Chief Johan knelt before the altar of the Creator on one knee, his head bowed low, one hand fisted across his chest, and the other resting on the pommel of his sword. He prayed for the souls of the men lost in the caravan, and then he whispered a final, private plea for the friend fighting for life in his sister’s care. When he rose and turned, the heavy chapel doors cried out as he opened them. It felt as though it were the entrance to another world.

  "May the blessings of the Creator be upon you, Johan," Father Albious said softly.

  Johan nodded his thanks, wiped the water from his cheeks, and stepped out into the cool morning air. Fifty men waited, mounted and silent, their heads bowed. Marcus stood at the base of the steps, holding the reins of Thunder. Johan took the leather and nuzzled the great horse’s snout.

  "Do you have one more battle in you, old friend?" he murmured.

  It had been nearly a decade since they had ridden into a true fray, and a pain of remorse touched Johan’s heart at the thought of risking the aging steed. Thunder simply snorted, tossing his head as if insulted by the question. Johan swung into the saddle, his leather armor creaking and groaning as he settled into position.

  "OPEN THE GATE!"

  The riders surged through the massive doors at a gallop, the thunder of hooves echoing off the stone walls and mountains behind. Once the village was out of sight, Johan signaled to slacken the pace; they had a long road ahead and could not afford to tire the horses too early.

  "Marcus, how long until we reach the site?" Johan asked.

  "Less than half a day at this pace, my Lord."

  They arrived just before midday. The stench hit them first. It was the smell of iron and rot baking in the sun. Twenty men and dwarves lay scattered like discarded dolls across the road. Some were pincushioned with arrows; others had been broken by mace, axe, or club. The violence had been absolute.

  "King Orn should hear of this," Marcus said, his voice tight as he looked at the fallen dwarves.

  "Agreed," Johan replied, his jaw set.

  They surveyed the wreckage. As the scouts had reported, there was no one left alive. All but one of the wagons were gone, and the remaining one had been stripped bare, its draft horses slaughtered in their traces.

  "Bring the two youngest among us to me," Johan ordered. Marcus returned with two boys, barely sixteen, their faces pale with the shock of seeing death so closely.

  "Unharness the beasts and hitch your horses to that wagon," Johan told them. "Load the dead. You are taking them home."

  While the men began the grim work, Johan pulled a small scrap of parchment from his pouch and scribbled a message. He handed it to one of the boys. "Go straight to the rookery. Have them send this to King Orn of the Dwarven Lands immediately."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  As the wagon departed, the remaining troop followed the tracks. The attackers had attempted to obscure their exit by taking multiple paths, but the trails eventually converged, heading west toward the wasteland known as The Gorge.

  It was a desolate place, four days' ride away, where the only water came from flash floods that vanished as quickly as they appeared. The Gorge was pocked with caves and was an old haunt for raiders and scavengers who had plagued the land generations ago.

  "They have a day's head start," Johan told his men as they mounted up, "but those heavy wagons will anchor them. If we ride through the night, we’ll overtake them by tomorrow." He looked at the grim faces of his farmers-turned-soldiers. "The terrain is rough. We won't engage unless they’ve made camp. TO BATTLE!"

  They spurred their horses across the vast plains of golden grass. As dusk fell, the tracks led them into a dense forest that stretched for leagues. The path was narrow, and the attackers had been forced to hastily hack away branches and move stones to let the wagons pass.

  “If they had to cut this path recently, we should be upon them soon enough, but if they managed it before the ambush…” Marcus trailed off, his voice barely a murmur as he worked through the possibilities.

  The troop’s pace slowed to a crawl; the shadows beneath the trees made the roots, rocks, and stumps feel like teeth entering the maw of a giant beast.

  Near sundown, they spotted a lone wagon stalled in the path ahead. Johan signaled for the men to encircle it, his hand on his sword hilt, but the woods remained silent. Marcus inspected the vehicle.

  "Broken axle," Marcus reported, pointing to the splintered wood where the wagon had hung up on a rock in a stream. "They emptied the contents and dragged it aside so the others could pass."

  The late summer night was unusually stifling. Johan watched his men; many were wide-eyed, jumping at every snap of a twig. A few had built small fires, but the smoke only seemed to choke the air around them, enhancing the feelings of confinement that they sensed.

  "Mount up," Johan ordered as the fires died down.

  "Let the men rest, my Lord," Marcus pleaded quietly. "Many haven't slept since before yesterday's dawn. They’ll be no use in a fight if they're falling from their saddles."

  Johan looked at the slumped shoulders of his men and then at Marcus. He respected the younger man’s counsel. "Rest, then. We march with the sun."

  Johan settled under a gnarled old tree that could have possibly borne witness to the birth of his father's father's father, using his bedroll as a pillow. As he closed his eyes, the distant, mournful howl of wolves drifted on the wind.

  By sunrise, the troop was back in the saddle. They pushed through the final stretch of the forest and broke out into the open expanse beyond. By late afternoon, they crested a high ridge and finally saw them: a line of wagons crawling across the valley floor.

  "CHARGE!" Johan bellowed, drawing his sword.

  The horses thundered down the hillside. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky in violent hues of pink and orange as they closed the distance. But as they drew within striking range, Marcus pulled his reins, slowing his pace.

  "Something’s wrong, my Lord," Marcus shouted over the wind. "Where are the guards?"

  Johan realized it a second too late. There were no outriders. No archers on the wagon roofs. The wagons were tethered together in a single, mindless train. In the lead seat sat a lone man, casually holding the reins.

  Johan and Marcus swerved to the front of the line, bringing the horses to a panicked halt.

  "Where is the rest of your party?" Johan demanded, his blade at the man's throat.

  The man in the driver’s seat didn't look afraid. He leaned back and flashed a grin, barren of most of his teeth. "Not sure, m'lord."

  "IT'S A DECOY!" Marcus screamed, spinning his horse around to look back the way they had come.

  The driver’s grin widened into a jagged sneer. "If I were a guessin' man, I’d say they’re pretty close to the Twin Peaks by now."

  Johan’s stoicism faded rapidly. His mind raced back through the forest trek, desperately trying to discern where the riders could have broken off the trail—and how far they were from the defenseless home he had left behind.