
As she left the forest, Genista desperately looked for some purple herbs in the ash. Even if she couldn’t adequately heal herself, she could at least try and numb her pain enough to fight with glory tonight. Her search was futile. She reached down to her dagger, its blade still warm from the fire, and limped towards the village.
The air was hot and sticky as she approached the first row of houses. Their thatched roofs were raging in blaze. The pungent reek of death and blood covered her like a sticky ooze, made no better by the repugnant smell from the polluted river to the east.
Genista drew her dagger and broke into the first flaming house she saw. The living room was fully ablaze. She watched on as the charred corpses of a family of four burnt passionately. She made out the figure of a woman, desperately clutching to her two young children, her husband’s arms wrapped around all of them.
Genista was stunned. She’d never seen such carnage before. Death and decay were a natural part of life, and parts that she was obliged to facilitate, but this… this was not natural. Death was meant to be swift and merciful, only drawn out if her prey struggled. She tried to flee and slam the door, but it broke off its melted hinges and crashed to the floor. As it disintegrated with an ashy shatter, the father’s jaw slopped off his face due to the echo. Genista threw up.
Brama got off his horse in the middle of the town square. He took a deep breath amidst the carnage, inhaling the smell of burning corpses and ash. He’d directed his warriors to break down every door in town, slaughter every family, and burn every house down as they left. And they did just that. The square, which had hosted a joyful - if rudely disrupted - market earlier that day, its air filled with birdsong, was now ringing with the sounds of terrified, bloodcurdling screams.
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Brama smiled maniacally as he kicked down a door himself. The burning building was obviously a butchery of sorts. Charred meats hung from hooks above a makeshift retail countertop. Brama took inspiration from them, resolving that he would be hanging burnt corpses from these hooks come high moon.
He stepped into the room. The flamelight licked his white hair, turning it a vibrant orange. Little orange heads of hair were quivering under the staircase. Brama approached the stairs, and pulled out two young boys with his bare hands. They screamed in terror, kicking and flailing in his grasp. “Don’t worry, darlings. I’ll make this quick.” Brama held both kids by their shirts in one hand, approached the counter, removed the meats with his other hand, and hung them each on the hooks, their little bodies writhing in pain from the fire.
“I’ll make this quick too.” Firm footsteps stomped into the butchery. Brama turned to dodge an axe swing as a large man rushed at him. He was probably the grill cook that owned this place, and most certainly the kids’ father.
Brama effortlessly parried more axe blows with his dagger, his back to the wall and windows. “What’s the matter? No appetite for exotic meats?” Brama pulled a small throwing knife from his belt and licked it. With a casual flick of his wrist, the knife went flying, landing straight between one of the boy’s eyes, killing him instantly. The forest counted any kills towards his bloodright - no matter how young, nor powerless, nor innocent.
The man charged at him, enraged. Brama dodged him again, and his axe went flying through the window. Brama laughed, his back now turned to the door. “I thought you said you were going to make this quick?”
Another set of footsteps rushed in behind him. Brama was lifted off the floor by a strong pair of arms. The cook pulled his living son off the hook and sent him running outside. He reached into the inferno behind the counter and pulled out a rusty butcher’s knife.
“No. Not now. I’ll take my time with you.” The cook raised the knife to Brama’s face. Brama let out an excruciating scream as the cook slowly ran his knife through his perfect face , slicing straight through his left iris. Brama screamed out for his father, and Genista.
Brama was let go as two rapid arrows cracked through his assailant’s skulls. Ifor rushed in and grabbed Brama, seeing the blood gushing from his face. “Oh my god,” Ifor gulped, clutching his mouth. He desperately pulled out an arrow, placed its herbal feathers beneath Brama’s nose, and let out a puff of yellow powder, incapacitating him. Ifor dragged Brama out from the inferno, casting a last, horrified look at the crisp corpse of a child on the butcher’s hook, his little legs finally slopping off his tiny body. Ifor threw up over Brama.
Genista kept walking through the town. She approached another house, its thatched roof having just barely caught flame from loose embers. Her shaky hand opened the door, her vision hazy and her mind spinning from her injuries. She could not see anyone in the darkness inside, even when occasional orange flashes of firelight filled the room as the neighbouring houses collapsed. She had entered a living room, with a small kitchen in the back right, and a staircase to the left. A green knitted blanket sat on the reclining chair to her right.
Genista made her way up the stairs. She looked in two bedrooms, but both were empty. The last room she searched was not empty. A blanket was drawn over a sleeping figure in a single bed. She wondered how anyone could be sleeping in this cacophony. The woman sleeping was elderly though, so perhaps she was deaf or exhausted from a long day of work, Genista thought.
As she approached the woman, her nose was filled with the pungent smell of death. She quickly realised that this woman had passed away naturally, perhaps the previous day. She still looked healthy though, her sun baked skin wrinkled after many long years on this earth. Genista had rarely seen that in the forest - most of her kin died young in the glory of battle, except for the seers. The woman’s grey hair was still plump and vibrant, and she rested as if with a peaceful smile. It was a similar smile she’d seen recently, from that red-haired girl in the forest - Freya? Faye? A small grey bird approached the windowsill, its feathers singed and smouldering. It look at Genista curiously, its sad eyes locking with her glazed ones.
As Genista made her way back down the stairs, she felt a new pang of guilt and horror. That woman, too, had not had a dignified death, or rather a dignified rest after death. She had heard that the plains people buried their deceased at the riverside as per their customs. Her family had probably planned to bury her today, but couldn’t amidst the carnage of battle.
Someone was standing at the door as Genista reached the landing of the stairwell. A plump figure raised two axes, her bright blue eyes locking dead with Genista’s. Genista’s mind went dull due to her injuries, but she could’ve sworn the girl called out for her father in panic. Genista’s mind went fully blank as she was struck on the back of the head from the kitchen, collapsing to the floor.
Aeron grunted, his mother’s water pot in hand. He looked down at what he’d done - the pale haired woman lay face down on his living room floor. Fern stared at him in shock from the front door. Aeron rolled the woman over. He recoiled from her with a scream - this was the same girl that had maimed him in the forest. His breathing quickened, his head filling with a terrifying pain. He lifted the pot back over his head, ready to deliver the final blow.
“No!” Fern screamed. She tackled her father across the kitchen, the pot and her axes clanging as they fell to the floor.
Aeron didn’t resist. He simply sat, tense in Fern’s powerful embrace, silently panicking. His head hurt tremendously from his fury, upset, and trauma. Fern got up. She approached the girl, recognising her as the same one who’d saved her and the search party in the forest. She pulled her limp body up, and placed her on the couch, wrapping her in her grandmother’s green blanket. She turned back to her father. “Go stay with grandma,” she yelled. Aeron slowly got up, his head spinning, and walked up to Afon’s room in a catatonic state.
Fern retrieved her axes and walked back outside. She felt the tide of the battle turning. The villagers were fighting back in ingenious ways as a collective, and the forest warriors were losing steam. She saw a white haired man pulled unconscious from a burning building by a blond man, who hoisted him onto a horse, and the two retreated to the forest. His soldiers followed their commander, retreating in defeat.
Fern usually would have let out a cheerful yell at a time like this. But her village’s moment of pyrrhic victory was short lived. The southern wind whispered a desperate warning into her ear. “He’s coming. Run.”
The forest inferno raged. The northern wind blasted it high into the night sky. Fern could feel the warmth from far in the distance, her eyes wide with shock and awe.
Another flurry of horses broke free from the treeline with a bellicose whinny. The charge was led by a large, elderly man, his white beard alive with firelight.
Genista and Brama’s father stopped at the edge of the forest, calling out to the retreating warriors. “None of you cowards will step foot in the forest again until our victory is secured,” he bellowed. “I will make sure of it myself.” The man raised his battle axe to the sky.
Most of the warriors stopped and turned around, their morale shattered, but not willing to risk an inglorious death outside of direct conflict. Some kept running to the forest though. Genista’s father made swift work of them, smiting them down like saplings with his axe.
He then turned his sights to the village, his eyes locking dead with Fern’s. “Charge!” he yelled.
Fern ran back upstairs to get her father. He had locked his mother’s bedroom door. Fern grabbed her axes tightly in hand, and cracked the door down in three fell swoops. She kicked the splinters away, pulled Aeron out of the hole, and rushed to Deryn’s stable.
Eira opened the door just as they approached, giving them just enough time to tumble in before they locked the door tight with deadbolts. Ako and Deryn were huddled in the horse’s pen, Deryn’s horse slaughtered mercifully so as not to give away their position. Fern threw Aeron in with them, and went to help Eira hold the door. “He’s coming, Fern,” they whispered, casting their lilac eyes to the flickering shadows in the window.
Fern and Eira felt a firm thud against the stable door. And another. And another. The deadbolts creaked and whined as the raiders tried to break in. A fourth ram bent the metal hinges inwards, and the raiders pulled the doors apart.
The large white bearded man stood in the frame. He glared at them all as they cowered in fear. He raised his battle axe and took a swing at Eira, but was stopped as another axe parried him. Fern took her spare axe and plunged it straight into the man’s thigh. As he crumpled to the ground, blood steaming in the night air, Deryn approached him from behind, and sent his hammer clean through the man’s skull.
The other raiders who had joined him fled in panic. As a new dawn broke, Fern walked outside with her family. The sunlight broke through the crisp night air, which still felt heavy with ash and blood. The fires of the village began to recede, the last few houses crumbling around her as the forest people retreated to their smouldering homes as well. Most of her fellow villagers were outside, caked in soot and blood - well, the few that survived, and because they had no homes to return to. No one let out a triumphant cry.
The silence was only broken by the distant cracking of burning trees, and a faint chirp of birdsong. The southern wind stroked her hair. “You’ve survived. Well done.”