Gerty had unwrapped the bandages from Yami's head and begun cleaning the jagged wounds for the third time when his eyes finally flickered open. He hissed as she applied a cooling salve to the gash on his cheek.

  "Stop wiggling, you big baby," she scolded, though her voice wavered with relief.

  Yami stared at her, his one visible eye clouded with pain and a silent, desperate question: How bad is it?

  "The wounds in your chest will heal," she said, answering the look. "It appears the Creator’s hand guided those arrows into the soft muscle of your shoulders, missing everything vital. As for your face... well, I fear the scar might actually improve your looks." She tried to smile, but her concern was clear in her eyes.

  Yami let out a dry, hacking cough that was supposed to be a laugh, then winced. "Where... where is Johan?" his voice was a thin, raspy thread and barely audible.

  "He took the men to retake the caravan," she replied, turning back to her basins.

  Terror flooded Yami’s expression. He struggled to sit up, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. "It’s... a trap," he managed to choke out.

  Gerty rushed to his side, pushing against his shoulders. "You shouldn't be moving! Your wounds—"

  He caught her wrist with a strength that caught her off-guard. "You don't understand. They won't be there. They are coming here." He forced himself off the bed, his legs shaking worse than a fish caught on a hook. "We must warn them. Get everyone to safety."

  Yami stumbled to the door and threw it open. The night air was cool, but the village was far from peaceful. From the main gate, two short chimes rang out—the signal for travelers. Through the shadows, he saw the heavy iron gate begin to rise.

  "STOP!" he tried to scream, but the word died in a lung-burning cough. His throat was too dry to speak, let alone shout.

  “Water,” he stuttered.

  Gerty fetched him a cup as a covered wagon rolled through the entrance. Three watchmen climbed down from the ramparts to inspect the cargo. Yami took the cup and chudded down its contents. Acting on pure instinct, he untied a horse tethered outside Gerty’s cabin and hauled himself into the saddle, nearly blacking out from the effort.

  "You cannot ride!" Gerty cried, running to him.

  "I must," he gasped, his jaw set and unyielding in his determination.

  Gerty grabbed for the harness to steady him, but he spurred the horse toward the gate. She raced after him. He reached the guards just as the wagon came to a halt.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Yami demanded, clutching his bleeding chest.

  "Yami! You’re awake?" Erik, one of the guards, looked up in surprise.

  "I'm in no mood for pleasantries, Erik," Yami spat, his voice regaining its authority through sheer adrenaline.

  "He brought the dead," Erik said, gesturing to the wagon. "From the caravan."

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Yami fixed his gaze on the hooded figure in the driver’s seat. "State your name."

  The figure didn't speak. Instead, a longbow appeared from the shadows of the wagon. An arrow whistled through the air, striking a guard on the ladder. A second shaft hissed out, burying itself in Erik’s chest.

  "CLOSE THE GATE!" Yami roared. "SOUND THE ALARM!"

  A third arrow grazed Yami’s shoulder as he wheeled his horse around. Ten raiders, armed with longbows and jagged blades, poured out of the wagon like a swarm of ants from their nest. The few guards remaining in the village scrambled for their weapons, but they were already surrounded.

  Yami reached down for Gerty. With a surge of agony that tore his fresh stitches as he hauled her up behind him. He knew he couldn't fight—not like this. His priority was the people.

  "TO THE STOREHOUSE!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the streets as they raced toward the village center. "TO THE CAVERNS!"

  He noticed the alarm bell had stopped mid-swing—the ringer likely dead. He reached the Chief's home just as Celeste stepped into the doorway, Ryan clutching her at her skirt.

  "What is happening?" she cried.

  "Attack!" Gerty screamed from behind Yami. "To the caves, Celeste! Run!"

  Celeste grabbed Ryan’s hand and bolted toward the rear of the village. Yami and Gerty continued their frantic circuit, alerting families as the sounds of slaughter grew louder behind them—the clash of steel, the screams of the dying, and the thunder of more hooves as the main raider force flooded through the open gate.

  "RETREAT!" Yami shouted to the remaining defenders. He counted fewer than ten men still standing. He watched in horror as the main gate rose fully, admitting a tide of horsemen.

  They galloped toward the mountain. At the foot of the Twin Peaks, the villagers were a panicked mass, shoving and fighting to get through the narrow stone entrance of the storehouse.

  "CALM DOWN!" Yami yelled, sliding from his horse. "Gerty, get them inside!"

  He scrambled up the internal stairs to the watchtower, his vision swimming. He reached the heavy release lever that controlled the gate. Below, he saw the raiders entering the village proper, setting thatched roofs ablaze and cutting down anyone too slow to run.

  "HURRY!" he pleaded, staring at the crowd.

  The last of the mass tumbled inside. But then Yami looked further back. Twenty villagers—mothers, children, elders—were sprinting across the clearing. Behind them, sixty raiders on horseback were closing the gap, their blades bared.

  They won’t make it, Yami realized, a sob catching in his throat. If he kept the gate open, the raiders would ride straight into the cavern and slaughter everyone.

  Tears blurred his vision as he threw his weight against the lever.

  The heavy iron gate slammed down with a bone-jarring thud. Through the bars, the villagers inside watched in silent horror as their loved ones were cut down a few paces from safety. The pounding of his heart drowned out the screams from outside, but they were burned deep into Yami's heart.

  "Back!" Yami ordered, staggering down the stairs. "To the rear of the cave!"

  Arrows began to hiss through the gate's openings. The villagers retreated into the darkness, frantically piling crates of grain and barrels of ale to form a makeshift barricade.

  Then, a voice drifted through the iron bars from the outside. Cold. Merciless.

  "Burn them out. They’ll face their deaths one way or another."

  "WAIT!" Yami shouted, stepping toward the gate. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

  "We want this village," the voice replied. "And we want no survivors to reclaim it."

  "We can work for you!" Yami pleaded, his voice cracking. "We can help you!"

  "And have you slit our throats while we sleep?" the voice mocked. "Light the arrows," said the voice, colder than before.

  Flaming shafts dipped in pitch arched through the bars, landing among the storehouse’s supplies. Sacks of wool and piles of dry hay began to smolder, sending thick, acrid smoke curling toward the ceiling. The cavern, meant to be their salvation, was becoming a tomb.

  "Cover your mouths!" Gerty cried, tearing strips from her dress and soaking them in a mule’s water trough.

  Yami grabbed Gerty’s arm and pulled her further back, where the cavern narrowed into a lightless slit. Behind a wooden shelf used for tools, there was a secret. Ordinarily, Yami could have moved the heavy oaken shelf alone, but now he leaned on Gerty, their combined strength sliding it aside to reveal a small, jagged crawlspace.

  "Where does it lead?" Gerty coughed, the smoke stinging her eyes.

  Yami looked into the dark hole, his face pale but determined.

  "To a place of hope.”