Dagon moved between various bushes and trees around Hollow, all the while questioning why he was doing this. There was an underlying urge, demanding the need to know, and not be left guessing.

The kingdom they lived in wasn’t at war; even if it had been, Hollow wasn't a border town. Nor were bandits a problem in the area. Nothing was adding up and that was the problem.

How could there be justice or revenge against these intruders if they couldn’t be identified.

Dagon’s mind jumped to his family as he passed a broken ax head. His heart raced as he thought about his mother, she was all he had left in this world. He considered that his drunkard uncle would already be face down with a hole in his chest, and it served him right.

He found himself just a few houses closer to the village center, hidden in a thick, well-kept bush line between two houses. Laughter caught his attention, and he ducked down in haste.

A man with a smile came walking quite quickly and stopped in front of the bushes opposite of Dagon. Dagon remained still, as quiet as a mouse, while the man glanced around, turned toward the bushes, unlaced his breaches, and began relieving himself.

Dagon barely dared move, but he could make out the dark black leathers that made these men's armor. They wore a painted cuirass and bracers. Dagon only had this knowledge from a picture book Mckale's father owned.

The soldier, bandit, or whatever he was, gave a loud belch as he re-tied his trousers and stomped back into the village. As Dagon followed the man deeper into town, he noticed all the bodies in the street. The screams may have stopped, but the crackling, roasting bodies made plenty of noise.

Dagon’s entire body was shaking in pent up emotion. Looking further, he felt his heart tighten when he saw Afsara’s still body lying prone in the street, her face forever stuck in rictus horror. Not far from her, her father’s body supine. The old man had an ax in his hand and had died trying to protect his daughter.

It just hadn’t done much against the three arrows in his chest. Dagon’s eyes squeezed shut for a moment, holding back the tears. Why was this happening? What had their little town done to receive this much hate?

Their town wasn’t much, most villagers were spread out owning their own small farm or a piece of land in the town. There had been a small inn, which was now a heap of rubble, along with a handful of shops and a small temple to Rae, the Goddess of sun and harvest. But even the temple was on fire.

As he tailed the man, they approached the town’s center. The buildings were nearly all fully charred, or their roofs and walls caved in. The mostly wood and thatch buildings had never stood a chance. He stopped next to what used to be the town’s clothier shop as he watched the man rejoin his associates.

It looked like whatever the men had been doing just before Dagon arrived, was now over. Across the village square, sat horseback, were several well armored men. They wore black tabards with a bird of some kind on them. Oddly, the horses were black as well.

The men had the appearance of the Black Knight from his favorite stories. But this wasn’t a story. This was real life, and the Black Knight couldn’t be real. Besides that, there were several of them, and dozens of the less well armored marauders.

A few villagers had been tied up and left on the ground. Dagon strained to see who was still alive, to see if his mother was there. As he studied the situation, he knew they were speaking, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. Frustration made him decide to risk moving in closer.

Most of the men in black were picking through the rubble of the old general shop. Dagon felt the danger tick up with each step forward as he headed for the adjacent smithy shop, the men too busy to notice.

He snuck into the blackened, caved-in building, and peaked out from behind the remainder of the forge. Another wave of sadness rippled across his body as he saw Mckale’s father with a large two-handed hammer, lying face down with several arrows in his back. These men fought like cowards.

The smithy had lost one of its walls, and as Dagon looked around the rubble, he saw a pair of burned arms protruding from under the old rear door. Probably one of Mckale’s brothers. His eyes filled with tears again.

“Where is it?!” An armored man screamed in the face of a hostage. It appeared to be Anna, one of the honored village grandmothers. Dagon wasn’t sure he heard her reply, but the man drew his sword and thrust it in her chest before walking to the next hostage, Dagon couldn’t make out who it was.

Dagon put a hand over his mouth to cover the sound as he gasped as a throat was slit, the violence still a shocking sight. He turned and sat, putting his back to the anvil as he tried to get his breathing under control. Something in him broke.

All of his sadness suddenly disappeared, only anger remaining. He vowed that whoever these men were that destroyed his village, would pay. He turned his attention to one of the bandits searching the rubble.

He could barely make out the man’s matte black armor emblazoned with the crest of a Raven in flight, and a golden halo on the tabard. Dagon didn’t recognize it, though it was doubtful he would even recognize the king’s tabard, but he burned that image into his mind.

Without a word, the bandit walked back to the front of the rubble just as the well armored man stabbed another hostage. Dagon decided he needed a weapon and began moving toward the back room, holding his shirt over his face to help keep out the still rising smoke.

He stepped over the body of Mckale's oldest brother, a stab wound in his chest. Mckale’s father used to warn the boys not to go in the back. Mckale always said it was because his father kept a spear in there.

As he entered the back room, he saw Mckale's dead mother, slouched against the workbench. Her skirt around her waist, she hadn’t died well. His knuckles went white as the anger raged. There was a loud crack and he turned to look up. A large chunk of a partially remaining ceiling beam fell and slammed into him across his chest, pinning him.

There was a piercing pain, and the wind had been completely knocked from him. The heat was stronger than his anger and the pain of his melting flesh made him silently cry out, fighting for his breath.

He tried to push the smoldering beam from himself, hand flesh burning, but he didn’t have the strength. All he smelt was smoked meat as his body burned. This wasn’t the end; he couldn’t die like this.

He was supposed to make them pay. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe, and his last thoughts swirled from pain and anger.

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With his last coherent thought, he vowed that in the next life, he would find these raiders and roast them alive.

……………………………..

The blisters on Mckale’s feet warned that they needed to stop and rest. Looking at Faux he could see the frustration in his friend's soul, the boy had been silent since they had left Hollow. During their journey, Faux had just been following blindly, occasionally forcing Mckale to pull him forward when the boy randomly stopped moving.

They had been following a deer trail for five spans to the south of their village. They exited the tree line and found themselves on the main road that split the land into north and south. Night was bringing along a full moon, so they wouldn’t stay on the road knowing those men could come.

Before they had fully left Hollow, Mckale considered going to a neighboring village, but was too afraid they also had been ransacked. Or would be soon.

They had no food or water. They could have used the river, but it was common knowledge to not drink downriver from the mage city. That’s why all the villages had wells. Mckale made a silent prayer for their safety to Zenut, Goddess of children and mischief.

Mckale pushed them until almost dark, staying near the road, knowing not to spend too long on it. While the road connected several small villages, it was not well traveled. The king's taxpayers hadn’t come this way in cycles, his father had said, so the villages did their best to be self-sufficient.

Even intercity lavish carriage travel had dried up. The possibility of turning back to find a village weighing on his mind, his need to find an adult beating like a drum. Questions himself if the towns had been razed, shutdown that idea after a few moments.

As dark crept upon them, Mckale found a small ditch just behind some bushes off the road, tugging the still blank-eyed Faux like a cow. The deep despair finally hit Mckale as he began to sob, dropping into the slump of the ditch.

“Why Faux? Why us? Who have we ever hurt?” Mckale rambled to a silent, unresponsive Faux. “Wh-” In the distance he heard noise, stopping his rant to pull Faux into a huddle in the ditch. Something was coming.

The bushes weren’t heavy with foliage, so darkness gave them the sight advantage as Mckale peered out at the road. The sound of hooves was easy to recognize. Men in black armor riding black horses were much harder to see. The brightness of the moon was enough to see the dull glint of a few cuirasses among the nearly pitch-black blobs.

There were no words spoken, just the thunder of a hundred hooves rumbling by. It could have been fifty, maybe even thirty, Mckale couldn’t tell in the darkness. Mckale turned around to Faux, who was staring into the ground, motionless.

“D-Do you think Dag is okay?” Of course, there would be no response, but anything felt better than silence. “Do you think my family is okay?”

Tears rolled down his cheeks, saying nothing further as he cried in silence.

Another day dawned with the city in sight for the two exhausted children. They were almost to their destination, yet they felt no joy.

It had been five hard days and they were finally within spitting distance of the city’s wall. The coastal city was massive with the stone wall standing fifty-foot high in stoic defiance. Small guard towers dotted the outer wall although Mckale saw no one manning them.

Ahead of them lay what looked to be the main gate leading into and out of the city. The river that ran from Gadalfa’Va, poured into the bay that Valeria sat upon. Ever since King Saurex had left two twin heirs, the kingdoms of Valeria and Agothir had held a lasting yet uneasy peace for two hundred cycles.

They stood on the road that divided the great island. It led through a mountainous pass, where Gadalfa’Va existed, preventing the warring of both kingdoms. Valeria had a grand navy while rival Agothir sat upon guarded cliffs. Each nation had no real choice but to capitulate to the tenuous peace. Mckale was certainly not knowledgeable about the goings on in his country. It was unfathomable as to why the main road seemed so empty.

Glancing down, Mckale saw his feet had swollen and blistered because of the worn out shoes. Both of their clothes were covered in mud from sleeping on the ground. It felt like the last five days of their lives had all led to this one fateful moment.

His throat was dry and parched. If it hadn’t rained two days prior, they might have died of thirst. At one point they had stopped so he could force water from a puddle down Faux’s throat. The distraught youth still hadn’t spoken a word.

Seeing the city felt like there would be hope after all. They would get help, finally go back with a legion of soldiers, and see what happened. He briefly thought of Dagon and the others, hoping everyone was safe and alive. The swirl of hopeful thoughts gave him a second wind.

Mckale strode faster, practically dragging Faux along toward the guards. They came to stand in front of two very bored looking guards at this gate. If this city had so little traffic, his choice to stay out of the villages might have saved their skins. The guards stared at the boys in disinterest.

“Please help! Our village has been attacked.” He managed to croak from his barren throat.

The guard sneered at him. “Oh, I suppose you want us to help you with that, urchin?”

“Would you like us to feed you? Maybe give you some coins?” The other guard laughed.

Mckale took a step back, confused. “We need help, our village-” The strike dropped him to the ground, the taste of blood in his mouth.

“Get the hell out of here you little shits.” Sneer growled.

“But-”

Laugh looked down at him, “He said run along, street rat.” No laughter in his eyes now.

“But we-” Mckale curled up in pain from the kick.

“I won’t say it again, now go!” Screamed Sneer, a little spittle spraying from his lips.

Mckale picked himself up and grabbed Faux, pulling him past the guards into the city, too dehydrated for tears. They walked up to a well-dressed man and woman while pushing further into the city.

“Please, we need help.” Begged Mckale. They gave him one look and kept walking, completely ignoring anything further. His brain was racked with fright. Why would no one look at them or speak to them?

He tried again, and again, to no avail. The people here either ignored him outright or lashed out with angry words. A foreboding feeling rumbled within.

Then his stomach twisted in pain. The smell of smoked meat wafted out from a small market area. They hadn’t eaten in days and the idea of food made him drool. With the way the guards had reacted, the thought of going to the castle almost seemed laughable.

They stopped by a fountain to rest and figure out their next move. He decided they would get some food then ask for directions to the castle after all. He pulled Faux down toward the market and up to the closest cart with food.

“Please sir, we need food.”

The vendor looked at him in disgust, “Get out of here urchin, you’ll scare away paying customers.”

Mckale quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out his gold coin. “We can pay, please we just want food.” An older, wiser Mckale might have seen the avarice flash in the merchant's eyes.

The man smirked, reached out, and took the coin, giving it a quick bite. The merchant’s face twisted into nasty smile.

“Thief!” The vendor screamed.

Mckale froze, not understanding.

“Thief!!” The vendor shouted again, more loudly.

“But- but I paid you. We just want food.” Mckale sputtered desperately.

“Guards!”

Mckale looked up and saw guards coming his way. Their mean appearance matching that of Sneer and Laugh.

“Please! I just want-”

“Stop, thief!” Shouted the closest guard as he acknowledged the merchant’s fat finger pointed to Mckale.

Mckale gave one last angry look at the smirking vendor, grabbed Faux, and yanked him along as they fled deeper into the city.

What level of Zenut’s hell had they arrived in?