Hold! Hold! Your spears can still kill them, large or small! Hold, abandon you!

Lord Glove watched as the flames grew higher, ever higher. It was building a ladder to the sky. Sparks leapt from the top, desperate to take their place among the stars.

Ten creatures in the shape of man, though far greater and more terrible, move slowly toward the gates. Smaller creatures rush past them, blurring up the wall. Soldiers recoil in pain and fear, or simply slump to the stones, dead before they know they are dead.

The roof collapsed, knocking out a wall of the barn. In turn, the burning wall lit the field on fire.

Flames pour off the creatures. Trenches filled with oil now alight. Ten giants march on, heedless of the mortal danger. Small creatures smash lanterns into thatch covered roofs, pour oil down into wooden cellars. Soldiers rush in to stop them, they return broken, unmoving.

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The baby knave girl bundled beside Lord Glove began to wail.

People cry. Tears flow down their faces. They’re approaching sir! What do we do?

The house gave one last groan, then tumbled in on itself, surrendering itself to the flames.

Surrender? Ha! They number but ten, look how slow their stride. Crossbows to fore!

Lord Glove picked up the baby and began to mummer gently to him. The babe was somewhat calmed, though his face was still wet with tears. Lord Glove used a corner of his cloth to wipe them away.

Bolts ricochet. Unabated, the figures draw abreast of the wall. Mortar gives, stone collapses. People scream.

Lord Glove walked to the edge of the forest, rocking the baby in his arms.

Surrender? Sir, please.

The knave child yawned. Lord Glove tucked the swaddling more firmly about him.

The soldiers throw down their weapons, but the figures continue to advance, implacable. There is no surrender. They have but four orders:

Travel.

Grow.

Destroy.

Die.