Stranger (The Aevyanthis Chronicles, Book One)

Chapter Four

The town was on fire. Plumes of smoke billowed from the gutted houses, as thick and black as storm clouds as they cloaked the night sky. Somewhere in the distance, the bell tower was ringing; it echoed into the night, almost inaudible over the roar of the flames.

And the screams.

Thomm could hear the screams of men and women and children. They drowned out everything else, and it chilled his blood. That morning, he was in the town of Lothlonde. Now, he was in a nightmare.

Watching the chaos, he forgot his training. He drifted towards the town in a daze, his mind tearing itself apart as he decided which way to go. The acrid smell of burnt flesh stung his nose and eyes, and the blinding glare of the fire made it hard to distinguish the streets. Armored soldiers rode passed him, almost knocking him off his feet in their haste.

"Follow the river! Get to safety!" one man called back to him.

Women carrying children were escaping to the forest behind him. Others rushed to the river that Thomm spent the night patrolling with Wendell. He could see them loading the small boats with whatever they could salvage. His mind screamed for him to follow them, to stow away on board and flee into the night, but his feet moved almost against his will. Men don't flee, he told himself.

His feet carried him through the streets, moving fast despite the shield he was carrying. It stood at head height and was made of thick steel, resembling a tear shape with the emblem of an eagle painted in bright yellow: the sigil of Torr. It was his lord's shield, and the uncertainty of his fate ate away at Thomm's mind. He had awoken from his sleep to the bell tower ringing and Lord Torr missing.

Thomm was his squire and shield bearer, and right now Lord Torr would need his assistance. If he's alive, he thought grimly. He pushed the thought away. His lord was a highly decorated knight of Agon; in his younger days, he had been in more battles than the minstrels knew how many to sing about. He didn't need a lowly squire to help him drive away bandits. There were at least a hundred soldiers under his command; Lothlonde didn't have a barracks large enough to house them all.

It was one of the reasons Thomm chose to sleep close to the river. Every night he would fall asleep beside the campfire, listening to the sound of crickets chirping and the soft trickling of the river. He glanced at the collapsed roof of the barracks as he ran through the streets; that may be the only reason he wasn't killed in his sleep.

He turned the corner and paused, taken back by the sight. Bile rose in his throat as his nose was met with the sharp smell of blood. Bodies were strewn across the cobbled path, their limbs torn from their torsos. Blood pooled where the uneven path dipped from years of use, staining everything a deep red. Thomm crept onwards, his soul quivering as he stepped around a dead horse. Its stomach had been torn and its intestines had spilled, a plum and crimson mess that was still seeping along the ground. This was the work of no bandit.

Why the horses? He thought. What bastard kills horses?

He recognized the upper half of a man that was resting on the steps of the tailor's shop. Wendell. His eyes were wide and lifeless, and his jaw was hanging by the sinewy threads of torn muscles. Thomm wet himself. He had patrolled the outskirts of the town with this man only a few hours ago. He supped with him and practiced archery with him. Now he was dead, and his widow will mourn his death as their unborn child grows within her.

CLANG. The sound of steel against steel snapped him from his thoughts. CLANG. CLANG. He hurried towards the sound, and his doom. In the center of the town, surrounded by flames and death, was Lord Torr.