Leaves of Flame

Gregson nodded toward the road ahead. As soon as they left the main road, it had begun winding through the cuts and gorges of the area, stone outcroppings and sharp slopes visible through the trees. “How much farther until we reach the barge?”

“Another hour at most,” Jayson answered. “It’s hard to tell. I’ve never traveled the road on horseback before. I’ve always had a cart laden with sacks slowing me down.”

“I see.” The Legionnaire looked toward the sun, already low on the horizon. “We should have enough time to reach the village before sunset then. But I want to proceed with caution in case whatever attacked is still around.”

“We didn’t see anyone on the road to Cobble Kill when we fled.”

Gregson turned toward him with a raised eyebrow. “Perhaps because they stayed in Gray’s Kill.”

Jayson’s stomach tightened and he felt sick.

Without a word, they moved down the road toward the river, the four soldiers forming up around Jayson and Corim, their swords loosened in their sheaths, their eyes scanning the trees as they moved. The apprehension that had seized Jayson on the road returned and his mouth went dry.

An hour later, they reached the barge. It appeared to be in the same place he and Corim had left it, unused since that night.

Jayson felt his heart shudder, grief welling up inside. But he forced it down.

Gregson and Terson slid from their horses and led them onto the barge. Jayson dropped down to the ground, but then froze. His breath had quickened, a sense of light-headedness enfolding him, but he swallowed and climbed onto the barge before anyone could comment, Curtis giving him an odd look. Corim followed him, Curtis and Ricks bringing up the rear, and then they were moving across the river, the Legion pulling on the rope to draw them across.

Gregson stepped off of the barge and onto the dock before it had come to a rest, Terson behind, both leading their horses. He contemplated the forest, the sun slanting through the trees at a sharp angle now, then turned to Jayson.

“Show us Gray’s Kill.”

Jayson moved to the front of the group with Gregson, the rest of the Legion drawing their swords. As he struck out down the main road, he glanced to either side, scanning the area where the dwarren had appeared and then vanished. But of course there was no sign of them.

They reached the lane.

“My mill is down there,” he called back.

Gregson nodded and sent Curtis and Ricks down the lane, their horses left behind with Terson, but motioned Jayson forward.

Swallowing, Jayson continued. He saw nothing in the undergrowth, nothing in the trees, no movement at all, and the silence was unnatural. He’d lived in Gray’s Kill for nearly fifteen years, since moving there to run the new mill. They were close enough now there should have been sounds from the village-someone chopping wood, dogs barking, the clang of hammer and metal from the smithy, perhaps even a few shouts from children. But there were no signs of life, not even the smell of woodsmoke.

Then he rounded the last bend and halted in the middle of the road. Gregson, Terson, and Corim drew up behind him.

Terson swore.

The village was gone. The smithy, the tavern, the mercantile, and church were nothing but husks of blackened wood and stone. Only one wall of the church remained standing, the stone of the other three blocking the road to one side in a low heap. The fire pit of the smithy sat in the middle of a few charred timbers. And among all of the ruin, among all that remained of the village, lay bodies.

Tears burned his eyes and threatened to choke Jayson as the horror of that night returned. He smelled the thick smoke as he half dragged Corim away from the backwash of fire he knew had come from the center of town, felt the heat searing his face and tasted the ash as the smoke blew over the road.

He’d known this was what they would find, but he hadn’t been able to accept it. Not until now.

Gray’s Kill was dead.

Someone shifted past him, brushing his arm, and he started, raised a hand to scrub away the tears fiercely as he watched Gregson move to one of the bodies near what had been the entrance to the tavern. Terson was tying the horses off near the trees at the side of the road.

“Who was this?” the Legionnaire asked, kneeling down to stare at the man’s face.

Jayson could barely bring himself to look. What if it were Lianne? But he knew it wasn’t. He could tell by the shredded and bloodstained clothing it was a man.

“Tobin,” he said, voice rough. “He was the blacksmith.”

All four of them turned as Curtis and Ricks returned, their boots crunching in the gravel of the road. Their eyes were wide with shock as they entered the village.

“Nothing but the mill down the lane,” Curtis reported. “It’s still standing, untouched.”

Gregson stood and the rest of the Legion began moving through the village, looking at the bodies, nudging them with their feet or the tips of their swords or scanning the forest to either side.

“The animals have gotten to them,” Terson said.

“That’s to be expected. They’ve been left out in the open for over three days.” Gregson shaded his eyes from the sun as he looked up. “I’m surprised there aren’t any crows here now, though.”

“It wasn’t animals that got them,” Jayson muttered under his breath, thinking of the creature that had ripped into his arm and clawed his leg.

From his right, Curtis cast him a sidelong look. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken loud enough for anyone close to hear.

“Fan out!” Gregson ordered.

Jayson frowned. “What are you looking for?” he asked Curtis.

The soldier shrugged. “A sign of whoever did this.”

Jayson felt anger spark deep inside him, deeper than the grief. “But I already told you who did this. It was those… those things! Those creatures! The demons with the lantern eyes!”

Curtis shifted uncomfortably. “The GreatLord will need proof-”

“The Diermani-cursed things attacked me!” Jayson growled and shoved back the sleeve of his shirt to expose the bandage from the still-healing claw marks on his forearm. He’d drawn breath to argue further, Curtis’ face skeptical, when Terson shouted.

Everyone turned, Gregson and Ricks already moving toward the second, who stood over one of the bodies near the edge of the stone church. Curtis trotted forward as well; Jayson and Corim trailed behind. Jayson didn’t need to see any more bodies.

But when everyone tensed and drew back, hands tightening on their swords, Gregson grunting, he stepped forward.

It wasn’t one of the villagers. It was one of the dwarren, the body lying on its back, the pale face staring upward. The hands were arranged together across the chest, over the braided and bead-woven beard, a small ax clutched in their grip. The legs were laid out straight.

It didn’t look like the dwarren had died in battle. There were no wounds, and the body had obviously been arranged, almost ritualistically.

“So,” Gregson said, voice tight, as the Legion’s faces on all sides turned grim, “the dwarren were here. There hasn’t been a dwarren attack on Province lands in over a hundred years. GreatLord Kobel needs to be informed immediately.”

The angry silence was broken a moment later by Corim. He clutched at Jayson’s arm, his eyes too wide, his face too open. No one should ever see such vulnerability in another person’s soul. “My parents,” he whispered.

Lianne, Jayson thought, but he fought the urge to abandon Corim and the others and race to his cottage. He wasn’t sure he could face what he’d find there yet. He glanced around at all of the bodies scattered around the small village center and swallowed against the stone lodged in his throat. “Let’s look,” he said to Corim.

They began searching, Corim dashing from body to body, his actions growing more and more frantic even as tears gathered and then trailed down his face. His breath caught in his chest, coming in hitching gasps, and he