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The first village we encountered was still bathed in the soft glow of the sun. At first glance, it appeared to be a typical farming community.
Only an eerie silence hanging in the air hinted at the truth.
The village, while small, seemed unusually abandoned. We rode past modest cottages, their doors hanging ajar, and glimpsed dishes still set on the table, food left in pots on the hearth.
Dark red stains covered the floors of many homes.
But I saw no bodies.
One of our horses whinnied uneasily. A noise from ahead had drawn the animal’s attention.
Near a simple wooden house, a woman sat on the steps outside with a little boy crouched morosely beside her, scratching lines in the dirt with a stick.
In front of the woman lay a fallen soldier. At first glance, I assumed the man had been brought back from the battlefield, a conscript in my father’s war.
I peered at the body curiously. So not all of the foot soldiers had been fae.
Previously obscured by the anonymity of his dark armor and the black metal mask all of the infantry had worn, now the man’s face lay exposed. His mask rested a few feet away from him, as if it had rolled there when the woman pulled it off her loved one’s body.
We rode quietly closer. As we neared, a chill went through me.
The soldier was no man. At least not any longer.
The man lying on the ground had been grotesquely transformed. What lay before the woman was a fusion of humanity and something else entirely.
The figure’s skin was a sickly shade of olive, its brutish features contorted into a grimace of eternal agony. Ragged gashes and lacerations criss-crossed the creature’s face, as if it had been whipped before being sent out into the battle. Tufts of coarse hair covered a misshapen skull, matted with blood and dirt.
Beside me, I heard Lancelet make a sharp, whimpering sound. I knew what she was being reminded of.
I slid from my horse and forced myself towards the woman.
“What happened here?”
For a moment, she didn’t answer. Finally she lifted her face.
“We hid when they came home.”
“Home?” I shook my head, not understanding. “Was this man your husband?”
“Was.”
I looked at the man again and, for the first time, realized how he had died.
A pitchfork had been thrust through his chest, pinning him to the ground.
“There’s a hole in the cellar. We hid there. But he came again. You don’t know what you can do until you have to protect your child.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Even from his own father.” She placed a hand on the little boy’s head who still played by her side, as if he were oblivious to the gruesome sight nearby.
I nodded, then reached into my pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch and set it down beside her. “Coin. For the journey.”
“Journey?”
“You can’t stay here,” I said as gently as I could. “It’s only a two day journey by foot. Take your child and go to Tintagel. Tell them...” I hesitated upon which title and name to use. Which one would inspire the least fear in this poor woman? “Tell them Morgan Pendragon sent you. Ask for Galahad. When you see him, tell him I said you are to be cared for.”
She touched a hand to the purse as if uncertain it was real but made no reply.
I walked back to my horse and took the reins, leading it as we moved slowly through the rest of the village.
Most of the younger men and women from the village must have been taken to form foot soldiers in my father’s powerful army.
