You’d be surprised what you’re capable of doing when the situation is just right. Or wrong.

Wendell's hand reached up to scratch his nose, the faint buzz of mosquitos humming near his ear. He twitched. Rolling onto his back, he yawned, opening his eyes. He squinted, the flicker of firelight catching his attention.

"I think you left too much wood on the fire," he started to say. He opened his eyes wider, frowning. He blinked. That’s…not the…

It took him a few moments to realize what he was looking at. The faint cries and screams rode upon the chilled wind, floating up the hillside.

"EVAN!"

The blacksmith stirred.

Wendell grabbed a stick and tossed it—hitting Evan in the shoulder, “The village is on fire!"

"What...?"

Wendell stumbled to his feet, rubbing his eyes. He hoped it was just a dream. It has to be a bad dream. He walked to the tree line, praying he was wrong.

The small village below, nestled quietly in the valley between forest and river, was aflame. Black smoke billowed up from its center and Wendell could smell it. The burning homes illuminated the small specs—villagers, running to and fro.

Wendell clenched his jaw tight, his teeth grinding.

"EVAN!"

The blacksmith drowsily sat up.

“What!?” he barked back. He yawned, stretching the stiffness from his arms and legs. "What are you yelling about?" Evan mumbled, stumbling to his feet. “Wait, did you say the…" but his voice trailed off as he joined Wendell at the tree line. His face went pale.

"Mother."

The blacksmith threw himself down the hillside, running at a pace that almost seemed inhuman. Wendell frantically tried to keep up. Evan dashed between trees, jumped over rocks and slid across embankments—until they found themselves at the edge of the village minutes later.

“Evan,” Wendell called out, gripping his side, “wait!” 

Emerging from the forest edge and gasping for breath, Wendell could see flames rising high into the sky from the center of the community. The houses at the north end of the village, including Evan’s own home, were untouched. Screams grew louder. Women and children dashed into the fields and into the forest. Wendell followed the blacksmith as he ran across the orchard and to his own hovel.

"MOTHER! HIRAM!—LIVI!!" Evan yelled, barging through the door.

He dashed to the bedroom, quickly checked under the bed, then pushed past Wendell and ran back outside.

Citizens frantically ran past Evan and Wendell. They carried or pulled children along, down the main path, through the fields. Women, children, the elderly—but there was no sign of Miriam or the children.

“Where is everyone going?” Evan asked aloud. “The fire’s this way—why are they running?” Evan stared at the flames, ascending into the sky. "Come on! We have to put out these flames before they consume the whole town!" He tugged at Wendell's sleeve.

Sliding up to the well between the two barns, Evan looked over the lip of the stone wall and into the blackness. “Our well is full—if we can get enough people together…form a line, we may be able to do this.” Yanking on the rope, the blacksmith pulled up the bucklet and untied the knot securing the container. "Well need more than this,” he shouted, pushing the bucket into Wendell's arms. “I have a couple by my forge!”

They ran to the workshop and flung open the doors to the barn. The tall wood slats rattled loudly against the side of the barn, startling King and the mare. The glow of the village fire shined through the slats in the wall, illuminating the work area.

“I have a couple right over…” the sound of shuffling feet and blur of movement were all the warning Evan received. “WOAH!” he stammered, stumbling backwards. A pitchfork stabbed past his face and into the barn door. The sharp tines missed Evan’s chest and neck by inches.

Hiram stood in shock, looking between Wendell and his brother. Still gripping the handle of the pitchfork, his eyes immediately filled with tears.

He jumped at Evan, clung to his brother. “I’m sorry!” he sobbed, “I’m so sorry Evan, I—I didn’t mean to!” He buried his face into the blacksmith’s tunic.

"Hiram, what's going on? Why are you hiding in here? Where's mother?"

"They're here,” Hiram cried, “MONSTERS!" body trembling violently.

The blacksmith knelt down and gripped his brother by the shoulders. "Hiram, look at me," he said, pulling him close again, “what are you talking about? What do you mean…monsters?"

A howl cut through the night. A shrill howl to make ones blood run cold. It lingered, the tone drawn out and slowly fading away.

Evan’s head snapped up. "What was that?"

Wendell gulped and the smiley face on his t-shirt cringed—wide-eyed pupils, shrinking to small dots. “They found your village."

The blacksmith squeezed his little brother's shoulders tightly, "Hiram, where is Livi? Where's mother?"

In a corner of the barn, a pile of straw rustled. A tiny girl, with a dirty face, pushed her way up and out, onto the floor. She pulled stray pieces from her mouth.

Hiram tugged on his brother’s tunic, grabbing his attention again. “When mother saw people running away, she told us to hide in here. To wait for her," he said. “But she never came back! Then they started burning things!”

Evan looked up at Wendell. His breathing quickened. Strong hands cupped the back of his brothers head and pulled him into his chest. The blacksmith’s lips curled back into a snarl. “You brought them here."

Wendell shook his head nervously, "I told you they were coming. My friends were following them. This is an invasion, Evan—it has nothing to do with me." Wendell’s stomach turned. Everything had to do with him now. He was the new hero and sooner or later, he was going to have to become the people’s protector. This may not have been his fault, but it certainly involved him.

The blacksmith turned his glare to a smile, looking down at his terrified brother. “Well I’m not sitting here. The men of the village will fight.” He looked around the shop. He’d been practicing weapon making for years, but it wasn’t his talent.

“What,” challenged Wendell, “farmers? Apple pickers? You’re kidding, right?” He looked at both of the children, “Evan, you gotta get out of here. Make for the hills, hide, just get away. I don’t know if you’ve seen these beasts before, but I can tell you, they scare the crap out of me.” He looked at Hiram, who was frowning. “What? They do!”

Evan ignored him. He’d learned how to repair armor and how to craft a decent shield—just not weapons. It’s why he’d stuck to farm tools and horse shoes. Evan kicked over the heavy wooden barrel next to the cold forge. Metal clanged and rattled across the straw covered floor. He knelt down and sifted through the pieces—but all it contained were unfinished swords. Un-tempered metal in odd shapes. Blades without hilts and hilts without blades—it was all completely useless.

He looked up at the forge.

The only finished weapon he had, hung on a hook next to the anvil. He stared at it.

A war hammer.

It was an experiment with iron and other alloy. Metals his father had collected over the years. The weapon had been folded and reheated time and again, until the shape revealed itself to the young blacksmith. He’d always thought about swords—but Evan knew how to swing a hammer. His hands were steel, wrapped in flesh—the result of thousands of blows of metal upon metal. Tens of thousands.

The striking surface of the hammer was the width of his own closed fist—the opposite end forming a curved spike. Unlike the weapons his father had crafted, Evan gave his creation a solid metal handle, as long as his forearm. To balance the weapon, he enlarged the pommel, then wrapped the handle in thick leather.

In strong hands, it would be a formidable weapon.

He had strong hands.

Snatching a heavy shield from the wall, Evan strapped it to his forearm. Grabbing the war hammer, he turned to his little brother.

"Take Livi and follow the stream up the mountainside. Wait for me at the peak. I’ll find mother and come find you." He leaned forward and touched his forehead to his brothers, "Stay hidden, Hiram, do you understand?”

Hiram nodded.

He knelt down in front of his baby sister. Livi stood there, wide eyed and still, unblinking. “Livi, go with Hiram, ok?” He used high pitched, yet softer tones, but she didn’t respond. Evan leaned in and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. “I wish you’d say…something.” …then he got up and disappeared out the door.

What the heck does he think he's doing? He has absolutely no idea what he’s up against! Wendell quickly looked for another weapon, stepping around Hiram. He kicked through the scattered blades on the floor. There was nothing. Not even a dang stick to use!

He lifted a small, banged up shield from the wall and tried to secure it to his right arm. “I guess this will have to do.” It was old, dented and tarnished. It’d seen its share of conflict. Better than nothing…I guess, he thought. Less than satisfied, he ran after the blacksmith.

Wendell weaved in and out of the fleeing citizens, making his way to the center of town.

“Evan!” he shouted, but it was no use. There was no sign of the blacksmith. The village was in chaos. Even the orchards were burning now, golden leaves turning to ash. Most of the smaller homes, closer to the center of village, were on fire—doors open wide. Wendell saw markings of blood across steps, spatters of red along walls. Bodies. Parts of bodies.

Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

His chest burned and his stomach heaved, but he stood fast. He looked about nervously. Where are you? I see the fire, I hear the people screaming….but where are you?

Jolted by an old man running past him, Wendell caught a glimpse of Evan in the distance. He looked to be in a daze—both arms hanging limp at his sides.

“Evan!” Wendell shouted as he sprinted. Flame rolled out a window and he cringed away from the blast. The heat was almost unbearable—the flames were consuming everything.

He heard the sound of clashing metal. It reverberated in the air, meshed with the roaring echo of homes being consumed.

Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

Standing dumbstruck, the young blacksmith watched the viscous fight in the center courtyard.

The butcher was dancing between two Vallen soldiers. Darrick, a near giant himself, wielded a two-handed broadsword. He sidestepped blows and parried attacks, like a man born of war. Deflecting a strike to his midsection, Darrick launched a kick at the attackers knee, causing the beast to fall forward. The butcher twisted, swinging the hilt of his sword upwards, to his opposite shoulder…decapitating his enemy. The misshapen head, flip from the shoulder.

The second attacker howled, swinging a morning star in a wide arc, at Darrick’s head.

With a clang, the spiked ball met Evans shield. The blacksmith dropped to one knee and let the hammer fall, his full body weight behind it. The spike of the war hammer pierced the giants foot.

It howled.

Whistling through the air, a crossbow bolt penetrated the giants cheekbone and upper skull. The body crumpled forward and collapsed onto the ground.

"THAT will teach you to interrupt my dinner!" spat Gunthar. The old man had propped himself up in his doorway. Blood trickled down from a head wound, the crossbow quivering in his hands.

"Nice shot," smirked Darrick.

The old man sneered, "I was saving the boy, not you, fat butt.”

Darrick ignored him and turned to Evan. "Gather as many of the villagers as you can find. Lead the women and the children to the hills.” He gave Wendell a momentary glance, “Caden says there’s a larger group marching towards the village. We have to flee. Our best bet is to get to Haden. They know many of us and have a town militia—experienced soldiers.”

“I ain’t goin nowhere,” argued Gunthar. “This is my home!”

“The you’ll die in your home,” snapped the butcher. Then softer, “and as much as I think you’re a pain, Gunthar—this village needs you. So think of your daughters. Think of Mary and get your carcass into the hills!”

Gunthar spat on the ground.

"Where's Jess?" Evan asked frantically.

Darrick shoved him backwards abruptly. "There's no time for this, Evan! Do as I say—or people will die!"

Wendell jumped as he heard a loud thunk.

Old man Gunthar looked down. Blood leaked from his mouth down onto his hands holding the crossbow.

“Damn,” he whispered. The village elder sunk forward onto the heavy spear protruding from his chest. The crossbow fell from lifeless hands and bounced down the front steps of his hovel.

Wendell blinked several times. Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

The whole world shifted into slow-motion at that moment. Deformed figures, just smaller than a human, materialized through the black smoke billowing. A charcoal haze that poured out doors and windows, suffocating the village.

Again Wendell heard the high pitched howl and he winced, pulling the shield tight against his chest. It came from these…things. He squinted through the smoke.

Chains hung from hooks and pierced skin. Rings of metal wrapped around wrist, waist and neck, were adorned with bones, tongues, earlobes and severed fingers. Their skulls were stretched, with small jaws and high foreheads. Where eyes should have been, blackness prevailed. Pits of darkness where light had been forgotten. These were not Vallen, Wendell realized. At least not the beasts that he had seen up to now. Blood stained these faces, deep red, dripping from needle teeth,…trailing down chin and neck. They leapt into the open, heads snapping from side to side, black slits for nostrils sniffing for flesh.

These creatures were smaller, faster and covered in black, oily leather.

Demons, Wendell thought, that’s what they are. Or at least, that’s what they looked like—and it terrified him.

It was a scream that pulled Wendell back to reality.

For a long moment, all Wendell wanted to do was run. To grab a child or to lead an old person to safety…anything that would allow him a chance to flee. But his feet wouldn’t move. His eyes went back to the old man, hanging from the spear, pinning him to the door jam.

Flashes of movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

Children fleeing. Mothers with small bundles of cloth, little hands and feet clutched tightly to their chests, pushing through smoke and fire. They were all running to the north end of the village, many of them barefoot.

Wendell couldn’t inhale. He knew what was coming.

They would die. He bit his tongue.

Please not that.

In a blur of movement the demons darted across the courtyard, shrieking. Swinging across the ground, they looked like howling monkey’s. With an ear-piercing shriek, one of them lunged at Wendell, bloody maw open wide.

“Look out!”

Evan thrust his shield in front of the young hero—deflecting the outstretched claws. He swung his hammer, caving in the cheekbone of the beast and knocking it to the ground. The body flipped violently in the dirt. The sight enraged its companions, and they all shrieked louder. Their gaze of emptiness now focused on the blacksmith.

“Wake up!” he yelled at Wendell, side stepping and striking another demon in the shoulder as it lunged at him. Bones snapped. The butcher was swinging wildly as others lunged from the rooftops. Each swing severing an enemy in half.

Wendell had no sword. He had no weapon that all.

Tha-THUMP-THUMP! Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

All he had was a shield. He looked at his hand.

I have a shield.

Movement blurred through the rolling smoke. Wendell looked up to see grey teeth amidst boils and yellow skin flying right at him. Two daggers in outstretched hands, ready to stab.

Gripping the shield tightly in his right hand, he punched.

The the rim of the disc entered the creature’s open mouth. The force of Wendell’s blow split the skull in two. The top half flipped backwards, over its body. Black goo sprayed across Wendell’s chest and arms. The corpse passed him by and hit the ground. The blood beaded and rolled off the smiley face.

Arms spasmed, legs twitched—then stopped.

“Watch it,” yelled Darrick, jumping in front of the two young men. “YAHH!” His broadsword cleaved another from shoulder to hip. The butcher shoved Evan forcefully from behind, “Get our people out of here!”

“They’ve scattered to the wind!” Evan yelled back.

The butcher turned on him. His broad shoulder blocked out the direct light of the flames, creating a golden silhouette. The sword in his hands reflected the red and orange light between the streaks of blood. “Then you FIND them! Lead them to safety!!” 

Wendell could hear the sounds of marching—the clinking of armor…and the howl of a Hound. He pulled at the blacksmith’s tunic, “He’s right, Evan—we have to go!”

“Get off me!” Evan snapped, yanking his arm free. He glared at the butcher, opening his mouth in rebuttal, when he heard….

“CHILDREN…RUN!”

It was a woman’s voice, shrill and desperate. It was followed by several higher pitched screams.

Evan bolted—vanishing between the houses.

Several more creatures lurked in the open courtyard.

“I’ve got these,” growled Darrick. He tightening his grip and widened his stance.

Wendell chased after Evan, rounding a corner just in time to see the blacksmith charge at a fully geared vallen soldier. The giant had to weight five hundred pounds…or more. Its barrel chest was as thick as an oak. Broken canine teeth jutted out from a wide set, lower jaw, and yellow eyes peered out from under a rusted helmet. The rough-metal pauldrons and vambraces rattled as the enemy raised its weapon overhead. The flanged mace was almost as long as Wendell was tall.

Oh crap.

Evan placed himself between his mother, the three children huddled behind her and the giant.

“Mother, run!” raising his shield high.

“Evan, MOVE!” Wendell shouted, but it was too late.

The blow shattered the blacksmiths shield. Wood splinters and metal exploded like a grenade. The war hammer flew from Evan’s grip. His body flipped past Wendell, across the ground and slammed into a tree.

Miriam screamed. The shrill sound cut through the air like a banshee.

This caught the giants attention. A low rumble emanated from its chest plate. Smoldering embers like the sun, burned beneath the helm—saliva running over its lips and down its chin.

Miriam pushed the children away from her.

“Go!” she hissed, looking to the oldest of the three, “Take them past my house, Calista…and into the forest—up the mountainside! Find your parents!!” The children clasped hands and fled.

“Flesshhh,” growled the Vallen, a grey tongue rolling over twisted teeth, followed by spittle. 

Tha-THUMP-THUMP! Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

Wendell stared at Evan’s body transfixed. The blacksmith was crumpled upon the ground. Unmoving.

He was always there for me. No matter who picked on me…no matter how many there were, Evan was always…

Tha-THUMP-THUMP! Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

Miriam screamed again, now huddled over her son—shielding him with her own body.

He never let me down.

Tha-THUMP-THUMP! Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

Wendell lunged forward and snapped up the war hammer. It was big. It was heavy. But he dug deep and put all his rage behind the swing.

“ARRRGH!” he yelled, letting the weapon fly. The hammer sailed through the air, arching high.

Unfortunately, it didn’t have the effect Wendell was hoping for.

It thunked against the Vallen’s breastplate…and slid to the ground.

Wendell looked at the weapon, lying in the dirt, dumbfounded. REALLY!? He looked up at the giant. Ohhhh—what a time to suck.

The Vallen snarled—displaying its full set of jagged, yellow teeth.

Wendell gulped loudly.

He’d barely had a chance to turn around to start running, when the boot kicked him from behind. Air jumped from Wendell’s lungs and mouth, the impact sending him sprawling through the air. His arms flailed about…that is, until he hit the side of the butchers house.

Bouncing off the logs, he landed in the dirt, face first. The shield snapped free of his arm and clattered to the ground next to him.

“UNGH!”

His head rattled inside—like something was loose. His skull felt like it weighed a ton. He tried to look up, but the world kept spinning round and round. Wendell struggled to suck in air. Oh…man…that hurt. He tried to pull his elbows under him, shoulders quivering.

A shadow crept over Wendell’s prone body. The fires of the houses surrounding them cast an evil silhouette over the Vallen—a messenger from hell.

Wendell heard the slow, scraping sound of a knife being pulled from a sheath.

Tha-THUMP-THUMP!

Get up, Wendell, he said to himself. He pulled his knees into his chest, forced himself onto his elbows, but it was slow…painful. Come ON! Roll, turn, run away, blast you!! But with all his effort, even using the wall for balance, all he could manage was to slump down on his backside. Propped up against the wall, Wendell had a front row seat to his own demise.

At least the world had stopped spinning.

A jagged smile appeared in the silhouette. “I’m gonna cut you, boy,” it whispered. There was a deliberate calmness to the voice. “Keep you alive, as I eat yer innards.”

Wendell smiled.

The giant hesitated and the wicked grin on its face turned to a frown. It wasn’t like a victim to smile when threatened with a violent death. But the frown transformed to a snarl as the spike of Evan’s war hammer pierced the Vallen’s breast plate.

“I don’t think so,” hissed the blacksmith, tearing the hammer free. Black goo covered his hand and chest. His shield arm hung limp from his shoulder.

The roar was deafening. The giant’s head rolled backwards. It dropped the knife…but the beast did not fall. An open hand swiped backwards while the other clenched its side, blood pouring from the wound. It staggered forward, reaching out to the wall for support.

Without thinking, Wendell kicked.

The greave collapsed and Wendell heard a loud snap. The Vallen’s shin folded backwards. The beast fell to the ground.

Without hesitation, Evan drove the spiked hammer through its helmet.

The body twitched suddenly, then ceased moving altogether.

“Evan,” his mother gasped, running to his side, “You’re hurt.” He flinched as she inspected his arm. “Your shoulder is out of place—we need to set it.”

Evan shook his head, “No time, mother—I need to find Jess and get us to safety.” He looked at Wendell.

The young hero struggled to his feet, legs still unsure of themselves.

“Thank you.”

Wendell frowned, “For what?”

Evan nodded at the body, “That. For saving my mother,” he smiled, half-heartedly, “For…saving me.”

Wendell shook his head, “I just bought you time. I couldn’t have defended any of us.” The words came out, but something inside him knew that wasn’t true. He’d kicked through the greave like it was paper. Then why didn’t I throw the hammer harder?

“It was enough,” replied the blacksmith. “And it proved I was wrong about you. If you had magic, like I thought you did—you would have used it by now.”

Yeah, well, I’ll just keep my stuff to myself.

They could hear the sound of drums. A chilling howl pierced the morning air.

“We have to go,” Wendell insisted. “Now.”

“I have to find Jess first,” Evan repeated.

Wendell grabbed the blacksmiths wounded arm. Evan winced in pain, but couldn’t pull away. “Listen to me,” he whispered, his jaw clenched, “you don’t understand what’s about to happen. Those sounds are part of an army my friends have been tracking. If I’m right—they’re responsible for killing Til-Thorin’s forces.”

Evan shook his head, “That’s imposs…”

“I saw it with my own eyes!” Wendell snapped. He held tight, his heart pounding in his chest. “And if we don’t leave here NOW—those things will find us and kill us…and eat us.” He looked over at Miriam, “And if we’re lucky, it’ll be in that order!”

Jabbing the hammer into Wendell’s ribs, Evan pulled away.

“Meet me back at the barn,” he looked at his mother, ignoring Wendell. “Darrick’s horses are still in the stall. Throw some blankets on them and grab the hunting bows. Wait at the edge of the field—behind the trees. If I’m not there by the time you’re ready to leave, ride.”

His mother started to weep, shaking her head. She cupped Evan’s face in her hands.

He kissed her fingers. “I love her, mother. I have to find her. Hiram and Livi are on the mountainside. Follow the stream,” he smiled weakly, “Go.”

She stood there and wept.

“Mother,” he urged, “GO.”

He glared at Wendell, “Take her!”

Wendell grit his teeth.

“DO IT!” the blacksmith snapped.

****

Wendell had to prod Miriam forward as they watched Evan dash back into the center of town. Leading her around the backside of the homes, he watched villagers vanishing into the woods with small bags over their shoulders. There was hardly a home left which escaped the embrace of the flames.

The barn door was still open when they arrived.

As if new life had entered her, Miriam quickly gathered what few supplies they had, wrapped them in two blankets and tied the bundles together with small strips of leather. Then she yanked rope down from the wall, her fingers nimbly weaving.

“Here,” she said, shoving a handful of loops into Wendell’s hands. “Get the stallion.”

“I, uh…” Wendell stared at the rope, confused. “What do I do with this?”

She paused in her weaving the second rope. “Do not your people work with horses?”

“My people?”

She smiled as her fingers resumed their work. “Come with me.”

They walked to the stalls and opened the gate. Whispering to King as she approached, the long ears twitched and pointed towards her. Running her hand up the beasts neck, Miriam guided the rope towards the stallion’s muzzle. In moments, the horse was bound with a makeshift halter.

Miriam handed Wendell the rope. “Here,” she smiled, “trade me and place the supplies over his back. I’ll get the mare.”

Wendell stood there, watching her prepare the second horse.

“What did you mean when you said my people?”

Miriam didn’t look up. She looped the rope over the mares ears. “The Iskari,” she replied, “the people who have the stewardship of the Hero Gem.”

Uh-oh, Wendell gulped.

“Hero…Gem?” he repeated, trying to sound confused, but pretty sure he just sounded like a liar, trying to hide something.

She patted the mare on the neck and turned to face Wendell. The grin on her face unnerved him. “The gem in your chest.”

Wendell didn’t know what to say—especially after what Evan had said to him. The village apparently didn’t care for magic…or those who used it. Though Wendell could argue that he didn’t use magic…well, except to hide the gem anyway, it probably wasn’t wise to admit to anything at all. He just shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Miriam continued to grin to herself as she lead the mare past Wendell and King. With an index finger, she tapped Wendell squarely in the chest—the faint sound of crystal answering back.

Peeking around the corner of the barn, they could see more of the enemy forces moving from house to house amidst the blaze.

“Your secret is safe with me, young man,” she said softly.

“Wendell.”

“I would prefer to call you Gnolaum,” she replied, “but I will refrain.”

There’s that word again.

When all the soldiers vanished from view—marching between the homes, Miriam quickly ran to the edge of the forest, pulling the mare behind her. When the horses had been concealed near the base of the mountainside, she gave Wendell’s forearm a motherly squeeze.

“Not all of us have forgotten the old ways, though others might wish to.” She watched attentively through the trees, hoping to see some sign of her son. “I was raised near Metsäsil, a small village, south of Palmäk, along the western boarder of the Highlands.” She looked back at him and whispered, “It was called Illtook. A place where history is collected and revered, not…”

Was?

“Mother!” cried Hiram, running down the hillside, “You’re alright!”

Miriam grabbed and hugged her son for long moments. “Your brother sent you away for a reason, Hiram.” She said sternly. She looked over his shoulder, “Where is your sister?”

“She’s up the hill.” He grinned at his mother, “Found a small cave just big enough for two. I stuffed her in. She’s fine.”

“There’s Evan,” interrupted Wendell. He knelt low, pulling his body behind the tree.

Evan was running full speed towards the barn, his deadened arm gripping his tunic. As he dashed around the corner, giants stepped into view. Several of the smaller creatures that looked like demons, crawled towards the soldiers. One groveled upon the ground, waving it’s arms and pointing in different directions until the Vallen kicked it.

The body flew back into the flames of a house.

The soldiers roared and laughed as the creature leapt out of the building, rolling and rubbing its body along the ground, trying to extinguish the burning armor.

Wendell waved to Evan. The blacksmith ducked low and sprinted across the field and into the trees. He collapsed at Miriam’s feet, gasping for breath, his face red and covered in soot mixed with sweat.

“Blast you, Hiram—I told you to stay on the mountain!” he huffed, gulping air.

“No one came for us,” the boy pleaded.

“Lets get out of here, now,” added Wendell, “before something find us.”

Miriam placed a gentle hand on her son’s good arm. Evan’s strong hand was gripping the war hammer so tightly, his fingers were white.

“Jess?” she whispered. She watched him, searching his face—seeing the lines of pain she’d come to embrace in her own life. A pain that would never leave.

Evan looked away. “Let’s go.”

Wendell helped Evan and Miriam up onto the stallion. Mounting the mare, Hiram handed Wendell the war hammer.

A shriek cut through the smokey air.

Two of the demons were lunging across the field towards them.

“RIDE!” yelled Evan and he dug his heels into King’s flanks. The stallion bolted.

“Hiram, jump!” Wendell shouted, reaching out the hammer and pulling the boy up behind him. He’d had limited experiences with horses, except from boys camp. Kicking hard with his sneakers, the mare took off after the stallion. Galloping always looked easy in the movies—but Wendell found himself gripping both rope and mane just to stay on.

Up the mountain trail they went, putting considerable distance between the horses and the enemy.

“They’re turning back,” yelled Miriam, looking over her shoulder.

“They have to work too hard for the prize, I think,” answered Evan.

As they approached the peek of the mountain, they let the horses rest, slowing to a walk.

“Hiram, where did you leave Livi?” asked Evan.

“Hiram?” prodded Wendell with a pat on the forearm. The boy had grasped him around the waste as they shot up the hillside. “Hey, your brother’s talking to you, bud.”

The hands slipped from around Wendell’s waste.

“HIRAM!” cried Miriam. She slipped off the stallion and ran to the mare.

Her son fell from the horse…an arrow protruding from his back.