The morning air stank of char. Of smouldering bones. Of a silence disconnected from the usual shouts of steely thugs and hungry maws. The cool of daybreak and the exhaust from last night clashed into a gauzy mist that lay heavy on the ground. The geal of mud was made pale and grey from ash, as though the earth itself was stunned. Shock. As was Blacwin.

The boy blinked dreamily. The quiet was surreal. Only hours ago was the refugee camp in a great calamity, burning tall with tongues of lashing flames, rampant with the wretched beasts that cast nightmarish shadows. His hand touched the earth. It was brown and somewhat damp, like a lone rain cloud had only fallen on where his tent used to stand. Everywhere else the ground was razed to an ashy grey.

A memory surfaced. It was a vision of home, their village on fire, the night as bright as day, of his father dashing back and forth from the well, dumping buckets of water on the cellar door amongst the beast and carnage. Father!

The remaining sleep that addled his brain evaporated at the frightful thought of being alone. Surrounded in the uncertain mists. Fear crept into his little heart. Nestled itself deep like a fish bone with every heartbeat. Concealed in the heavy air could be a beast watching, waiting. It startled him to motion, a spur of hurried steps on the ashy earth as he stumbled forth, too afraid to remain in one place.

“Father!” Blacwin shouted into the mist in hopes of finding him first, lest some beast find the boy beforehand. For under his father’s wings, the boy was safe from all harm.

Blackened husks of timber snapped underfoot. Sometimes the crunch of boiled bones. Scores of bodies carpeted the ashy floor. Torn and ripped, here and there. Littered like autumn leaves. A sour thought lurched up his throat. It raked at the back of his eyes. And yet the boy pushed down. Stomped them to the darkest recess. His father had to be somewhere. He had to be looking for him too. Possibly lost. Confused into circles amongst the wispy white of the morning, groping and staggering for direction. Struggling, as always. So far neither beast nor fever had ferryed his animus to the netherhalls to dine with the Gods. There was a fight beaten strong and sturdy upon his brow as he hacked and slashed with just one arm. A steely will quenched in the crimson life waters.

Something caught his foot and the boy pitched forward. Ground rushed up to his face, then the smother of ash and earth. Blacwin coughed and wiped and blew out the cake of white mud that plugged up his nose. It got on the chainmail also. His hands scraped at the congeal, however, it only matted farther into the rings. The mud would not leave from the cherished ringlets bestowed from his father. It just would not go.

Blacwin stood lest to get overwhelmed with tears. Now was not the time. His father has to be somewhere in the remnants of the camp. Perhaps he was injured, unable to move, deadlocked to the ground as he stirred groaning, his throat so parched that not a word could conjure from dry lips.

Then again, could it be that his own animus had fled from his corpse? That was possible. Blacwin was told that the netherhalls was a misty place, a realm of unknown as the animus wandered uncertainly, groping and grasping, until they stumbled onto the long table, where the great steward of anima, Wowen, sat at the far end with open arms, congratulating them to their hall. To finally rest.

Except what awaited Blacwin was not a long table. Nor the kindly Wowen. Nor rest.

There, in the muck. Sat up against a torrefied beam. Head stooped, with an arm around a sword. A wind pressed at his back. Blacwin ran at full speed. Relief and joy and solace welled in his chest, the heart easing with a sigh. He was about to throw himself into his father’s arms until his run slowed to a curious halt. Something was wrong.

His father’s chest did not stir with the rise and fall of breathing. Still was he as the earth, as the blackened beam on which he rested so fitlessly. Unsurly, Blacwin approached. The obscuring of mist cleared with each step. His heart fluttered as a panicked bird. And a horrid realisation enclosed like the jaw of a wolf around the neck of a hare.

Sorrow gripped the boy to a choke of tears as he fell to his knees. Unseamed was his father, guts laid out in spools upon his lap, face half-gnawed. One eye remained from the pair, staring out piercingly into nowhere. His lone hand was locked around the handle of the sword, the length of steel murky with grime and blood. His greatest fear had come true. Fallen was a man Blacwin thought of as undying as a god. Yet here he laid, mortal as ever. And having joined his mother in the netherhalls.

Unfair was the world and the boy cried for them back, though his father did not return whole, nor his mother returned to human form. Dead he stayed, and monstrous still she remained.

Footsteps squelched in the mud. Blacwin did not move nor rise nor do anything to preserve his own speck of life. Let whatever it was kill him. At least then he would join his parents. Though death did not come. A set of boots appeared in his periphery. The hem of a cloak hung gently at the ankles. He peered up and saw a black hooded man with a hand around his sword. He wished the mysterious figure would slew him where he knelt, yet the sword remained in the sheath, hand locked on the pommel.

“Thought you were a beast,” he said, a voice cold and curt as a winter zephyr.

Blacwin remained quiet, too choked to speak. Simply stared up with his red eyes.

The man had a stubbled chin, with eyes as blue as ice. An iceberg could calve from such a stare. And yet when the boy challenged with a hardy gaze, he looked away.

“There, my lord! Survivors up ahead!” shouted from a booming , tinny voice.

Upon stallions they came from the mist. Clad in steel armour that gleamed even in the halflight. It clicked and clacked with the trot of the stead. Their shields were painted blue and white, as were their fittings. Blood dribbled down the shaft of their spears. And staring down from the saddles were metal masks sculpted in the form of a sullen frown, with tears that came not from sorrowful eyes but the crimson sweat of the slain, for these were the Weeping Reyns.

“How many of those vermin?” a familiar voice said.

“Two, my lord,” replied a Weeping Reyn.

The fear, the sorrow, high as the flames from last night, settled into a seething anger when that bastard, Lord Reynmeer, rode up. He was urcine as ever, with his armour barely containing the magnitude of his powerful frame. His horse was a picture of distress as it carried him forward.

“Curious to find any at all. What hole did you crawl out of, hmm, rat?” Lord Reynmeer laughed heartily. Then he leaned forward from his saddle, inspecting the unseamed corpse of his father. “And who’s this sorry sack of flesh?”

“He has a name,” Blacwin seethed.

The lord quirked into a frown. “You got balls to use that tone of voice at me. However, I am merciful as it’s apparent that you are grieving, so I’ll pardon the slight for this one time.”

“He has a name!”

“Watch it, boy.”

“His name was Ayrdrius Ashill. He served as your soldier, and you threw him and I out when he lost an arm. The least you can do is show some respect.”

Lord Reynmeer scoffed. “You mean the dead cripple?”

Something snapped within the boy. He grabbed his father’s sword. It was heavier than he imagined, yet the anger that surged through his limbs proved sufficient enough to lift it up high, arcing down like a grey rainbow at the lord. At the same time a Weeping Reyn thrusted out his spear at the boy. The sword would have hit Reynmeer, and the spear would have buried in his boyish chest, had the hooded man not moved. Swift as the wind, two lengths of steel flashed up and swatted down each respective strike. Steel struck the ground. The force of the deflection, though gentle in appearance, reverberated up the length of the blade and shook the bones in Blacwin’s arms violently. The move was so quick that he was stunned to stillness, his rage momentarily forgotten at this glimpse of martial prowess.

“How dare you get in the way of delivering my lordship’s justice!” barked the Weeping Reyn.

Lord Reynmeer held out a hand, stopping the knight from brashly drawing his sword. “You will do no such thing, lest you want to lose a hand.” He nodded to the spear. On the mud was the spearhead, detached from the shaft. And the weapon that had dealt the blow was a simple dagger, not the sword that was used on Blacwin. “You should beg for his mercy, sir Reynald. The man you just crossed weapons with is Lord Wickerd, the Swordmaster of Drakonia.”

The Weeping Reyn stirred anxiously in his saddle. “M-my apologies, Swordmaster.”

The hooded man, Lord Wickered the Swordmaster, tossed his head back. The hood came off and locks of coal-black hair spilled forth. “Apologise to the boy, for the spear was not meant for me.”

“Yes-yes!” The Weeping Reyn turned to Blacwin. “I beg your pardon.”

He did not respond, nor did he accept the disingenuous apology. After all it was coerced from a position of strength, not genuine from the heart.

“What brings you here, Darius? So far from Castle Blackdown,” asked Lord Reynmeer.

“Same as here.” Darius sheathed his sword and dagger, confident that his name alone would compel no man to challenge him in combat. “Overrun.”

“This here? It’s nothing, really. Just a pesky camp that I’ve been meaning to get rid of. Though it appears that I have the grace of Wowen, for a horde of those wretched beasts came to remove them from my land.”

“How honourable, as always.”

“Try and feed an ocean’s worth of hungry mouths! Let’s see you call me dishonourable then. I would’ve been bankrupt come winter and my own people would have starved.” As if his impressive physique suffered in the slightest since this bestial apocalypse.

At that the fire burned anew in the boy. He wanted to lift his sword again, yet the Swordmaster threw a glance his way, deterring him from acting so rashly.

“Still…” Darius looked around at the razed ruins of the refugee camp.

“My Weeping Reyns and I rode out this morning to quash any beast that remained. Glorious were my knights, and more glory unto me. Perhaps I shall have today’s exploits composed in a song.”

“And of the boy?” Darius asked.

“Ah. Yes. The boy.” Lord Reynmeer waved his hand ever so magnanimously. “I shall grant admittance to my castle to any refugee who’s survived.”

Blacwin spat at the horse of the lord. A savage temper flared hot and red in Lord Reynmeer, though he wrestled himself to composure when Darius glanced his way.

“So be it, boy. I shall go find somebody else more grateful for my refuge… Perhaps you, Darius? I know Lisan would adore meeting Elaine and Rochel again.”

“No, I doubt that,” Darius said curtly.

“Fine then. Men, let’s go.” And with that, Lord Reynmeer and his Weeping Reyns disappeared into the mist.

“You should have taken his offer. As much of a bastard as he is, the roads are far more treacherous.”

“I’ll take my chances,” said Blacwin. Darius shrugged. He was turning to leave when the boy asked, “can you help me bury my father?”

Surprisingly, the man stopped.