Matáo watched the last embers of their shielded fire die into grey ash; he kept a pail of water at his side, ready to douse the light should the night air carry the sound of searching boots. As he sat in the gloom of the Sycamore, the horrors Jessie had recounted played across his mind like a series of jagged, waking nightmares. He could not fathom such cruelty; this was no tactical strike, but a senseless slaughter of the only family he had ever known. He remembered the streets of Echo as they had been only a day prior; he recalled the laughter of the blacksmith, the warmth of the tavern, and the way the elders had shielded his siblings after their parents were taken by the fever. These thoughts brought a fleeting, bitter smile to his lips. When the time came to rouse Jonah for the second watch, Matáo knew he could not sit idle; he had to see the ruin for himself.

  Once Jonah emerged from the hollow of the tree, Matáo whispered the plans he and J?kob had forged in the dark. They would seek the Peacekeepers at the nearest garrison, but first, Matáo intended to descend into the throat of the beast. He needed to know if the soldiers lingered and if he could scavenge supplies from their own farmhouse. Jonah protested about going alone, his worry etched in the lines of his face, but Matáo remained firm: “One shadow could slip through a gate where two would surely be caught.” He strapped on a looted sword, slung his bow over his shoulder, and vanished into the mist.

  He moved with the silent, predatory grace of a hunter, his eyes tracking every movement in the treeline. When he reached the cliff’s edge, he lowered himself to his belly, peering into the basin to ensure no scouts were searching for the three dead men. The way was clear. He descended the stone and moved toward the hidden bodies of the fallen soldiers. He selected a set of armor from a man of his own stature, cinching the crimson leather tight and smearing his face with the soot of the mountain.

  As he neared the outskirts of Echo, the air became a physical weight. The rancid odor of burning flesh and hair rose in a thick, oily cloud that made his stomach retch; his eyes watered, though not merely from the smoke. The memories of his neighbors were being consumed by the flames. He saw houses reduced to blackened ribs of timber and drag-marks in the dirt that led toward the center of the village. From the safety of the brush, he watched as two soldiers dragged a flailing, screaming man toward a massive pyre.

  The man pleaded for his life, his voice a raw, broken thing. The soldiers merely laughed, their voices cold and empty. “Run away if you please, sir,” one mocked, “I’m not going to chase you.” When the man tried to roll away, his legs failing him, the soldiers hoisted him by his limbs and cast him into the heart of the inferno. Matáo watched the man flail until the screaming stopped and the body rolled deep into the white-hot coals. He wanted to roar his grief into the sky, but he bit back the sound; he knew that to reveal himself now was to invite the same fiery end.

  He began to circle the village, counting twenty soldiers in all. Most were gathered at the tavern, their laughter echoing through the broken windows as they toasted their victory with stolen mead. Matáo realized he needed to find the prisoners Jessie had mentioned. He smeared more soot across his brow and stepped into the light, walking toward the tavern with the feigned swagger of a weary warrior.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Now t’at’s better,” Matáo shouted as he approached the guards, his voice a rough imitation of their own. “I feel two maybe three stones lighter; I’d watch your step over there.”

  The soldiers erupted in drunken laughter, ushering him inside and thrusting a cup into his hand. Matáo sat among the murderers of his kin, his heart a cold stone in his chest.

  “God,” one soldier muttered, “that smell is horrible.”

  “Yer first burn’n’?” an older soldier asked; a jagged scar ran from his jawline to a bandage covering his left eye. “I’dz likes ta tell youz that youz be gettin’ used to it, but I’dz be lyin’ ta youz. No normal person ever gets used ta that. I been hearin’ rumors that the Capt loves it; claims it reminds him o’ roastin’ a pig on a spit. I’m not sayin’ nothin’, yous understandz? Only just heard it once or twice from da boys.”

  Matáo sipped the mead, his ears pricked for any mention of the survivors. Every tale of the day’s slaughter fueled a white-hot rage within him, yet he remained calm, playing the part of the faceless recruit. After an hour of careful listening, he overheard that the captives were being held in a barn on the south side of town. He stood abruptly, the mead making his head swim with a dangerous heat. He feigned a drunken stumble, heading for the door.

  “Where's ya headin’, boy?” the one-eyed soldier barked from the back of the room: “The Capt said we's ta wait right chere ‘til he calls for us.”

  “I’vesss gotta ta pissssss,” Matáo retorted without skipping a beat, “and unless youz be wantin’ me ta be filling yours cups, I'ma gonna ta find meez a tree, or two, or... whaaa?” He fumbled with his fingers as if trying to count to three.

  The tavern erupted in jeers as they waved him out. Matáo fell through the door and staggered into the night. Once he was clear of their sight, he wiped the drunken grin from his face; he realized that he had only half been pretending. The roads were now barren, save for a few cats prowling the shadows of the burnt homes. As he drew near the southern barn, he saw two figures standing by the heavy doors. One was tall and dressed in regal, dark armor with a sweeping cloak.

  Matáo stuck to the shadows, his breath shallow as he crept closer.

  “Capt, we’re going to have to search for them before we deliver the prisoners,” the shorter man said. “We entered this town with thirty men. Two were killed in the raid, but there are only twenty-six at the tavern. We have two men unaccounted for; unless they’re deserters.”

  “Stop right there,” the Captain replied, his voice a silk-wrapped blade. “My men do not desert. They know that I would hunt them down and skin them from their toes up while they still breathe. They likely died chasing peasants into the woods, but I agree; we will search at first light.”

  Before Matáo could move, a shout rose from the direction of the tavern. It was the one-eyed soldier, hurrying toward the Captain. “Capt! I think we’ve gots us another!”

  “What are you blabbing about, you old codger?” the Captain snapped.

  “One o’ ‘em new recruits, sir; he went ta take a piss and ne’er come back.”

  Matáo slumped deeper into the darkness, his hand gripping the hilt of his stolen sword. He held his breath as the Captain’s face twisted into a predatory smile.

  “Are you sure this time, old man? I’d hate for you to waste my time on another boy sleeping off his mead in the bushes.”

  “I’z be sure this time, Capt,” the soldier insisted. “I done checked e'ery bush before I’z come to get youz.”

  “In that case,” the Captain said, the moonlight catching the cold cruelty in his eyes, “fetch me my hounds from the main camp.”