Cadavers, cadavers, cadavers for the crows! The maggots danced, and the fire spun high above, just between the hays and unturned stone! Sir Galwerth rushed through the keep's passageways. Outside, he swallowed a lungful of the cold air and began his laborious ascend of the stone steps that corkscrewed like tower before the third floor. The oaken door stood before him now. Heavy like a stone with the cast-iron bars and bolts to hold its structure. Usually, he would knock, but this is a matter of urgency. Old Jack surely will forgive him for his impoliteness, he thought. He pulled the ring-knob with all he had. Through the high narrow windows of the Northwind Keep, the light spilt across the floor, laying dark red stripes upon the walls where the flower-crowned heads of dragons hung. The Old Commander sat still upon the simple wooden seat of Lord Commander of Northwind, woodwork with no ornaments but simple carvings. It was, quite the opposite from the tale of knights and soldiers, a simple but agreeable and comfortable chair, and never more so than now, merciful to the Old Commander with his backside. And so was the table. Lord Commander Jack Amberville spend most of his time here. Nobles had come and go, sit in the front of his table and had to accept the reality that Northwind only answer to the realm. "Pardon me, sire," he shouted. But what he found inside the room is not the Old Jack alone. There was also Scholar Rithdan. A frail young man who often came to bring some books and comfort to the Old Jack. Additionally, a master healer. Both of them looked at him. "Where?" Jack inquired immediately as he also heard of the bell's tolls. His eyebrows met each other, and there was this deep rage in his eyes. The scholar could only bow down, and reply with silent prayer. Sir Galwerth took a breath. "Lommary." "Lommary," the old man pondered. "Any survivors?" "No." "Are you certain of that, sir?" the scholar encouraged himself to ask. He stirred uneasily, stuttering. "The villagers were no more. Men, women, and children. The bodies were burnt and hacked. They emptied the houses of valuables. The three riders said so." “Oh, dreadful,” murmured Scholar Rithdan. “How cruel can men be? Women, and children? Winter is coming in four-month...” "Set forth at once," the Lord Commander commanded. "Tell our scout party in Northbelt that they are to join us." Sir Galwerth pulled back at once. "Yes, sir." Lyle immediately joined the assembly and prepared for the ride. And they ride hard to the north. Old Jack ordered them to bring these scum to justice but they know that it was too late for the villagers of Lommary. The scout only said their destination and nothing more. When they came to see what happened there, it was already too late. The fire had already engulfed barns, fields, and houses. Men and women, no one survived. And the women's fate is worse than the men, raped before strangled or beaten to death. And their bodies were left to the crows and flies. Houses were sacked before set to fire. They have seen a massacre without discrimination. The village of Lommary was already dead. "It would be a miracle should there any survivors," Joey said. He saw black-burnt hands protruding from the ash of a house. Crows cawing as he walked around the burnt down house. "They've gone, sir. Gods, be merciful upon the dead. May their souls found their ways to your halls." He gestured then prayed. "We're a day behind whoever they are," Sir Galwerth drank some honey-wine from his skin while looking around from above of his mount. "They left with haste. You can see it from the tracks." Lyle swung off his horse. He pushed his gauntlet to the ground, comparing the after-mark with the horseshoe tracks. It was deep and fresh. "The tracks are like new."

"Assume we have a day to chase them," Sir Galwerth said as he runs his mare in a circle. "Send a scout ahead. We take rest for an hour. We may be waiting for our scouting party from Northbelt as well." "Mikhail, Willem. Bring six men. Scout the other settlements." Lyle's command is clear. Alten, Bertwood, and Domee are the nearest settlements from Lommary, reachable by riding for a day. Under command, they are set to search the main roads and conduct check on every traveller they came across. It was unfortunate for them who must go, for all of them, again, must ride in haste. The soldiers swung off their horses and took a rest. Some of them quickly fell asleep while gripping their weapons-of -arms. One-hour is better than nothing. Following Lyle, Sir Galwerth joined him to sit against a big boulder. Both of them only suited for night-sleep. "Fecking brigands," he said with great disdain. Lyle can't reply to that. It was wise to rest while you can. Should the scouting party returned, they must again, rode hard for battle. Lyle opens the conversation. "Water, sir?" Without saying anything, Sir Galwerth took the flask, and drink the water in a big gulp. He coughed wildly afterwards. "My days of glory had passed." Sir Galwerth's face is void of expression. The middle-aged knight declared that. "So did the Old Jack, sir. So did my father," he replied bluntly. "Their days of glory too had passed." Both of them laughed. "Oh, what a clot-head joke," the knight coughed again. Lyle stood up. "I think I will go for a walk and look around, sir. Maybe those brigands left something." He wasn't sure. "They didn't leave anything, boy. The granary was burned down. The houses, barns, all sacked. What are you looking for? Madness? Proof of madness is what you will found. Some of the men already thrown out the insides of their belly." "Nothing, sir," he lied. "My ass and legs are just raw from riding." He pulled back. Sir Galwerth let Lyle go as he too can't hide his fatigue. And Lyle walked the main road as he whistled. He couldn't tell anyone the request of the friar. The friar said as such: Down the road, hid at the base of the houses, and some of the places that maybe not seen by travellers. Lyle had left the camp, amidst all the commotion of the soldiers. The village of Lommary, along with Domee is just beyond the sprawl of castle and town. Houses hold nothing anymore as they're just a pile of cinders and ash. There was nothing left, he saw that. He passed the burnt-down farms. Somehow it had grown colder after that, and far more quiet. West of the road were flint hills, grey and rugged. Stone bridge spanned to cover the shallow river. Lyle knew the maps. There should be nothing there but he sensed something primal dwells there. He found it as he walks down the road near the woods. A small shrine with offerings; a cup of already-dried blood in front of a strangely shaped figurine of women, hid from the eyes of travellers. Not far from the altar there is a small hole for storing a book and parchments hid behind the briar. "Gods," he said, abashed. He didn't know what to say. Now he knows why the friar only asked him. He knows of the story, but he never listens until he saw it with his own eyes. Should the words of this scene came to the church, there will be a call for an inquisition. Some people in the north keep the old way, they worshipped the nature, spirits, and magical forces. No one must know. But again, whose fault is that? Villagers often uneducated, willingly to believe tall-tales and fables. The hands of the church didn't come this far to the north. The villagers must go to Altkeep, travelling one full day, only to pray and conduct weekly worship. They're peasants, some serfs, cattle raisers and farmers if not field workers. All they want is bountiful harvest, and safety. And again, travel, here, is not recommended unless in great need. It ends with the dead, Lyle said to himself as he wrecked the altar. He burns the figure along with the parchments. He took nothing but the book. For the friar, he told himself again. It was when Lyle noticed that there was smoke beyond the hill. There was only one village beyond the hill. "Domee," he said wanly. He rushed back to the camp, through the burnt fields and the barns. A hundred horse departed from Northwind yesterday, then now, from Lommary. A hundred men if not less galloping to the foothill, one day ahead is the limit for them to chase those marauders. Along the way, they were joined by twenty-five riders from Northbelt. "We ride hard, for Domee!!!" Sir Galwerth shouted with great anger. The men too shouted and gave the horses a trot. They didn't notice that dark primal forces walked on the lands, and Lyle too didn't notice the red eyes that watched him leaving the forest. With the dead, the sound whispered. So they have gone, and the crows, cawing, returned to Lommary.