Prologue — Bloodlight of Dawn

  The tired night gives way to twilight as the sun's rays fight the land to bring forth light.

  A vibrant rose-red hue on the horizon as the sun grows. The fog from the night left the village slightly damp with dew glistening in the low light. The trees and grass harmonizing elegantly with the wind in a constant dance.

  A young boy slept burrowed in fur blankets, dreaming of the squirrel he had followed aimlessly chasing through the woods the evening before. He was a light sleeper and would stuff his ears with cloth to mute his heightened senses—lessening the chance of wind and the bustle of early morning workers from waking him.

  The morning's silence was began to break.

  Interrupted by a quiet sound of small crackles—like the sounds you’d hear around the hearth or the wooden homes shrinking in the cold temperature. There was warmth to the sound, ingrained in the meaning of home.

  The sound quickly built.

  Thunderous cracking of stressed wood, sap spitting out creating a blistering fire that bolstered into an ominous cloud, black smoke filled the village air, and a brass war trumpet played a tune that cut through the plume, competing with the growing sound waves from the fire's untamed roar.

  Fires erupted across the village.

  Women began to be heard screaming and shrieking in the distance near the edge of the small settlement, echoing in towards its center and out to the nearby woodland. Horses whinnied and snorted at the sight of fire and the abrupt yanks on their reins, forced to translate the men who rode them during the chaos. The attackers roared in their excited battle cries, armed with bows, sabers and polished axes—perfect for charges led on horseback.

  Prepared to cull them like wild animals. Their weapons freshly sharpened for executing anything that moved, powered by pure bloodlust in the forceful conquest. Careless and eager, the disrespect of life was plastered on their twisted, grinning faces.

  Fate has brought bloodshed to the doorstep of the once peaceful settlement, soon to have its streets painted red like the dawn horizon.

  It was the beginning of a slaughter...

  The boy's mother yelled for his father urgently; she was the first to wake from the noise. In moments, heavy boots weighed down by leather and steel armor quickly equipped thudded down on the rustic wood floor.

  The boy's eyes jumped wide open.

  His gaze darting around the room, his heart was racing and hammering like a blacksmith on steel.

  Without the ability to think, he launched out of the fur and onto the floor, stumbling on his hands and knees. The room was illuminated by the more distant fires, enough for him to see his cloak and shoes.

  Fuelled by adrenaline. He uncontrollably threw up and heaved onto the edge of his cloak. He put the cloak over his plain clothes he had been sleeping in and quickly slipped his feet into the shoes, disregarding the throw-up in the confusion and panic.

  "Maybe the witch has true foresight..." he heard his mother spew to his father before it was muddied by all of the combined racket, which made the slam of the door less potent, as his father left armed to help defend from the raid.

  His mother soon after opened his door, tears pouring down her cheeks with a face heated with hatred, ready to lash out like lightning in a summer storm. She was shaking slightly, almost as if she was about to completely break and collapse. She grabbed him, unwavering in her decisions, and pulled him out of the room to escape with his younger sister, Poppy.

  Whisked throughout the home with his mother guiding him by the hand, she effortlessly scooped Poppy from her bed and onto her hip to carry. Poppy's breathing became louder and panicked as they stepped foot out the door.

  Outside was hell.

  The people in the village would frequently whisper about the increasing raids in horror and the instability of the region whenever they thought he wasn't listening. It looked devilish; The flames were like crimson dragons, demonically devouring the air. He gripped his mother’s hand tighter from the thought.

  It was feverishly warm from the now nearby fires that began seizing all the homes.

  He believed he could see his father only a few houses down, paired with a few other village men facing oncoming horses that galloped towards them with resolve.

  He couldn't take his eyes away despite his mother tugging his arm towards the forest path. There was clashing metal igniting alongside the fires; the fighting had truly begun and any moment now his father would be a part of the battle too. The horses nearing closer.

  He had ample trust in his father's swordsmanship and fighting prowess, but they were clearly outnumbered, and he was not fighting alongside the best warriors within the village.

  His eyes had begun to feel the smoke, and it made his vision glossy as they tried to fight off the irritation from the smog.

  They quickly neared the forest, still locked in on what he believed was his father.

  He watched as the horses crashed through the men's loose formation. The horses had menacing spikes on their steel armor that covered their faces and chests. One of the men got subdued under the thrashing horse and crushed under its weight. To his horror, one of the horses was slashed at its knee and toppled over, snapping its neck and folding over in a clumsy roll onto its rider.

  He had only witnessed the slaughter of farm animals, never a creature as grand as a horse.

  The boy couldn't imagine a world without his father; he trusted him not to die and prayed into his heart to anything that would listen to keep his father safe. His body was preventing his mind from speaking; he could only get out a few words.

  "You… can't... take him… yet..." he murmured.

  Fighting tears and briefly looking away in trust of his prayer only to look back seconds after. He was a young boy; he could not yet trust his intuition or any god outright.

  Two of the village warriors were slashed through their chests and one through their throat as the intruders on horses engaged them. A few dismounted after the charge, and some horsemen reached for their bows that had been strapped on their backs as they rode. One of the bowmen ripped at the quiver mounted on the side of the horse, nocking his arrow in a fluid motion and releasing it towards his father's group, hitting one of the men in his left chest. His father was now only one of the three men left fighting against the eight remaining horsemen.

  The other men were loading their bows as the swordsmen stood back with their horses. The bowmen released their arrows, randomly selecting out of the village warriors. Two hit each of the men on either side of his father and made the men drop to the floor in anguish. Blood soaked into the earth.

  His father was the last man standing, surrounded by his enemies like an island in the eye of the storm.

  The piercing arrows made blood pool in the mouth of one of the fallen warriors, and the man with the sliced chest lay choking for oxygen helplessly. The rest had died instantly.

  Strengthening his stance and hold on his sword, preparing for an onslaught, his father stood in front of the raiders. He was the only thing left between them that prevented the pursuit of his wife and children.

  The raiders noticed the woman carrying the child and guiding the boy into the forest. One of the bowmen who remained mounted tried to ride past as if the fight was over. The horse trotted only a few meters away.

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

  “You will NOT pass!” the father yelled.

  Launching himself into a sideways sprint and into a dive without care for his body.

  Aiming his sword towards the horse's lower belly as it rode past. The horse's stomach opened in an explosion of blood and intestines. Trotting only a few feet further until its body failed. The bowman managed to jump off before he fell with it, landing off tempo and bending his ankle awkwardly.

  The father shifted back away from the horse—getting off of the ground to avoid being crushed after the dive. He continued his attack and stabbed at the bowman, they fell on their freshly broken ankle and onto their back in a cheap attempt to evade.

  The father swung his sword at his neck, killing him, dirtying his blood with useless filth.

  The other raiders only had seconds to process the surprising fight left in the villager who defended in front of them.

  “Phhsh, I will fight the swordsman!” A raider bellowed, annoyed and angered.

  “He has already killed two of us, Bertolt!” The last bowman interjected.

  Scoffing “Aim your bow at him then; if he kills me, put an arrow in his ribs,” as he advanced to stand next to the fallen warriors.

  Twirling his sword in a wrist-heavy motion and lazily stabbing toward the pants of the newly dead. He began cutting at the garment in a fast, aggressive fashion.

  “Look at this Peekysquash cunt, they shit after death!”

  As he leaned down attempting to fully coat his sword in the feces.

  “If my blade fails to behead you and my archer fails, you will die from any wound I inflict regardless,” he boasted.

  Paying no mind to the disgusting display of dishonor, the father eyed the bow and quiver covered in blood and intestines. He believed he could kill the swordsmen, but the remaining archer posed a more serious contingency.

  If he could grab the bow and release an arrow at the bowman before the duel initiated, he could possibly kill them all.

  He had to make the bowman ease even just for a second. If not, an arrow would surely come flying in his direction before he could release his.

  The stage was set for a play of sorts.

  They had made the mistake of trying to frighten a man who had everything to lose. Using this to his advantage in his pitiful false plea.

  "I do not wish to fight anymore. I am outnumbered. I surrender..." the father said defeated turning square to face the men.

  He leaned right to place his sword down next to the dead man. Briefly glancing at the fallen horse that partially lay collapsed on the quiver. It would be a large gamble of life to attempt retrieving arrows.

  The attackers burst into harmonized laughter. He patiently waited, looking for an opportunity for the bowman to loosen, looking for the smallest sign of a slip, but he held firm.

  "Surrender?!" two repeated in unison, and the laughter continued.

  His eyes sharp on the bowman, their grip loosened and eyes closed for a mere half second.

  This was his opportunity.

  Ripping the bow off the corpse and scrambling to reach for an arrow. The men quickly became dead silent as they watched the commotion. He managed to grab 3 arrows with some struggle; they were soaked red.

  The arrow he went to nock was broken and covered in the warm ooze. Dropping it and instinctively replacing it with one of the others before pulling back to release, aiming for the chest of the man remaining on his horse.

  The arrow made impact, slightly missing the desired location but managing to impale near the ribs.

  The shocked face was one that was unforgettable. Grabbing at the arrow in pain, the bowman arched over onto his horse.

  All of the six swordsmen began rushing towards him.

  Prepping another arrow and releasing it before retrieving his dropped sword. The arrow just missed the enemy named Bertolt and landed on the collarbone of one of the men, piercing their light armor and making the man fall to their side.

  Galloping could be heard from down the path where the raiders had also entered from, which made three swordsmen slightly turn and face back.

  Two still engaged the village warrior, side-stepping a swing. He managed to keep out of range and parried the other man with a rotten modified blade, kicking down with a turned heel into the kneecap of the man they called Bertolt.

  The hyperextension left the attacker on his back foot, but it was not enough to capitalize on, as the other attacker filled the time with fast retaliation. Which was an attempt to stab at his abdomen that was easily evaded.

  Stepping in closer and away from the kicked down man to return his own flurry of attacks that forced defensive maneuvers onto the attacker. A broad torso swipe left the defense open just enough to get a small, clean cut on the wrist of the raider. Making him drop his sword unwillingly despite his attempt to block the follow up attack.

  Slicing at the disarmed man across the chest to take him out of the fight. Bertolt rallied back with a limp amongst the other men in a now fearful manner.

  A large black horse and a silver figure rode closer with a small entourage; it was a knight. They had witnessed the fighting from afar and had cleared and delegated others to capture most of the village. One of the riders carried a black banner with a golden sun and a horseshoe in its center.

  "Enough!" the knight spat at his men.

  "You play with this man like a cornered boar! Are you unable to chain a single man?"

  Riding directly up to the small group's leader, Bertolt, and dismounting.

  The father stood silent watching, bloodied, and still.

  "S-sir Cedric, I have dishonored you... we lost good men." Bertolt cowered.

  Sir Cedric raised his helmet and inspected the scene, eyeing the savage last stand made by the single man, looking him up and down. He was a large, broad man, although not a freakish giant like some Cedric he had seen in battle. The entourage coughed heavily behind, the smoke in the air much thicker than at the start of the raid.

  One of Bertolt's swordsmen was about to speak—

  but stopped as he saw Cedric purse his lips to begin reprimanding them.

  "You are too foolish to lead a man," Cedric spat, angered at the lost life.

  Throwing a stiff hook to Bertolt's jaw, sending him sprawling in the dirt.

  "And YOU!" he bellowed at the father.

  "Sir Cedric—his wife, and children ran to the woods," one man finally spoke.

  Turning to the man in disgusted confusion and staring down at Bertolt, "Well, why have you not captured them!?" A brief moment of silence passed.

  "Put down your sword." Cedric commanded the defender. "You have lost."

  The father's demeanor unchanged by the order.

  "PUT DOWN YOUR SWORD, OR I WILL SKIN YOUR CHILDREN LIKE PIGS!" Cedric howled.

  The words had the opposite effect. The father's grip tightened as if to crumble the hilt in his palm, he shifted to a ready position with his gaze locked on the knight.

  Sir Cedric closed his helmet to cover a faint smile. He rarely faced enemies that would defy surrender when so heavily outnumbered. He respected brave hearts.

  "Disarm him. Do not kill! Bring me his wife—and slay the children if they run," Cedric ordered the men.

  Seconds later an arrow slammed into the father's right shoulder and another thumped into his left arm, The jolts made his sword slip from his grasp—his fingertips sliding off the hilt as it fell to the dirt.

  "Chain him," the knight said as he pulled himself onto his steed and rode off without another glance, his cape flicking black dust into the air.