Marius looked to his mother with a frown as a strange voice echoed out over the town; his frown deepening as he heard howls bounce through the trees outside. He heard his father curse downstairs, then watched in terror as monstrous beasts crashed through the upstairs windows, and tore his mother and sister apart.

He fell back in horror as one ripped into his sister's rib cage and ate at her spilling innards, causing her screams to fall short. He stumbled back, away from the terror. Fleeing from the room, he tripped and fell down the stairs, to find his father wielding an axe in one hand and brandishing a flaming log in the other; fighting back rotting, walking dead men that poured in through the front door. Marius lay at the foot of the stairs, half-concussed, and watched as his father became overwhelmed by the flood of undead, falling back as rusted knives and swords were plunged into his chest over and over. He was still alive as the undead dragged him, gurgling, from the house.

The flaming log, which now smouldered, and the axe, which was now blunted, lay discarded upon the floor. The crunching, growling, and snapping from upstairs could be heard amongst the screams of terror and howls from outside as Marius pulled himself to his knees and vomited, overcome by the sudden destruction of his home.

He wiped the bile from his face, and raised himself unsteadily to his feet. Marius swayed over to where his father's discarded weapons lay and picked them up. Fear gripped him as he felt the axe in his hand, slick with the blood of his father, and then he looked to the smouldering log. The crunching, munching sounds of the beasts upstairs could be heard over the screams outside, and Marius felt sickness and nausea flood through him as he thought of them coming down to meet him. The fire still burned brightly in the hearth, tended by his father’s last moments. He looked at the log in his hand once more, and feeling tears drip down from his face, he plunged its end into the hearth. Flames lit the wood; sensing the warmth grow, he pulled the log from the fire. Then, as he sobbed uncontrollably, Marius set his home alight, burning all he could.

He watched for a moment as the flames raged, and then, finding the heat too hot, Marius threw the log at the base of the stairs, and ran out through the shattered front door.

He heard the howls of agony from his mother and sister’s killers, and felt a slight grim satisfaction at their demise, yet drowned by his sorrow. As he stood in the street with the blood of his neighbours lapping around his ankles, Marius felt all emotion wash away. He heard nothing but the sound of his own heart and saw nothing but red. Blood, ash, and soot bathed his rugged, northern appearance; his dark hair was clotted with bile and he could taste its sting upon his tongue. Crimson splashed up across his face and body like war paint, taken from the lifeblood spilled by his father across the floor.

Then, after the silent disconnection of his misery, the world came back. The screams and howls could still be heard, although they had moved on from where he stood shaking. Only silence followed them, but he wondered how he could still hear them as clearly as if they were no more than a step away.

He moved down the street, keeping close to the shadows with his father’s axe raised. He felt the blood splash about his legs and fought to keep himself from breaking down again. A sudden rage began to burn deeply within him, but it was tempered by the disgust, horror, and suddenness of his situation. He looked back at his burning home for the last time before turning away at the end of his street.

He could still hear the screams clearly, and now he ran towards them. He sprinted through the flowing red streets as a ghost. Shadows flitted past him and the undead broke through doors and windows in their mission of extermination. He slowed his pace and came to a halt to see the town's guards and mayor fighting back a small horde of undead. In desperation, they held the animated corpses at bay with axes like his own, but Marius looked on as wargs fell from the roof upon the defenders, who in turn fell upon the cobbles with curdling screams.

He fled, ashamed of his own cowardice –ran into the darkest alley he could find and hid behind a stack of barrels, shivering from head to toe in fear. He emptied the remaining contents of his stomach, and knelt silently in a convulsive fever. Blood still lapped at his feet, leaking through his leather boots and squelching between his toes. A dismembered eye floated past, and Marius felt himself swoon with equal measures of disgust and disbelief. He watched the alley's entrance in silent fright as the blood rippled out from an unknown source and dimmed to black.

The blood began to retract as an ominous green glow lit up the dark streets, and he edged out from his hiding spot, still clutching his father's axe. He peeked out from the alley's entrance; it opened out onto the town's central square, and as Marius watched, a strange man knelt, chanting just off-centre from a huge mound of corpses. Rusted weapons stuck out at strange angles, and the corpses themselves seemed to glow green. The black blood that drowned the cobblestones of the town flowed into this glowing green mound of the dead, and then, all of a sudden, the corpses began to move.

Marius stared in horror as the mound of dead townsfolk climbed off each other and formed files and ranks in front of the strange man, whilst more of the undead piled out from various houses and streets to form up with the others. Marius fought to keep control as he watched the people he had known all his life line up before this demon. Boys he had fought and played with stood green-eyed, holding vacant expressions. Some had lost arms or hands whilst others still had rusty swords, knives or axes sticking out at odd angles.

Rage boiled within Marius then and he knew that this crowned demon must be the architect behind the death of his family and the sudden slaughter of his town. This evil stood up and faced three hooded figures that Marius had not noticed before, and the middle figure dropped its hood to reveal a ghostly woman. She had a fierce expression that froze Marius to his bones, with a single red scar that ran down the side of her face to finish off her terrifying visage. She looked at the man, and seemed anxious and scared. She said something that Marius couldn't hear from his hiding spot, but he heard the demon's response. It was a voice that echoed through the square, different from the chanting voice he had used before; this was a voice that sounded as if from ages past.

The response sounded final, as a prophesy.

Marius could take no more. He had seen his family butchered and had killed the monsters that had butchered them. He had seen the people he had grown up with killed and then turned into the very things that had killed them. He had waded through bile, blood, vomit, and any number of other substances, and now this strange demonic being had said that this was only the beginning.

His tempered rage was now shattered, broken into a brittle edge. Marius decided at that point that enough was enough, and gripping his father's axe with both hands, he charged. He thought that he cried out but didn't hear it. All he heard was the pounding of his feet and heart, and all he knew was the flaming emotion that burned within him. His blood-drenched boots hammered against the cobblestones, with his father's axe in his hands aimed at its target. The white woman, Serlaena, stared in amazement as Marius leaped, raising the axe high above his head, and with all his might brought it down upon the spiked crown.

Marius hung there in mid-air, his eyes bulging as he gasped for breath. His father's axe lay shattered into pieces upon the floor, and two black pupils glittered inches in front of his face, dancing in the green and orange lights which surrounded the destruction of the town. The crimson edges seemed to flicker and swirl around the darkness within, and in horror Marius stared into the two, glowing eyes of the demon he had tried to destroy.

From the darkness, the demon laughed. The sound was charming, as if a spell in itself. The man released his grip upon Marius, but somehow still controlled him. Marius gulped down air, and then started as he realised that he was floating about a foot from the ground. The demon had reigned in his laughter, and stood looking up at Marius.

He spoke in his ageless voice, "You are brave, boy; very brave to attempt a strike upon me, to face the personification of death and to charge instead of yielding."

Marius floated in front of his death now and accepted it as the demon continued to speak.

“It’s such a shame."

The being of death flicked his wrist, and sent Marius tumbling through the courtyard until he smashed into a solid stone wall. He felt his bones crush against the stone and sharp rocks cut deeply into him. Plumes of blood spurted from his body, and Marius felt a cold searing pain creep from the wounds into the rest of his body. The blood flow slowed, and as Marius looked on from his crumpled state, he saw the crowned demon and his shadowy followers float away. He heard the unified crunch of an army's footsteps and the padding of paws slink past, and knew at that moment that he had been left for dead.

...

Olaf stood upon a ridge and looked down at the smouldering town. He pulled up the collar of his leather overcoat against the rain that pattered down upon the coals around him, which in turn hissed into black ash. The silver lion-head pauldron that was strapped onto his shoulder shone against the grey sky and reflected the devastation that his eyes saw.

A brisk wind jostled the charred branches that surrounded him, and picked at his shoulder-length white hair and beard. His braided moustache drooped at either side of his mouth and was bound at his chin in a cross. Olaf’s aged face bore the scars of many battles, and his hulking frame stood in defiance of the years he had lived. Mystic blue swirling runes ran the length and breadth of his body, giving his already massive, awe-inspiring figure a godlike dimension. As he stood there, two heads taller than any other man and three times broader, he surveyed his opponent's work with critical, analysing eyes, searching for any sign of survivors.

Olaf slowly circled around the smouldering remains of Stonehill, pausing at each homestead in desperate hope of survivors. He discovered none; only the massacred livestock remained, and very little was present of their rotting corpses. Olaf pushed on, losing hope with every step; the only signs of life consisted of the massive tracks of a great host that broke through the forest's undergrowth. But they were the cause, and this black and smoking landscape was the effect.

He finally reached the tattered outskirts of Stonehill. A mixture of paw prints and footprints littered the churned up, blood-drenched mud, and the further into the town Olaf stalked, the more chaotic the prints became.

The rain ran off from the rooves and gutters and began to cleanse the town's crimson streets. The blood-stained water welled in the drains and flooded the streets, cleaning the intestines, limbs, and various other body parts out of the cobblestones. Olaf stood knee-deep in the oncoming flood, surveying the town's main street. His leather boots filled and saturated his feet in the freezing overflow of the town, and his overcoat's tails flew out behind him in the wind and rain as he stood in a stoic stance against the elements.

From his back, Olaf unsheathed a giant blade of amazing beauty. The golden hilt was little wider than that of the blade itself, and carved upon it were blue runes that shimmered and glowed, matching the ones that ran across his skin. The blade was longer than that of most men, and wider than a blacksmith's arm; it too had blue runes carved along its length, and the metal seemed to shine silver.

The blade flew from his shoulder, down through the storm, slicing raindrops as it came, and landed between his drowning feet. The blade embedded itself, tip first, into the cobbled streets, and parted the flood around him, temporarily sheltering Olaf from the wind and rain. He looked back in search of more suitable shelter, and with a grunt, wrenched his blade from the street and leapt sideways into a vacant doorway. He lent against the wall and prepared to wait out the storm.

He slid down, and sat on the stone steps that led out onto the flooded street, leaning his sword against the door's frame and peeling off his boots to allow the crimson water to cascade out. Half of a dismembered ear fell from the small torrent as he shook the remaining liquid from his right boot.

Olaf looked to the diluted red of the streaming river that now flowed over the main street next to him. Smashed cupboards, broken tables, and various other splintered and scattered household objects floated past upon the red and white rapids that swirled viciously out from the town. Olaf kept vigilant throughout the oncoming storm, prepared for anything as the sky turned as black as coal, leaving the day to fly somewhere else. The rain continued to fall and the rapids became more perilous, forcing Olaf to relocate to higher ground as the flood rose. Now the higher floors of the abandoned houses served as his shelter.

The storm still wore on and Olaf sat resolute, looking from his window out at the drowning town. The diluted red of the water had all but rinsed the last of the gore that littered the town, but also washed away the hope of any survivors. The only signs of the former residents floated downstream, and were cloaked in crimson and awash in offal. The dark clouds above seemed to lighten a little, and the rain thinned from its downpour into a falling mist.

Olaf came away from his window and sheathed his sword. He looked down at his saturated boots and muttered under his breath. His blue tattoos glowed, and steam rose from the soaked footwear, satisfying Olaf as he pulled on his now dry and toasty warm boots. He made his way through the abandoned house until he came to the front door, which lay splintered upon the drenched floor from where he had kicked it down.

The flood outside began to recede, and the clouds parted to show a red sky that blazed across the uppermost clouds, breaking through in beams onto the surrounding hills, painting them with a pinkish tinge. A rainbow soared over the hills, giving light to Olaf’s heart after such a day of darkness and despair.

With a little hope renewed, Olaf started out once more, determined to find something before darkness fell. He allowed himself a small smile as he began searching through the abandoned houses and checking every alley as he stalked through the town. At long last, as the day's last hour began to pass, after he had checked every building and outhouse leading into the centre of town, Olaf cautiously crept into the central town square. Its stone buildings and dark alleyways looked ominous, and just by glancing at it Olaf felt all hope seep from his heart. He was just about to move on when something caught his eye.

A muddled heap of driftwood and other material collected against the corner of one of the alleyways leading out from the central square. Amongst it, blood seeped out from an unknown source.

Olaf drew his sword, and as he crept closer, he made out an arm protruding from the heap at a strange angle. And then a shoulder, followed by a torso. As Olaf came to within a few yards of where this body lay, he saw its chest rise and fall. He sheathed his blade, and immediately began pulling the driftwood away from the figure in a desperate hope of rescue.