Demitri accepted with a blush of reluctance.
Looking his friend in the eyes, Burton truly meant what he was about to say. “You are an extremely respected gentleman and I have been honored to work with you. Every day you amaze me with your keen intellect and knowledge. I meant no offense. I never did.”
Suddenly, a scream ripped through the air. The eerie echo came from the north village, about fifty yards from the castle grounds. Their stomachs turned from a thick, bitter stench floating in the air. It smelled like charred skin. Emergency bells began urgently ringing; more and more shouting and frantic, desperate cries.
“We have to get inside. Now,” Burton cried.
Demitri stumbled into his equipment in a panic, juggling his tools with shaky hands and carefully collecting every remnant of the dissected worm.
The screams grew closer and the heat of the fires began to reach their skin.
“Leave everything!” Burton yelled.
“I can’t leave the worm here exposed, the venom, what if—” Demitri began.
A figure walked toward them, casting a long, twisted shadow. A murder of crows circled the sky. When the shape stepped close enough, Burton recognized the farmer, Ben Paddett. He looked pale and bone-thin with pruned skin, his big teeth clattering as he stood sweating under his hood and foul-smelling robe. He didn’t seem aware of the mayhem surrounding him. He was just as downtrodden as the aimless crows soaring in circles above him.
“Ben!” Burton shouted. But there was no response, no reaction.
The farmer reached out with dusty, black hands and flashed a concerned grin, like he was trying to warn them of something. But before Paddett could speak a word, a sword carved straight through his neck with a seamless swing, spraying blood across Burton and Demitri’s faces. A small glass marble fell from the farmer’s hand and bounced straight to the tip of Demitri’s boot.
Montague La-Rose grounded himself above the headless body, his mighty sword in hand. He addressed Demitri, who looked shocked and horrified. “I know how this must look, but I don’t have time to explain. You need to follow me.”
“Go! I’m almost finished. I’ll be two steps behind you,” Demitri said, anxiously filling his sack with his tools.
Burton and his apprentice left ahead of him. The stone walls of the outer bailey were on fire. The flames ravaged the castle, melting it like wax. Cautiously, Burton and Montague raced against the heat that made them sweat. As Burton looked back to make sure that Demitri was trailing behind, he was distracted by dark cloaks running in and out of the rubble, slaughtering like cattle the leaderless survivors of Illyrium’s army. The massacre was such that it seemed the kingdom’s men-at-arms had no weapons to defend themselves; swords melted in mid-swing, arrows that were released from elkwood bows turned in flight, missing their marks, and steel shields were shattered like dry timber. Horses neighed wildly and raced away from the fire.
The capital’s army was outnumbered.
Since the kingdom had been established as the capital of Men eight hundred years ago, the penalty for murder, rape, and repeated attempts of robbery was banishment to the barren lands of the Great Flats, three thousand square miles of desert winds and minimal vegetation, one hundred miles north of Illyrium. And as crimes against humanity began to rise, the numbers of exiles had slowly surpassed the cultured folk. But the beings who these exiles worshipped were far more dangerous than an army of refugees lurking in the shadow of the land. That evil was preparing to reveal itself with vengeance.
Beneath the castle floor in the emergency shelters, councilors, castle maids and butlers, and a few dozen village families waited as patiently as prisoners of war to breathe the free air again. Mothers wept while fathers, confused and angry, comforted their children with uncertain promises.
Montague excused himself and pushed through the crowd with Burton Lang at his heels. They found the princess, Olivia, the last living Volpi—a direct descendent of their creator—curled up in a cold, damp corner, shivering in the arms of her handmaid, Gretchen. Two melting candles stood alongside them on the sullied floor. Olivia showed no sign of malady, but she looked terrified. Born into a life of luxury the young adult had never experienced an attack at her own home. Just above them, screaming voices begged for mercy. Her only comfort was the soft song Gretchen whispered to her, assuring her that everything was going to be all right.
“Princess! Come now, we must go,” Montague urged, extending his hand to her.
Olivia flew into the farmer’s arms.
“We came down as soon as we saw the fires. What’s happening?” Gretchen rose to her feet.
Montague looked to the wizard for an answer, but he didn’t recognize him. Burton could tell that his apprentice was nervously anticipating the crowd’s reaction to seeing the exile—if they identified him. High-born and common folk alike feared Burton because of the tales told about his ‘gifts’, the supernatural abilities that had scorched the sky. But he had morphed his face into an unrecognizable visage. And once Montague realized, he played along.
“The wild folk have come,” said Burton. “Mages carrying deadly spells are murdering everyone in sight and burning homes to the ground. I believe the invaders are influenced and led by a supernatural force. A force so evil, its only purpose is to annihilate anything that breathes to get what it wants.”
Montague’s brow rose. “Mages?” he asked.
Burton nodded, confirming that the situation was more serious than Montague had thought.
A voice from the back of the crowd stuttered, “What do they want?”
“Blood,” Burton said. “Only blood.”
Although Burton had always
