Loren could not take his eyes off the bone mask painted red.
For a few heartbeats, the world around him seemed to fall silent. The crackling of flames, the screams of people, the crash of collapsing timbers… all of it faded into a distant, indistinct hum. Only the figure standing in the doorway remained.
Only the mask.
And Dunk's head lying at his feet.
He could feel pain and grief suddenly spread through his entire body.
Dunk had not been just a member of the caravan. He had been an old friend who had walked the same roads as Loren for years. They had crossed the dry plains together. On cold nights they had kept watch beside the same fire, argued over routes, and laughed together at small things that now felt impossibly far away. They had survived trading seasons, hungry days, storms, and endless roads together.
But now he was gone. They had taken him.
The thought hollowed something out inside Loren's chest.
A hand seized his shoulder roughly and shook him.
"Loren!"
Aktar's voice cut through the smoke like a blade.
"Pull yourself together. We have to catch them. This is not the time to mourn."
For a moment Loren stared at him blankly, as if the words were coming from very far away. But then his mind understood that he was right.
He forced himself to take a deep breath. The pain did not disappear, but beneath it something else began to rise. Something colder.
Anger.
Without saying a word, he bent down and picked up his sickle from the ground. The wooden handle felt hard and cold in his palm.
He began running after Aktar.
Ahead of them, six warriors who had managed to cross the collapsed platforms were already moving forward. Together they ran through the burning streets. The heat pressed against their skin, sparks drifting through the air.
Beyond the houses, there were shadows moving in the smoke across the fields. Dozens of masked raiders were retreating, dragging captives with them.
Behind them, the one with the red mask and a few others were trying to catch up from the rear.
They pushed forward at full speed. Along the way, screams were still rising from burning houses. Each time a scream was heard, one of the warriors broke away from the group and plunged into the smoke without hesitation to rescue the wounded.
By the time they reached the edge of the settlement, only three of them remained.
Ahead of them, four masked raiders were fleeing through the flames, and they had to catch them.
They ran for minutes. The time felt far longer than it really was.
Step by step, the distance between them began to close. Most of the fields ahead were still burning. The air was heavy and scorching with thick smoke drifting across the ground. It was becoming difficult to keep their eyes open, and even breathing was painful.
Still, they kept running.
At last, when they reached the edge of the burning fields, the river opened before them.
Dozens of small boats had already begun to push away from the shore. Their dark hulls were slowly drifting south with the current.
Aktar understood the situation immediately. The masked raiders needed only a few more seconds to reach the safety of their allies.
"Keep running!" he shouted.
But he himself suddenly stopped.
He bent down and grabbed a stone the size of a fist from the scorched ground. He locked his eyes on the fleeing figures. For a brief moment, he calculated the distance, their speed, and where they would be in a few seconds.
Then he threw the stone.
The stone cut through the smoky air and struck the back of one savage's head. The man collapsed instantly.
Before the others could understand what had happened, they slowed. They turned back in confusion.
That hesitation was enough.
Within seconds, Loren, Aktar, and the last warrior beside them closed the distance. When only a single step remained between them and the masked raiders, they stopped. Their chests were rising and falling rapidly. As they tried to catch their breath, they slowly began moving forward again.
Loren slowed as he closed the last few steps between them.
The three masked raiders slowed as well.
For a brief moment, no one moved on either side. Thin ribbons of smoke drifted across the burned field, and the blackened earth crackled faintly beneath their feet. Behind Loren, shouts were still rising from the settlement, but here the world seemed reduced to the narrow distance between the two groups.
Aktar made the first move.
With a sharp cry, he lunged forward and drove his spear toward the chest of the nearest savage. Loren followed a half-breath later, swinging his sickle sideways at the other man's arm. The village guard swung his club at the third savage's head and forced him back before he could even raise his weapon.
Bone struck bone.
Clubs rose into the air. Weapons clashed. Under the pressure of the sudden assault, the masked raiders staggered and stepped back, trying to defend themselves. For a moment it seemed the three defenders would quickly overwhelm them, but each of the savages managed to evade or deflect the first attack.
Then the masked raiders withdrew at the same time.
They stepped back quickly across the burned ground, as if they were abandoning the fight.
"Don't let them reach the river!" Aktar shouted and rushed after them.
He had barely taken two steps when the savage lying on the ground moved.
The man Loren had thought unconscious suddenly rose. He seized the club beside him and, with a single brutal motion, swung it in a wide arc toward him.
The impact was sharp and terrible. The club struck Aktar's right leg and shattered his bones. His leg collapsed instantly. His spear slipped from his hand, and he fell heavily to the ground.
"Aktar!"
At that very moment Loren saw the other masked raiders turn back. They were no longer fleeing.
They were attacking.
One of them charged straight at Loren and swung his club low. Loren leapt aside and avoided the blow. The weapon cut through the air where he had been standing only a moment before. Instead of retreating, Loren stepped forward and swung his sickle. The curved blade sliced into the man's side. A muffled breath escaped from behind the bone mask, and he staggered.
Beside him, the village guard collided with another savage, and the two of them rolled together onto the ash-covered ground. They grappled there, locked together. The savage seized the guard's throat, but the guard drove his elbow upward and struck the mask hard. The bone mask cracked with a dull snap.
Behind them, Aktar was still fighting on the ground.
Despite his shattered leg, he dragged himself backward and tried to keep the savage at bay with short, controlled thrusts of his spear. Every movement caused him pain, but he did not stop.
The savage with the red mask lunged toward him, but Loren stepped in between.
Their weapons clashed at close range. The savage's breath came in harsh rasps from inside the mask. Loren raised his knee and struck him hard in the stomach. The savage staggered back a step.
At that very moment, new shouts rose from the fields.
Dozens of people from the village were running toward them through the smoke.
The two masked raiders still on their feet saw them and, without hesitation, turned their backs and began to flee.
They left their companion behind, and Loren, now the only one still standing nearby, quickly moved to help Aktar. Then he stepped forward and, with a single clean motion, drove his sickle into the throat of the savage on the ground.
Meanwhile, the fleeing masked raiders reached the shore within minutes, rejoined their tribesmen, and leapt into their boats. Then they rowed with all their strength and let themselves be carried by the current.
Before long, they became distant shadows on the dark water.
And so the masked raiders managed to escape, all but one.
Just as Loren pulled his sickle from the savage's throat, he heard the sound of struggling behind him. The village guard was still wrestling on the ground with the other savage.
The man was growling beneath his mask, half groaning. Loren could see that a jagged fragment of the broken bone mask had been driven into his eye, and blood was pouring down his face in thick streams.
The savage tried to raise his club again, but the guard had seized his arm and was preventing him from striking. Without hesitation, Loren rushed forward and brought the shaft of his sickle down hard on the savage's wrist. The club fell from his hand. The guard did not miss the opportunity and drove his elbow into the man's jaw.
Loren struck a second blow at the back of his neck. This time the savage went completely limp. He twitched for a short while longer, then lay still.
Both of them looked at each other, breathing heavily.
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