Two days later, the group came to a stop, the titanic plume of black smoke billowing far above them blotting out the sky. They spent the the remaining of the afternoon and evening going around to the south and east, the towering walls on the cliff side getting closer as they traveled. When they could finally see the main road come into sight, they found one of the gates in pieces, its heavy metal portcullis hanging precariously on a single hinge.

The rising sun in front of the group illuminating a burned castle ground, the large castle beyond a smoldering ruin. Going through the gates, they found the bodies of dozens of guards strewn all across the grounds, some in red and orange, while the majority wore the Astwin green and brown. Crows, feral dogs and other scavengers seemed to have been at the bodies for some time, as many of them looked to have been chewed on.

Jeshin directed the group to stay behind and motioned for Norvor to follow her. The dwarf woman dismounted and followed the crouched Jeshin through the battlefield, making their way toward the castle. A garden, fully burned to the ground, stood dead and stark against the large pond that it surrounded. Jeshin remembered the garden as being lush and beautiful, something that the general's late wife had painstakingly taken care of.

It was always a wonder she could grow the exotic flowers and fruits not native to this part of the continent. Jeshin could recall the wonder and peace she had felt when she wandered the garden grounds. Now it was nothing more than ash flowing in the wind. A few statues and marble furniture could be seen, soot marring their features, and a gazebo made of seamless, polished granite stood uncharred.

They passed by the pond and moved their way north up the road to the castle. Its large double doors were thrown inward, the thick wood blackened on the edges. They climbed the vast steps to the interior, and saw only a smoking ruin inside. Anything and everything that could be burned was long since ash. Some of the wreckage inside the entrance hall was even still smoldering, sending drifts of black smoke up through broken windows.

Timbers had fallen, caving in sections of stone roof. In front of them were a small set of stairs that led to another set of double doors, one of them hanging on a hinge, the other knocked down entirely on the floor beyond into what seemed to be a dining room. To their right, an opening led toward some of the numerous towers of the castle. If Jeshin remembered correctly, that way was toward the library, studies and special guest rooms. Their left opened into a dark hall, rubble blocking the way. That way led to the kitchens and cellars, she knew, as it was one of the places she enjoyed going to as a child.

The two of them stepped upward into the dining room, the smell of charred skin and meat sitting sickly on their tongues. The large, thick table still stood, barely damaged by the fire, but the dais beyond was awash with burned cloth coverings over high arched windows above the host table and seat, glass shattered and littering the ground and table. Light streamed in through the snaking tendrils of smoke, lighting the main hall in a dreary, drab color.

To their left and right were two additional halls, leading upward, to the rest of the castle above. She stepped forward to the front of the hall where the raised dais was. She could imagine herself back as she was, a child standing stiffly in front of the table, her patron, Lord Astwin, smiling at her across it, his figure large and imposing. He would ask how her studies had been going, what she was learning, interested in, and more. And always she was so formal with the man.

Jeshin shook her head to clear it, the beads in her hair clicking together. She ran her hand down the chair, looked toward the doors they had come from, and strode back to the entrance. Norvor tossed a broken candelabra she had been inspecting back into the rubble and quickly followed. Jeshin took the outer steps two at a time and marched back to the where the rest of the camp was waiting, her brow furrowed.

The two cross the threshold of the ruined gate, and Jeshin whistles once as she passes by the group. Norvor gets a hold of her horse and pulls herself up with ease, as the group trots after Jeshin northward, toward Stovisholm. Many of the fires seemed to still rage, the plumes of black smoke convalescing into a single, dark cloud billowing upward. As they drew near, they could see heads on pikes on the outskirts and through the buildings.

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The group moves into one of the side streets, passing by the bodies of men, women and children laying in the streets, blocking door thresholds, and hanging from their necks from windows and the few trees that made up the intersections of the city. The bodies were hacked apart or sported disfigured skin, as if they were indiscriminately beat on and run through by a battalion of soldiers. Guards could be seen strewn throughout, weapons in hand. Jeshin noted as she jogged through the streets that there were bodies of soldiers in dual crimson and orange colors. The ratio of guards to soldiers was also in the favor of the guards, which made her hum with satisfaction.

Good, they fought to the last at least. Glad to see the Astwins never strayed from their roots, she thought to herself.

She and the group separated, looking for survivors in this bloodstained city of corpses. The sun began dipping toward the horizon by the time they came back together. As far as they could see, the city was barren. One of the scouts, an elven archer by the name of Ranel, was last to return to the group.

'Ah've found a trail! It leads northeast, along Harker's Road! Ah coun' abou' twen'y, mayb' twen'y two,' she reported.

Jeshin looked toward Harker's Road. She nodded once to Ranel without taking her eyes off the direction and said, 'Show me.'Ranel turned on her heel and bolted toward the edge of the city, toward the distant farmland on either side of the highway. Stepping off the road to the right, the elf woman crouched down and pointed out indentations in the grass.

'Made from a warhorse, ah'd gather,' she added.

Jeshin studied the markings, barely discerning the path of the band. Standing, she looked at the scout and said in a low voice, 'Find us our quarry.'

Ranel grins and adjusts the hood on her head, then whistles for her mount. The horse came galloping from near the group, and she began to run down the road. Catching the horse's bridle, she swung herself into her seat with ease and continued the path, watching the road for more signs. Jeshin ran after her, easily keeping up with Ranel, the rest of the group galloping after them.

Less than an hour later the sun began to touch the mountain ranges in front of them, washing the grassy gnolls in a soft, golden light. Ranel and Jeshin crested one of the hills, and spanning just off to the side in the distance were soldiers in the same crimson and orange colors, setting their tents and camps. Stepping back off the crest, Jeshin signaled the group to stop and dismount. The two of them watched the camp as a massive tent was being erected by a group of soldiers near the center, each soldier pulling on ropes tied to the thick vertical poles of the tent, other soldiers were looping the guy lines to thick stakes already in the ground.

Throughout the camp, fires were getting started and trenches were being dug by what looked like the folk of Stovisholm. Their clothes were stained with dirt, the backs of their shirts torn from lashing marks. Fear was etched into their movements, and cries of anguish would rise from the ones hit with the taskmasters' whips. A young girl was sitting on a horse, her hands tied to the horn of the saddle, a soldier standing at attention while holding the reins. A man in finery, his shoulder-length hair in a ponytail, was watching the soldiers raise the tent and would occasionally turn toward the girl, speaking to her with a disarming smile.

Jeshin took the scene in and focused on the girl herself. She was sitting, ridged as a board, in what looked like a thin dress, massive patches of blood staining all down the front. Her fiery red hair was in a thick braid that reached far down her back and along the saddle, the color contrasted against her complexion. Her face seemed pale in the orange light, but Jeshin couldn't quite tell from the distance. As soon as the tent was erected, the man clapped his hands once, turned to the soldier and told him something, then walked into the tent itself. The soldier took the girl behind some of the tents toward a small brook, took her down from the horse, then dunked a bucket into the water. He upturned it on her two, three times, her face contorting into a cry, filled it a fourth time and sat it next to her then threw a brush at her. He stood silently as she reluctantly cleaned herself and attempting to hide as much of her body as she could from the soldier.

Alexandra, Jeshin thought. The name hadn't come to her before, but now she remembered the name of the girl. She was the only daughter of Lord Astwin, his pride and joy. She was always bubbly, ready with a large smile, a complete tomboy. Jeshin's face contorted, veins popped heavily down her neck as she restrained herself from the barely contained rage she felt. She noted the soldier's face as he took his helmet off to dunk it into the stream and wash off the sweat and grime of the road.

'He'll be first,' she said gutturally through heavily grit teeth. Ranel looked at her with alarm, and leaned away unconsciously.

Without taking her eyes off the camp, she murmured to Ranel her plan to take the camp. Ranel disappeared to speak to the rest of the group as Jeshin counted the seconds to darkness.

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