Hermera

The 18th of Thargelion

The Year 4631 in the Era of Mortals

It was a day of blood.

Twisted and mangled corpses covered Myriatos like scattered seeds. The grass disappeared beneath a red lake, ankle-deep and filled with the drowned. Rain fell, mixing with blood atop the oversaturated ground. Lyssa stumbled through the village. She should be organizing her people, but there was a hollowness around her heart. The wound in her leg was still hot and walking was difficult. Thinking was difficult.

Dawn came with only a subtle shift in light as the storm raged on. The flash and clash of lightning and thunder pantomimed a battle far above, but whatever blood they had to spill could not compare to all that lay below. Below was an empty place, an abandoned place. The wounded raised their ragged cry over the splash of rain and peals of thunder. They screamed their injuries to the sky above, begging for life, for death, for mothers and mercy, but the silence of their cries was worse, for there were far more who did not weep and wail, but lay with eyes unseeing, waiting to be collected; forever gone.

Once the fires had been quenched, the survivors added their voices to the call. Grief settled around Myriatos, a veil as thick and shrouding as the storm surrounding them. Wives clutched at the bodies of their husbands. Husbands beat the ground in front of the corpses of their wives. Those that died without family were held by their friends. In this tiny place, no life was without cherishment. The dissonant cries rose, as though the whole village was a wounded, dying animal.

Lyssa swayed on her feet. She heard every gasp, every pained cry, and every muttered oath. Her own blood, green amongst the red, trickled down her leg to join the rest. Whatever guilt she carried with the death of the dwarves had born itself a hundredfold. There was no end to the dead.

A voice called her name – but what did it matter? Such senseless violence, such gore. No hate in all the world could redeem the dead. No anger could avenge them. Arms surrounded Lyssa and a face appeared before her. It was speaking to her, but she could only hear the lamentations of the bereft. Hands landed on her shoulders but she hardly felt them. The world roared around her and the edges of her vision faded.

Something struck her cheek, twisted her face to the side; the sting of fresh pain brought the world back into sharp focus. Lyssa blinked once and sound restored itself. Elpida stood before her, drenched in blood and water, shouting her name. Lyssa put her hand on the back of the woman’s neck and brought their foreheads together. The gesture lasted only a moment, but she hoped it contained all the words she could not find.

“What are your orders, Lyssa?”

Orders.

She was in charge. Responsible for the slaughter.

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“Gather your team and contact Vik, if he’s alive. They came from underground. I want to know how they infiltrated us and where they came from. This isn’t over.”

Elpida nodded and, lingering only for a moment, stepped away. Lyssa turned toward the insulae. Gigator was marshaling his guards, stationing them around every tunnel. As Lyssa approached, the sauros broke off his orders and rendered a salute.

“Archousa.”

“They broke into the village hall as well. There’s at least one entrance in my bedchambers, possibly one in Theodorous’s as well. The whole building should be searched, as should the insulae. I also want guards with the healers, if you can spare them. A least one died tonight. Have you seen Odelia?”

Gigator shook his head. “No, but I’ll get on it.”

“I’ll find her. Focus on keeping our people safe. Elpida, and hopefully Vik, are looking into how this happened.”

A triage sat outside the healer’s tent. Bodies were dragged or carried by those still well enough to move. Lyssa made her way toward it with gritted teeth. She had failed to protect them. Failed them like she had failed her brother. It was a weight around her neck, one that pulled up and back instead of down, but she still had a duty to fulfill. A responsibility to the dead and injured. There were too many wounded to bring them all inside the tent, but those without serious wounds and medical training fashioned canopies to fend off the rain. Lyssa looked over those administering aid and her heart fell. Odelia was not among the healers. Of the half dozen that the halfling woman had trained, only three remained. She searched the rows of injured, but the biomancer was nowhere to be found. Lyssa stopped one of the healers, grabbing the man’s arm.

“Odelia. Where is she?”

“When you find her, send her here. We’re not equipped to deal with this.”

The man tore himself away to treat another casualty.

A knot formed in Lyssa’s stomach. She whirled around, trying to find some trace of the halfling woman. Instead, she saw the crumpled and bloodied form of Abraxios, lying on a blanket in the triage. Blood soaked through his bright feathers, staining most of them crimson. Lyssa ran to him, falling to her knees next to one of his shredded wings. The tengu was conscious, though only just. His breath was ragged and bandages bound his torso. His eyes focused on Lyssa, the only thing about him that remained sharp and alert.

“They…took…” he rasped, bile heavy in his throat.

Lyssa held his hand and met his eyes.

“Odelia?”

Abraxios’s head dipped a single degree. His grip on her hand was tight. Desperate.

“Children.”

Lyssa’s blood grew cold. Abraxios sagged and went limp; his eyes rolled back until no hint of color was left. She held her cheek above his beak and sighed in relief as she felt the faintest puff of air. He was still alive. The relief fled as the impact of his words hit her again.

The children.

Someone screamed. Lyssa whirled and stood, bow drawn. Two guards struggled to hold a woman back from one of the pits. She pushed against them, reaching desperately toward something on the ground just beside the opening.

An arm.

A very small arm with a blue, blood-speckled bracelet.

The woman tore free from the guards and sank to the ground, cradling the limb. She let out a moan, low and keening, almost animalistic. Other voices joined the cry. Names were called, none answered. The magnitude of what the goblins did struck the village all at once.

The children of Myriatos were gone.