The sunbeams that slipped through the wooden lattice of the open attic struck her eyes and pulled her from a deep sleep. It was clear she had needed it after so much time exposed to the elements—especially after having had a beer. In the bed beside her, Galfrido was snoring loudly, a thin line of drool trailing from the corner of his mouth.

  The room they were in was fairly spacious, with wooden floors, ceiling, and walls—worn and slightly damp. It held two beds and a small chest beneath the window, empty and battered. At the center stood a pedestal with a bowl full of water. The elf rose, approached the vessel, and splashed her face, trying to fully shake off her drowsiness. She gathered her loose, tangled violet hair and tied it back as she usually did.

  She slipped on her worn leather boots, and almost immediately the blisters reminded her of the long march she and Galfrido had endured on their way to the village. She went down the stairs and sat at one of the tables nearest the wood stove. The tavern was empty, save for the smiling innkeeper with his prominent mustache.

  “Can I get you something, miss?”

  “Water and goat cheese, please. And some bread.”

  “Coming right up!” He stopped and turned back to glance at Begryn. “And I must say it’s an honor to see a member of your kind again. Many years have passed since an elf last came through here. In fact, I believe the last time I saw one, I was still a young man… not the old fellow I am today! I was much more handsome, sturdy, and… I’m talking too much. My apologies. Your order will be right out!”

  “Don’t worry… It’s good to find friendly people, for a change.”

  The man headed off to the kitchen with a wide smile, pleased by her last remark, while Begryn stayed watching the fire. “What could have become of Kalen and Anthos?” she wondered. “It’s been several days since they left, chasing Ertai’s trail.” She knew she had to wait for them there, but what gnawed at her was what they should do if—assuming the worst—they never returned. Ertai had far more hidden abilities than he ever revealed. Perhaps he really was a dark druid and not just some “apprentice.”

  The elf often considered every possibility, even the most unpleasant ones, and needed to plan for all alternatives. She knew this was something she couldn’t mention to Galfrido, who always refused to think the worst. In many cases, that optimism was ideal—even contagious. But they had to be realistic, because the worst was still possible.

  All those thoughts were cut short when two massive figures entered the tavern. From their garb and weapons, she could tell they were warriors. The mismatched armor pieces from different armies made it obvious they were mercenaries. One was a towering man with dark skin and a black beard, clad in studded leather armor with a wolf pelt thrown over his shoulders. The other, a little shorter than his companion, wore a long red beard, his eyes painted black, and a tattoo of a bear across his forehead. A leather hood hung over his head, and strapped across his back were two massive battle axes.

  As if that weren’t enough, she noticed the red claw insignia with drops of blood stamped on their leather bracers: the mark of the Blood Claw Company. It was the same company Anthos had once served in, before becoming their guide.

  “Ahhh!” exclaimed the red-bearded mercenary. “About time we came across a place this lovely.”

  “I told you, Flint… this was a good idea.” The other warrior made for a table and sat down. “Innkeeper! Bring us a hearty breakfast with beer!”

  “At once, captain!” cried the cheerful man.

  Begryn studied the two mercenaries, and her mind filled with possibilities. Though the Blood Claws were a mercenary company from Trabarioth, it unsettled her to find them here, of all places. What if they were here for Anthos? What if they were following his trail? What if the Brotherhood of the Black Flame had hired them? Galfrido often said the elf had a tendency toward “paranoia,” but that sixth sense had saved her life more than once.

  She relaxed only when, after finishing their breakfast, the two men left the inn without causing trouble.

  A few hours later, Galfrido finally came down, his face unmistakably drowsy.

  “Innkeeper, beer!” he said, not even looking his way, heading straight toward Begryn. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Only a run-in with the Blood Claw Company, nothing more.”

  The warrior’s eyes widened, but then he sat down and carried on as if nothing had happened.

  “Looks like you didn’t have any trouble.”

  “Of course not. And if I had, I’d never ask for the help of a cripple still recovering.” She let out a muffled laugh. “Even so, their presence unsettled me a bit. Maybe they were just passing through and had split off from the group.”

  “Do you think the orcs might attack Trabarioth?”

  “I don’t know. But if Anthos and Kalen managed to recover Drako, and the Brotherhood knows we’re heading there, is it so far-fetched to think they’ll strike anyone, anywhere, until they get the boy back? If he’s as important as they claim, it makes perfect sense to me.”

  “Shit… if that’s the case, then Trabarioth’s in for a rough time. But I don’t think so, because this is a mandatory passage to the Frozen City, and by now we’d have seen at least the vanguard of the army…” He broke off and thought for a moment. “Is there a chance the Brotherhood hired them?”

  “I doubt it, but anything’s possible when gold’s involved… even the end of the world.”

  The day passed quietly and without major incident. Galfrido used the time to recover fully, buy provisions, and put his gear back in order, leaving everything in the best shape possible.

  That night, Begryn was dreaming strange, disjointed things. Something about a staircase, a three-headed monster, a grotesque harlequin… The haze of dreams slowly gave way to reality as sounds began to seep into her mind. At first, they were faint, mingling with the dream itself. Then they grew sharper, tearing open the fabric of sleep until nothing remained but reality and her wide-open eyes.

  Outside, they began to hear screams, both of men and women, and an orange glow—the unmistakable light of fire—burst through the window.

  “Is something burning?” Galfrido asked, sitting up.

  “I don’t know.” Begryn stood, opened the attic lattice, and looked outside. Her violet eyes widened in shock. Orcs. Hundreds of them, attacking, burning, slaughtering every innocent they came across with savage cruelty. They looked nothing like the orcs from the south of Trabarioth. These were green, twisted, bloodthirsty creatures, without the slightest trace of remorse or fear. They were the orcs she had seen so many times before, the ones they had fought in countless battles.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Galfrido leaned out and saw that the few houses of Rivero were ablaze, their inhabitants desperately trying to flee from horror and death. Most were cut down by the overwhelming physical might of the monstrous beasts, or struck by volleys of crossbows which, though not very accurate, were far too many. Some men tried to defend themselves or their families, standing their ground against an enemy that vastly outmatched them.

  “Please, we haven’t done anyth…!” The woman beside her husband’s corpse never finished the sentence. A powerful axe split her in half, spilling her guts among the dozens of bodies scattered around.

  “Help, plea…!” Another man, trying to flee, was met with a rain of arrows that tore him apart before he could take more than three steps. The sight was terrifying, and if there was ever a glimpse of hell on earth, this was it.

  “Galfrido, they’re attacking!” Begryn immediately began to gear up.

  “Shit, we need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  “What about Kalen and Anthos?”

  “Wait for them, but somewhere else. Do you really intend to stay here?”

  They started hearing that the attackers were entering the inn. The innkeeper’s voice betrayed the cruelty engulfing Rivero, like a pestilent, macabre cloud of terror and destruction.

  “This isn’t necessary, it’s not necessary, please!” The once-kind voice of the innkeeper now sounded terrified and full of despair. Then came the screams of pain.

  Galfrido shook his head, remembering the kindness and joy of that poor man, suppressing the urge to rush down to fight. They stepped into the hallway, and as they did, an orc who had climbed the stairs saw them. He was about to open his mouth to shout when an arrow pierced through his head, sending him tumbling back down the stairs. Two more appeared and were swiftly cut down by more of the elf’s arrows. The corpses began to pile up there.

  “We can’t stay here…” said Begryn, stringing her bow again. “This whole place is burning.”

  “Well, the stairs are packed with those bastards…” Galfrido started walking down the corridor, when, from one of the rooms an orc burst out, brandishing a massive two-handed axe. He was about to swing a wide arc, when the blade got stuck in the wooden wall.

  “Really? You want to bring a two-handed weapon into a narrow corridor?” The warrior grabbed the orc’s head with both hands and twisted it savagely, snapping his neck. “Useless…”

  He peeked down the stairs and almost immediately jerked back.

  “More coming!” he said, dodging an axe strike and kicking an orc in the knee, sending it crashing to the ground off balance. “Shit, too many more!”

  “The window!” the elf shouted, pointing at the huge window at the end of the hallway.

  The fire had already begun to climb from the tavern’s ground floor, its flames devouring the wooden walls and ceiling. Within seconds, the corridor seemed like a gateway to hell itself.

  “All right, let’s get out of here!” Galfrido swept his weapon from left to right, keeping the orcs at bay as they pushed into the hallway. He noticed the floor was about to give way under the fire raging below, so he raised his weapon and struck a powerful blow against the boards. The impact, combined with the wood’s fragility from the flames, caused the floor to collapse right where the orcs were advancing. The warrior had to leap backward to avoid falling into the inferno beneath his feet.

  Begryn shattered the windowpanes, took a running start, and dashed down the corridor. She launched into a mighty leap, spinning fully in the air, and landed squarely on a mound of hay without so much as a scratch. Galfrido’s own jump was clumsier, but he too landed without issue.

  Now outside, the screams of pain, wails of grief, and the orcs’ roars blended into a spectral symphony. Not even the children were spared from the massacre. Smoke from the burning village rose into the night sky, carrying with it the sparks of what had once been Rivero. They could hear scattered clashes of battle, surely from those who had managed to arm themselves and prepare when the attack began.

  Galfrido sharpened his gaze and spotted an orc he knew all too well, standing beside a building that now blazed like a beacon. It was Djarak, one of the most feared warlords of the greenskin army. He was at least a head taller and far broader than Galfrido. His hair was a black crest running from his forehead to his back, tied into three thick braids. His bare chest was covered in black-and-white war paint, offerings to the orcish gods. His right shoulder bore a black spiked pauldron, matching the design of his bracers. His hideous face, with sunken eyes and a protruding lower jaw, was marred by a deep scar that split his lips, exposing much of his gums and jagged yellow teeth.

  The massive orc barked orders left and right, pointing with his left hand while gripping a massive crossbow fitted with an axe blade beneath it in his right. For a moment, Galfrido recalled their duel during a mission in the lands of Bloodmere, where the two had clashed for the crowd’s delight. Galfrido had been the victor, and for reasons he could not explain even then, he had spared the orc chieftain’s life. How ironic.

  The night was lit only by the flames consuming Rivero. Everything else was shadow. Three orcs turned the corner, pulling Galfrido from his thoughts, and immediately charged at the two companions. Begryn killed one with an arrow, while Galfrido dispatched the other two, decapitating one and cleaving open the chest of the other. They knew they had to deal with each skirmish swiftly, lest they draw unwanted attention.

  “If we get away from the fire and reach those trees, we might have a chance to get out alive,” said Begryn, pointing toward the spot.

  “Do you really think they won’t find us?”

  “Fortunately, they’re too busy looting everything… they’re not hunting down the adventurers who took Drako. Let’s use this chance.”

  Behind them, the tavern was fully engulfed in flames. Chaos ruled everywhere. Some warriors still tried in vain to stand against the orcs. They saw women and children cut down beneath the infamous axes. Fire. So much fire.

  Begryn and Galfrido seized a moment of distraction and managed to move several meters forward, taking cover behind a rickety cart piled with empty crates and a few old, rusted kitchen utensils. Suddenly, through the fire and smoke, several dark warriors emerged.

  They were clad head to toe in black, opaque plate armor. Their helmets bore horns or spikes, and they carried massive axes, halberds, or greatswords. They looked even more terrifying than the orcs.

  “Just what we needed!” Begryn exclaimed. “Dark warriors. The Black Knight’s personal guard.”

  “That means…”

  “Faradax.”

  The two companions exchanged glances. From the shrouds of smoke and flame, a figure appeared riding a massive jet-black horse with glowing red eyes. His face was pale and cracked like that of a corpse, his eyes bright and blood-red, his nose hooked and crooked, and his mouth thin-lipped and blackened. He wore a dreadful black scale armor that resembled the flames of the Abyss. He stood at least two meters tall, and as he advanced, the dark warriors gave way and the orcs slunk aside, lowering their heads in obvious fear.

  “We’re done for,” said Galfrido.

  “If we can stay hidden, we might just make it, Gal.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here as fast as we can. We’ll find a shelter nearby, wait for the army to pass, and meet Anthos and Kalen when they arrive. We are no match for him.”

  At that moment, they saw orcs dragging several people to Faradax’s feet, with no distinction between men, elders, women, or children. They were bloodied or wounded, all of them sobbing, their faces twisted in terror and despair.

  The lord of all the damned dismounted and looked upon the prisoners with a shark’s grin, baring a row of sharp, jagged teeth. He drew a massive, serrated black sword and began pointing it at those before him.

  “That bastard takes pleasure in death. I’ve seen him do this before,” Galfrido muttered.

  They watched in horror as Faradax fixed his gaze on a child and, without looking away or ceasing to smile, slowly drove his sword into the boy’s mother’s chest. The little one broke into inconsolable sobs. Galfrido and Begryn could hear the crack of bones snapping, and when her spine was finally shattered, the serrated blade burst out of her back, dripping with blood.

  The woman looked one last time at her son, her face twisted with pain and terror, before she died. Then the Black Knight did the same to the child. And so he began killing them all, calmly, never losing that smile.

  “Let’s get out of here now,” said Galfrido. “There’s nothing we can do. Let’s take advantage of the fact that they’re distracted, and that the orcs care more about Faradax’s presence than about the survivors.”

  Once again, they leapt from cover to cover until they reached a wooded area, much farther from the village. There, among a scattering of broken-down carts, filth, shattered barrels, and rotting cloth, they hid. They covered themselves further with pine branches, waiting and praying to the gods not to be discovered.