Blacwin was roused awake. And of all times at the middle of night.

He grumbled as he stirred, still groggy and muddled from his delicious few moments of sleep. A dull throb clinched his jaw. A germ of a headache started to flower. And the strain from yesterday's labor had yet to leave enough to refresh his weary body.

"Wake up, son. Something is happening," his father said.

"It's probably just another brawl over some bread," Blacwin muttered. It wasn't unusual, a trade gone wrong. A thing like that occurred almost every night.

"No. Open your eyes. This is different." His voice was low, grave. Like when they had to flee home at a moment's notice.

Though sluggish as a drunken snake, the boy sat with immediacy. Fear stirred his stomach, and nerves clenched his heart. A commotion was coming from outside. Heavy footfalls upon mud. The clink and clank of chainmail and armor. Urgent hushes. Muted, undulating tops of torches flickered past the canvas tent. Many, many torches. So much so that it was bright enough to look around when normally the tent was impenetrably dark at night.

"My armor and belt," his father commanded.

Hastily, Blacwin clawed up the false floor. He coughed as a kick of dirt flew into his face.

"Quickly!"

"Sorry." With watery eyes and gritty throat, he grabbed and tossed the gear out from the dugout.

Many times the boy had watched his father don the garbs of a warrior, first the gambeson, next the chainmail. Blacwin went to help his father into the gambeson when he shook his head.

"Help me with the belt and scabbard." His father stood shakily with the help of his sword.

Blacwin wrapped the belt around his father's waist and buckled it tightly. Despite missing an arm, he still looked like a proper warrior. The sword slipped snuggly into the scabbard, this length of black leather and steel. A sort of vitality returned to the weakened man. Bolstered him even, like a freshly hammered blade quenched in water. A fire poured back into his soul.

Something shifted outside. A clamber of steel. An outbreak of screams. Terror shot through his heart. His knees shook at the sound. Memories of teeth and claws and blood flooded him in uncontrollably. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks. Shadows of frightened people blurred past the tent.

His father knelt down, looked the boy in the eyes. "You must stay strong, do you hear?"

"I don't know if I can."

"Of course you can! You are my blood. My son. A warrior dwells within you as much as it does within me."

Blacwin sniffled hard. "I'm so scared, father. I keep seeing mother's face." In the brief moment of dark whenever he blinked her face appeared, no longer kind nor human, only jagged angles and rows upon rows of teeth.

His father embraced as much affection as a lone arm could will. "As long as I am here, you have nothing to be afraid of. Nothing. Do you understand?" Blacwin gave a hesitant nod. "How would you like to wear my gambeson and chainmail?"

His eyes grew wide. "Are you certain?"

"I'd be greatly honored if you do."

Blacwin beamed at the opportunity. To emulate his father, even on a superficial level, excited him more than anything else. Fear and nerves washed away as his old man buckled him into the gambeson, the garment soft and black and light compared to the heavy steel chainmail. They were a size too large on the boy, looking like a dress almost. But Blacwin didn't care. He ran his hand over the rings and bumps from the rivets. It made him feel powerful. Like a warrior.

"You look good. Strong." His father patted him on the chest. It replenished the confidence in Blacwin somewhat, to know as weak as he was, there was a kernel of strength within him that had yet to sprout. "Now hop onto my back and don't let go."

Pandemonium ravaged the refugee camp. Flames danced upon tents. For a moment Blacwin feared that Lord Reynmeer had ordered his soldiers to torch the camp, to be rid of the hungry mouths he loved so much to exploit and abuse for labor. Except the soldiers with swords, spears, shields and torches ignored him and his father as they scrambled past. Refugees followed. Blacwin attempted to crane his neck over the flames, over the crowns of panicked people, into the dark. It was worse than he thought.

Born from the black of night, sculpted into the stuff of nightmares, a menagerie of horrors came stumbling into the light.

Snarling.

Drooling.

Gnashing.

Dashing.

Wretched beasts. With either too many limbs, too many teeth, too many eyes, too many mouths. One such monstrosity, a beast with a massive mouth and two flailing tongues, grasped a woman, delivered her into its jaws and bit down. Another with lengthy limbs and an equine skull raised a set of claws as long as scythes and slashed, rending a group of people into bloody chunks that slopped onto the mud. A half-burnt, two-headed portly beast lumbered forward. His father drew his sword, the steel mercurial in the fiery surging light. Blacwin held onto him tightly.

The ground shook as though the earth itself panicked as the half-burnt beast charged. His father stayed rooted, his knuckles ivory white around the sword. Blacwin buried his face into the back of his father's neck. It was unbearable to watch. He was already struggling not to cry again. Once the shaking grew the most violent, his father pivoted, twirled, then something akin to a felled tree collapsed to the ground, roaring all the way down. Blacwin peeked up to snatch a glance. The half-burnt beast laid motionless in the mud.

His father panted like dog, his pounding heart felt from his back. More beasts manifested from the flames and the dark. Sheathing his sword, they took flight. Boots slapped the mud. Blacwin did not dare look back, lest he lost his grip in a moment of fright. goose flesh rippled throughout his body as savage sounds dogged them closely. It felt as though powerful jaws could snap his head off at any given time. His father pumped his legs harder, churning the muddy ground beneath him. The gate grew closer. Salvation was within reach. Then he skidded to a stop.

The gate was choked with people, all trying to jockey over each other to get through. However, a shield wall of soldiers barred them from stepping nearer as spears thrusted into bellies, shields bashed into faces, as wagons filled to toppling with potatoes, carrots, wheat and onions were pulled by oxen into the castle walls. Soon the refugees resorted to begging when throwing themselves into spearheads proved ineffective. It angered Blacwin that any of them had to petition for their lives, which according to these soldiers were worth less than an ugly tuber.

Begging did not work either. After the wagons were through, the tall wrought iron gate started to descend as the shield wall pulled back. Desperation reached a fever pitch as the refugees surged forward, disregarding the spears. Plenty more bodies carpeted the gate, gouged open so heartlessly. Archers shot at the hysterical mob from the parapet on the wall. Too many laid unnecessarily dead when the gates finally fell shut.

His father cursed loudly. Looked around for anywhere else to flee to. Except there was none. No escape as the fire ate through the refugee camp. And the hideous beasts were closing in.