Zack’s muscles ache as he throws another shovel of dirt on the pile. The dying rays of sunset dance between the mountain peaks. Looking past the ashen valley, he imagines lush trees and fields of wheat and wildflowers. But the fantasy slips away as he surveys the charred and crumbling homes. The blacken bodies suspending from spears supervise their grim task.

Wiping any sweat from his skin adds more layers of soot on top of the bleak body paint. As a boy he watched the men from the mines flood the streets after their shift. Unsettling to say the least; the appeared like animated coal walking the streets with searing white eyes.

Since then, he always knew a miner from their hunch walk and coal dust between their fingers. Is he marked in the same way? With his ash ever wash away completely. His shovel cuts the earth; routine and exercise, two habits that keep him sane. It keeps the fear at bay.

But the remains of the villagers; the charred skin stretched across the bones brings it all back. With each hole he digs he puts another terror to rest. Burying the violence is the first step to healing. If not the soul at least the earth. Umara will heal and he will eventually forget.

The groans from his men tell him they’re tired; but they don’t complain. Even though this is outside of the task. His assignment, a reconnaissance mission regarding a cryptic message from General Diamond, changed to digging graves instead. His shovel cuts into the dirt, he doesn’t know the village’s name but the brutality against it speaks for itself.

Pausing to wipe the sweat from his face he overlooks the campfires that ensure work continues throughout the night. No one enjoys digging so many graves; especially during peacetime. The familiar feeling of loss and loneliness rises in his chest. The army, although a decent substitute family, can’t replace the one he lost.

He recalls the night when ash rained from the grey smoke above Alexanderia. Two days after the Treason, a neighbour gives him a shovel and directs him to dig. That’s what he did, side by side with the other survivors, digging his first mass grave.

He remembers taking pride in himself for not crying. At first, he fought the sadness gripping his chest, but with each shovel numbness replaces the pain. Despite every attempt, this place reminds him of that time. The smell of burnt wood, charred flesh and the silence brings him back to the night his path changed.

Another shovel and he’s back in the room staring at the boring ledger. He didn’t have a head for numbers like his merchant father; and didn’t share in his excitement. Staring at the columns his mind went elsewhere; to the book upstairs with pages full of tales about the heroic warriors of Umara.

He was obsessed with Sir Symon the Courageous, who conquered an evil centaur to save a beautiful lady. But his mother’s cheery voice interrupted his father’s lesson and summoned him to the kitchen. She greeted him from the kitchen door, a broad playful smile painted her face.

“Daniel,” she called to her husband, “put the ledgers away, I have a treat for us.” Three yellow and green decorative dessert ices shaped like pineapples sat on the counter. He ate pieces of pineapple once, but the drought forced the luxury item into scarcity. In their simple kitchen his mother had recreated three of them. “I thought it’ll be a nice treat.” She smiled again. The way the candlelight caught her brown curls made her the most beautiful woman in the world.

Her song like laughter pulled his attention from his sugary dessert. Her eyes were shut but both her and his father laughed as he tried to feed her the ices from his bowl. It slipped from her lips and she giggled again as it melted down her slender wrist. Susan, his baby sister, whimpered beside him and grabbed for his spoon. Her gummy mouth gobbled the dessert like a duck. When he prepared another bite, a brick crashed through the window and landed on the table.

“What in the world?” his father rushed to the window. Between the sheer curtain and shattered glass, he heard the shouting. Susan screamed but the chanting continued as another brick slammed against the side of the house.

“Daniel?” she clutched the wailing baby. A flaming arrow whizzed through the window and stabbed the table. He never forgot the panic in his father’s voice as the tablecloth caught fire.

“Lizzy take the children to the barracks, find your brother. I'll meet you there.”

“I won’t go without you,”

“Go Lizzy! I'll meet you there!”

With Susan clutched to her hip she dragged him through the kitchen into the back alley. He fumbled onto the street spying the flickering flames dancing from the neighbouring windows. As the thick smoke climbed into the sky, he saw what terrified his father. The mass of people screaming ‘kill the king!’ outside their home.

“Mom?” his frail voice pleaded.

“We’ll be safe at the barracks.” Her shaking hand brushed his hair as she kissed his head.

The mob flooded the streets like rats on a sinking ship. Shadows from their torches flicker across their frenzied expression. They were shouting nonsense, their violence on full display, and he was terrified. She urged him through alleyway after alleyway.

He knew what a fawn felt like as his mother hurried him across the intersecting streets. She kept him close and she was always on guard for the slightest sound. Never had she gripped his hand so tight. The barracks, she repeated, they’ll be safe at the barracks.

But they were lost, and the mob had looped around, setting fire to the homes and shops along the road. Smoke burned his lungs as the kingdom around them ignited. They caught their breath near some chicken coops and tried to calm Susan. He watched an elderly couple flee their burning home only to fall into the arms of the bloodthirsty horde. They vanished after that; swallowed by the monster the inhabitants became.

His body trembled, like a cold wind blasted through his bones. Each step drew them closer leaving shattering glass in their wake. Their war cried vibrated his body, never had he felt so close to evil. Clutching his body, he hugged himself to keep from falling apart.

But a wave of hopelessness washed over him when he saw her panicked face. Where was Dad? Was Uncle Lex searching for them? Torchlight illuminated the alley behind them, ‘kill the king’ murmured from the darkness. Her grip frightened him, she yanked him from the alley, passed the mob in the street and into the opposite passageway.

He remembered Susan’s face, red and crying as his mother pushed the baby’s face into her chest. But it was too late, the mob heard her. Their demands filled the narrow tunnel while rocks pelted his back. The race through the corridor between two brick buildings, as the screams nipped at their heels. Her feet tangled in her skirts and both her and Susan collapsed to the cobblestones.

“Mom!” Panic welled inside his chest; his heart slammed against his ribs. His mouth went dry as they slithered around the corner.

Bodies, limbs, and torches crammed into every inch of the space. Rocks and threats rebounded against the towering walls combining with Susan’s screams. He saw the spit spraying from their foamy mouths and in the instant his resolved hardened. He pulled her to her feet, before she could wipe the blood from her ear, he forced her to run.

Each squeeze of her hand made him feel like a hero from his book. He imagined he was a knight saving the princess from the monster. Through the harrowing maze they manage to keep one step a head of the swarm. Steeling himself from the fear rushing through his body, knowing knights weren’t afraid, he ran from their cries of blood. Another corner, he felt invincible, until the second group of deranged farmers blocked their path and brandished their weapons.

The only way out was to loop around from where they came. Dragging his weary mother through the empty street, he prayed to Zander; to grant them safety, to grant him strength. They follow them into another alley where her screams pierced the air.

They lunged for her, tugging at her hair and her skirts. Forcing his tired legs against the pain he turned a narrow corner, running straight into a dead end. His heart sank. She pulled his wrist, but the rioting townspeople block the escape.

He refused to let go but the swarm pulled harder. Susan was lost in the sea of chants and torchlight. He never forgot his mother’s face; the fear mixed with dirt and tears. The blood from her head soiling her dress. His screamed echoed hers as her grip broke. She fought to the end, but the shadow engulfed her slim form and she too vanished into the horde.

Faces of women with matted hair and bloody clothes flashed in the firelight. The laundress from down the street. The embroider who altered his father’s suits. Miners, workers, and servants; they weren’t strangers. He knew them, walked by them every day, even greeted them with a smile.

He never knew the hatred they harboured; his body trembled. His vision blurred, becoming a mess of arms, torsos, and legs. He kicked and punched anything in range; remembering that the knight never stopped fighting. He was dragged and kicked across the stones until he noticed the narrow walls around them were gone.

Their weight pressed against his small frame, knuckles slammed into his flesh, and broken fingernails sliced his exposed skin. In the stories, knights never lost and the monsters never won. The man kneeling on his chest was flung from him and air flooded his lungs. The rioters yelled as thundering hooves of horses surrounded them. He twisted from the desperate grasp of an ash-covered woman and stumbled into a snorting black horse.

He stared into the soldier’s stern gaze noting his thick moustache and burgundy uniform. More mounted soldiers joined the first, dispersing the crowd with the same vigour as the mob murdered his neighbours, leaving any opposition bloody in the street. He fell to his shaking knees as the carnage continued, the soldier on the black horse placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” his moustache muffled his gruff voice. “What's your name?”

“Zack, Zackary Nicolas Dawson.”

“Where are your parents?” But he shook his head, despair seeped into his heart. “Com’n lad let's get you to the barracks. You'll be safe there, and then we’ll sort it out.”

“I need to find my uncle.”

“Don't worry, we’re rounding up the survivors at the barracks, if he's alive you’ll find him there.”

“Have you seen him? Please say he’s okay.”

“What's your uncle's name?”

“Captain Stone of the First Regiment.”

“You're Lex's nephew? That Regiment is defending the palace…come with me...”

The once orderly soldiers’ quarters became chaos as wounded individuals shuffled into the makeshift hospital. Nurses move like hummingbirds from bed to bed helping the injured. They sat him on a cushion in the corner near a soldier stationed on guard. Moaning and cries rattle the room while a few sat in silence unable to comprehend the nightmare they witnessed.

His father never arrived and he told himself knights didn’t cry. Exhaustion washed over him and lulled him into light sleep. But the slamming of the barrack door jostled him awake. In the doorway stood a wide barrel-chested man surveying the beds with a large broadsword at his hip.

“Zack? lad, are you here?”

“Uncle Lex?” he stumbled to his feet.

“Thank the Gods!” the planks under his feet shook as his uncle rushed to his side. Lex, a tall fierce man, who entered battle like a raging bull, was on the brink of tears. He clasped his glove size hands on Zack's trembling shoulders. “What happened? Percival said he found you in the streets, where's your mom? Dad? Where’s Susan?” Despite his watery grey eyes, his battle-hardened uncle didn’t cry, as he listened to the death of his only sister. He cries into his ripped uniform as Lex wrapped his arms around him.

“Why are they killing people?” The heavy tunic muffles his hoarse voice.

“It's hard to say. It was a normal night until my regiment was ordered to the palace.”

“What’s happening?”

“Captain Kipling attacked the palace with his own small army. I and the Prince fought as hard as we could but... I’m sorry Zack, but your parents and Susan aren’t coming back.”

He cried that night and promised never to lose anyone again.

“Captain Dawson Sir!” a young soldier from behind a wagon waves a broken branch in the air. “I think you should look at this.” Zack squeezes the bridge of his nose, pushing back the memory racking over his body. He can’t have the past creep into the present; not when there’s so much more to do.

Theo, the youngest soldier of the group, fumbles between the dirt piles to show him his prize. His curly locks hang in his eyes and like the rest of them, he’s coated in ash and dirt. His wiry physique and inquisitive nature contrast the gruff brawny knights. But they keep him around, mainly adopting him from the infantry. Despite the solemn atmosphere, his energy bubbles as he climbs to his side.

“Out wandering again, are we?” he smirks as Theo hands him the crooked object. To his surprise its not a branch, but something crafted by man. Brushing the thick layer of charcoal, he reveals the damage of the metallic finish. It’s a broken hilt made from lightweight steel.

“Sir? Is this what I think it is?”

The way Bellaverian blacksmiths heat their steel infuses delicate rainbows into the blade. Something so beautiful locked into such a deadly weapon. But its presence unnerves him. It’s existence among the bodies and destruction means Bellaverian soldiers slaughtered these people.

But why? General Diamond, a staunch supporter of the Treaty between Bellavere, Lollardum, and Alexanderia never engages in combat outside of training exercises. He glances at Theo’s smudged face; but this isn’t a training exercise. Which begs the question of why Diamond authorized burning a village in the middle of nowhere.

“Ensure the General sees this upon our return.” Lex will demand a report for sure. The evidence will only confirm his suspicions that Diamond is compromised; or worse. He didn’t read his uncle’s encrypted correspondence, but it forced Lex to send a scouting party to the border. Now weapons with the iconic bell emblem and steel; he didn’t believe in coincidences. He dares Lord Beckham and the King’s court to deny his uncle now.

“Should we investigate Bellavere?”

“We’re already within their border, and I don’t want to have this pinned on us. We’ll finish up here and return to Alexanderia. Let the general make the next move.”

“But the rumours are true aren’t they sir?” Theo loves a mystery, putting the pieces together to draw a larger conspiracy, and his face doesn’t hide it. But a rumour is dangerous, and he didn’t like speculation. It isn’t a game to him; his uncle is worried about his dearest friend. A friendly kingdom may become a threat. No one wants a war, to see their sons and husbands die; they have lost too much already.

“I said before, rumours impair your judgement.” The light behind Theo’s expression dims.

“Yes, of course sir…” He nods with a defeated look over his once smiling face. As he leaves, he tries to straighten his shoulders but they slump down and he stares at his feet.

“Theo,” he calls back when their eyes meet; “good work.”

He grins, brushing his thick curly locks from his face before returning to his task. Regret creeps into Zack’s conscience as he moves to another hole. But instead of death he meets a makeshift grave marker with bright wildflowers poking from the dirt. Somewhere there are people who care. And he smiles, knowing someone out there will remember these people.

Hopefully they’re far away from this mess.