Night descended slowly over the vilge, like a bck shroud soaked in rot and iron.
Lights in the windows had almost gone out. Vilgers huddled inside their homes, shutters barred, doors barricaded with boards and furniture. Even the dogs didn’t bark—only whimpered quietly in corners, tails tucked, as though they sensed death already stalking between the houses.
The scouts returned—exhausted, caked in mud and blood.
One of them reported to Kane, pointing a trembling hand toward the dark line of the forest.
“The demons are coming through the woods. They’ll emerge onto the wheat fields.”
Beside him stood the vilge elder—the same massive bcksmith with the sledgehammer across his shoulder. He stared grimly at the golden waves of wheat swaying under the night wind, as though saying goodbye to them.
“Just don’t burn our harvest,” he said heavily, voice low like the strike of a hammer. “Otherwise we’ll all starve to death come winter—every st one of us.”
Kane gave a quiet snort—no smile.
“That’s one of their goals.”
He shifted his gaze to the darkening forest—where red pinpricks of eyes were already beginning to appear.
“But we’ll do everything we can.”
The squad had already taken up positions.
Archers y in ambush at the edge of the field, blending into the tall wheat. Infantry crouched behind low stone fences and overturned carts, shields raised, spears ready.
Everyone waited.
And soon they appeared.
First—a rustle, as though thousands of cws scraped across the earth.
Then—heavy, rasping breathing.
And then shapes began emerging from the dark line of the forest.
Hundreds.
Small imps—gaunt, hunched, cws longer than fingers.
Goblins—crooked, yellow-fanged, eyes burning with malice.
And huge, ponderous ogres—their footsteps shook the ground, leaving craters in the soft soil.
Kane narrowed his eyes.
“Damn it…” he breathed quietly.
“Too many ogres.”
He peered deeper—into the thickest part of the darkness.
“And there are two more creatures…”
Even in the dark they were visible.
Tall.
Twisted.
Neither human nor beast—as though the darkness itself had turned itself inside out, birthing these things from nightmares and bone.
Kane raised his hand.
“Hold…”
The demons drew closer.
Wheat rustled under their steps, bent, stained bck with blood oozing from small wounds.
The stench of rot, sulfur, and fresh blood already reached the humans—thick, nauseating, clinging.
Kane dropped his hand sharply.
“FIRE!”
Volley.
The sky was sliced by the whistle of dozens of arrows.
They rained down on the demons like iron hail.
Several imps colpsed, skewered clean through, twitching in agony.
A pair of goblins screamed and fell into the wheat, bodies pierced, blood gushing in fountains.
But the rest…
Only grew angrier.
A roar rolled across the field—low, vibrating, making blood freeze in veins.
The horde surged forward—a wave of cws, fangs, and fury.
“Second volley!”
Arrows struck again.
But the effect was weak.
Ogres marched on, snapping arrows against their thick, scar-covered hides like dry twigs.
“Spears! Forward!”
Men burst from cover.
Spearmen charged, trying to bring down the ogres—thrusting shafts into groins, knees, eyes.
And in a second, hell began.
Screams.
Metal on metal.
Crack of bones.
Wet tearing of flesh.
Wheat stained with blood—human and demonic—mixing into bck-red mud.
Demons tore men apart—cws ripping into bellies, pulling out entrails, snapping necks.
Men fought back—spears piercing ogre eyes, swords severing imp limbs, axes cleaving goblin skulls.
But there were too many demons.
They pressed forward, feeling no pain, knowing no fear.
The field became a sughterhouse.
A meat grinder.
A pce where both men and monsters died—equally horribly, equally pointlessly.
Meanwhile Drake was at the vilge outskirts.
Kane had forbidden him from joining the main battle.
A child’s chances of survival there were too small—almost nonexistent.
But Drake still saw the fight.
He stood by the fence, gripping the sword hilt so hard his knuckles bleached white and his fingers went numb.
His chest burned—rage, helplessness, memories.
He felt powerless.
Just like back then.
When his vilge burned.
When he couldn’t save his mother.
When his father fell and never rose again.
Suddenly he noticed movement.
An imp burst from the wheat—grotesque creature, limping, one arrow jutting from its shoulder.
But it still ran.
Straight toward the vilge.
Straight toward the houses.
Drake didn’t think.
He charged.
The imp turned its head too te.
Drake’s bde sank straight into its neck—with a crunch, with the wet sound of tearing flesh.
Hot bck blood sprayed across the boy’s hands, face, eyes.
The creature gurgled and colpsed into the dust, twitching in final spasms.
First.
But there was no time to think.
From the other end of the street came a scream—female, full of terror.
Drake ran.
He saw fresh, bright blood trails.
At the door of a house stood a woman.
She shielded a little girl—about eight, tear-streaked.
Before them stood an imp.
Drake leaped.
The bde fshed in the moonlight.
CRACK.
The demon’s arm flew off—bck blood fountained.
The imp shrieked and turned toward Drake.
But the boy was already moving.
Second strike.
The imp’s head rolled across the ground, leaving a bloody trail.
The woman stared at him with wide eyes—mix of horror and gratitude.
But suddenly a new screech came from the darkness.
Three imps.
They charged straight at them—cws gleaming, eyes burning red.
“Run!”
The woman grabbed the girl’s hand.
They fled toward the nearest celr.
Drake ran after them.
But the door smmed shut right in his face—heavy oak, iron-banded.
He froze for a second.
Then spun around.
The three imps were already close—their breath stank of rot and sulfur.
Drake darted into the narrow passage between the house and the barn.
The imps followed.
But it was tight.
They couldn’t attack at once—shoving, snarling, cwing at the walls.
The first lunged forward.
Strike.
The sword sank into its throat—to the hilt.
The second pushed after it.
Another strike.
The bde cleaved its sternum, bck blood pouring onto the ground.
The third only managed to shriek.
And within seconds they y dead—a heap of hacked meat and bone.
Drake breathed hard—chest heaving, arms shaking.
But suddenly another cry—from that same celr.
He rushed back.
The door had been torn off its hinges.
Inside, two goblins dragged the woman—one by the hair, the other by the leg.
The girl cried in the corner.
Drake leaped.
The sword sank straight into the first goblin’s skull—with a crunch of bone.
“Don’t touch her!” he shouted.
The woman fought desperately with a pitchfork—but the second goblin stabbed her in the thigh.
She screamed—sharp, raw.
The girl screamed louder.
Drake lunged forward.
The goblin didn’t even turn.
The sword pierced its back—emerged from the chest along with bck blood.
The creature colpsed.
Drake dropped beside the woman.
“Hurts… damn it…” she whispered, pressing a hand to the wound.
Blood seeped between her fingers—dark, thick.
Drake tore a strip from his shirt and began binding the wound—hands shaking, but movements precise.
Outside, demon screams again—closer, louder.
The boy jumped up.
And ran to the door.
“Stop! Don’t leave us!” the woman cried.
Drake paused.
For a second.
But still stepped outside.
Fortunately, at that moment two soldiers burst onto the street—from Kane’s squad.
They quickly cut down several goblins trying to slip into the vilge.
One of them spotted Drake.
“Kid! We heard a woman scream here!”
“Yes!” Drake answered. “There’s a woman and child! I helped them!”
The soldier grinned—short, weary.
“Good job!”
He nodded to the other.
“Come on. Let’s check.”
“You stand guard.”
They descended into the celr.
And at that very moment Drake felt something was wrong.
