The square of Loheim was a beautiful place. The well water was cool and tasted so fresh, and the kids would sometimes lower each other in to see how deep it went. People from all walks of life frequented the market for the variety of fruits and vegetables. Admittedly, it was my favorite place to steal some apples to split with the younger kids. Then there was Mr. Logroth. He was an orc, but he was a really nice older man who told us stories now and again from the travelers who passed through town. And the all time best part of the whole square was the Briar Tower. The old clock tower had been covered in brambles and thorns for decades, and kids used to dare each other to climb to the top. I got halfway before I gave up, but Tomas liked to boast that he made it to the top, easy as lying. Nobody believed him.

Now the well lay crumbling, the market stalls were toppled with their contents rolling upon the ground, stomped and broken beneath the feet of hundreds of trampling undead. Mr. Logroth sat upon his knees, several of the townsfolk kneeling with him. His arms, hulking and strong despite his old age, were wrapped around a small group of five or six children to shield them from the sight of the town in flames, its people slaughtered or being enslaved one by one. The Briar Tower was untouched, but I suspect that was more for them not trying to tear it down than any ineffectual effort on their part.

It was into this square we were carried, before the dead dropped our frozen bodies next to the townsfolk. Maybe fifty or so still lived from what used to be a thriving community of at least two hundred. Once we were set down, I could feel my limbs finally begin to respond, and I stood with a gasp. Mr. Logroth put a finger to his lips and gestured for us to remain very still. I looked around at the square's destruction; the raging fire, the torn buildings, the corpses laying strewn about. And then came the blowing of the horn again.

The undead stopped, some mid-step, and turned to the center of the square. Overhead loomed that skeletal figure in a robe as he began floating down toward us. And soaring about the sky above it was a winged creature, screeching and gliding slowly to the ground. With the sun and smoke, I couldn't see much beyond that. And then it landed. The undead floater and the beast beside it. A griffon, straight out of the stories. They always involved one person who rode a griffon into battle. "Sir Hamund!" I cried out.

But the man who dismounted from the beast was not my gallant paladin. His armor stained in soot, spikes adorning the pauldrons and blood across the chest plate. His golden hair seeming to almost have lost its shine, those blue hues of his eyes dulled. It was his form, but it wasn't him. It had his face, but there was no life in it. Had he died and been brought back by this...thing?

"Sir Hamund!" I stood, waving him down as the robed figure pointed a finger at me, my body seizing up mid wave. Sir Hamund held up a hand, and the figure lowered his finger. There was no way. Absolutely no way.

"Little one." That once angelic voice was now sharp as steel, a gentle melody replaced by venom. I could feel the malice radiating off of him, like a heavy wave, a blanket of crushing dread. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't move. I wanted to scream, but my voice was muted. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. I was afraid of him.

Then I noticed something I did not think possible. The great blade Valkyrie, Sir Hamund's sacred weapon, was not with him. Surely, he wouldn't leave it somewhere? Or worse...

I realize it was foolish naivete, but you have to remember that I was a child. In the span of a day my whole world was turned upside down; my town attacked, people slaughtered, I saved my number one tormentor, and now I was captured for some dark purpose with the hero of my dreams not at all acting heroic. Sometimes, the mind deals with reality by...not dealing with reality. I wanted to hold on to the belief that this was all a bad dream.

But it wasn't. This was all too real. The skeletal figure pulled back the hood of his robe, revealing a face mostly composed of bone and tendons, eyes glowing like rubies. "Citizens of Loheim, rejoice! Zerak the Terrible greets you, and welcomes you into his fold. You are to be taken from this place and allowed to participate in my experiments." The figure, Zerak, extended a bony hand and grinned, as well as one can when one's face is already just a smiling skull. "All you need to do is bow and accept me as your new ruler."

"To Hells with you." Mr. Logroth stood, the children he was covering hiding behind him. "The only ruler we have is His Royal Majesty, King Gram Estola Zorhana. You're no king. You're just a floating bag of bones. And bones can be broken." The orc charged, and then I realized why he covered the children. He wasn't protecting them. He was hiding a pair of maces. Mr. Logroth had been a warrior in his youth, and that might did not diminish with age. He hit one foe after another, smashing flesh and bone with his maces like they were toys.

As he approached Zerak, however, Sir Hamund stepped in front. Drawing a longsword, he brought it down on Mr. Logroth, cutting through his chest so deeply, I thought for a moment it had cut him in half. But the orc persevered, a flame flashing in his eyes like that of a predator. Swinging both maces, they collided with Sir Hamund's armor, but did not even put a dent in them. Sir Hamund looked down at his armor, then back at Mr. Logroth.

"Any last words?" His voice was smooth, seeming to echo around us. Mr. Logroth raised his maces to swing again, that fierce orcish howl reverberating in the air, but Sir Hamund struck first. At the moment the blade touched the orc's flesh, it glowed with an unnaturally dark energy. Rather than simply cutting through, the flesh shriveled and withered, as though Mr. Logroth had aged another three decades in the span of three seconds. In three more, he fell, a husk of a good man left to rot on the ground.

"You have two choices. Surrender yourselves to Zerak, or die. Make your choice carefully." Sir Hamund's voice echoed despite being at an even tone. Death or subjugation. Enslavement or a grave. My thoughts raced, my heart pounded, my mind snapped.

Rage at his betrayal fueled my legs, which had moments before given up on me. The fury of loss filled my shaking hands as I grabbed the shovel the brainless zombies had not thought to take from us. Wrath erupted from me, a cry of pain and anger so swelled in its hatred of this one single man, a hate I'd never experienced even for Tomas. Adrenaline moved me toward him, and before I could think of what I was doing, it was done. A cut crossing from his right eye, over his nose, and down to his left cheek. He barely reacted aside from a wince, before bringing his sword down to me. There was pain, more pain that I've ever felt before or since, and darkness came over me.