As Harrold and Anthrak drew near Tandor, the night sky blazed with an orange glow, as though a million fireflies had ignited the horizon. The wind carried faint, anguished screams, and the air grew heavy with the sharp, acrid stench of charred flesh. Tandor, a sprawling town of over two thousand souls, was ill-equipped for such an assault. Unlike a fortified city, it lacked a moat or drawbridge, relying instead on a flimsy wooden palisade and a handful of weathered guard towers. With no standing garrison, its defense rested on a modest band of guardsmen—hardly a match for what now engulfed it.


    “Gods above,” Anthrak muttered, wrinkling his nose. “I can smell the burning from here. I think it’s bodies.”


    “Focus,” Harrold snapped, his gaze fixed ahead. “And keep your eyes peeled.”


    “We should turn back. We’re in grave danger. We need to avoid the town.”


    “Toughen up, you wretch!” Harrold bellowed, his patience fraying. “I’m sick of your endless whining. Even Basilius has more spine than you—and he doesn’t moan about smells or goblins.”


    “You’re right. Even the horse outdoes me. I need to harden myself—become tough like Basilius.”


    Harrold exhaled a plume of pipe smoke, eyeing him warily. “That better not be sarcasm. You know I despise it.”


    “No sarcasm, Harrold,” Anthrak insisted earnestly. “I mean it. I want to be as steadfast as Basilius.”


    “You’d better…and once we’re back at my father’s castle, I’m teaching you to wield a sword.”


    “A servant with a sword? I’ve never needed one before.”


    “You need to grow some grit,” Harrold retorted. “It’s past time you learned combat. When Lord Mudrak invades, you’ll be fighting—whether you like it or not.”


    “You’re right. I’ll need to fight and to be strong like Basilius.”


    “Of course I’m right,” Harrold said, puffing out his chest. “Mudrak’s amassed a vast army to seize my father’s kingdom, and you’ll be expected to stand and die with honor.”


    “I’ll learn to fight and fall nobly, my prince. But remind me—why’s Mudrak invading again?”


    “I’ve told you a thousand times. He’s after our gold mines. He ignored us until we struck riches.”


    “That’s vile,” Anthrak said, shaking his head. “Utterly vile.”


    “Mudrak’s a ruthless cur, coveting what’s ours. Now, let’s hasten to Tandor and see what’s afoot.”


    “There’s so much fire down there,” Anthrak observed, staring at the glow.


    “Yes, I can see that.”


    “Will there be goblins?”


    “Plenty, I’d wager. And you’d better slay any you spot.”


    “I’ll try, Harrold,” Anthrak vowed faintly. “I’ll try.”


    They descended the hill, crossing darkened fields until they reached Tandor’s outskirts. At the wooden gates, a harrowing scene unfolded: corpses—human and goblin alike—lay strewn across the ground, the air thick with the reek of burning flesh. Just beyond the gate, a woman knelt, sobbing as she cradled a wounded soldier. His head rested in her lap, and she dabbed his brow with a damp cloth. “Please wake up, my love,” she wept. “Please.”


    Harrold dismounted Basilius and approached her. “Is he dead?”


    “Dying,” she choked out. “He’s slipping away.”


    “How many goblins?” Harrold pressed.


    “He’s my husband,” she cried, clutching the soldier tighter. “He was a town guard.”


    “How many goblins? When did they strike?”


    “At sunset,” she said, tears streaming. “Hordes of them poured from the forest, cutting down everyone—farmers in the fields, women, children.”


    “Bracken goblins?” Anthrak ventured timidly.


    “No,” she sobbed. “They bore the banner of the pale moon.”


    “Thrakka?” Harrold’s eyes narrowed. “Goblins from Thrakka?”


    “The guards tried to hold them…but there were too many. Wave after wave broke the gates. It was slaughter—pure butchery.


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    “Thrakka goblins?” Anthrak echoed, turning to Harrold. “From the north?”


    “The horror,” the woman wailed. “The sheer horror!”


    “This isn’t good,” Harrold muttered, drawing deeply on his pipe. “Is the town master alive? I need to speak with him.”


    “No one’s left,” she the woman cried. “They’re all dead. The town’s rubble now—don’t you hear it burning?”


    “We should go around,” Anthrak suggested. “There’s nothing to do here.”


    “We’re not skirting it,” Harrold said, unsheathing his sword. “We’re going in.” He mounted Basilius again and trotted through the gate, Anthrak trailing reluctantly behind.


    Within Tandor, chaos reigned. Piles of bodies lined the streets, their screams mingling with the roar of flames. The fire burned a fierce red, smoke choking the air as ash fell like grim snowflakes.


    “This is ghastly,” Anthrak said, his voice trembling. “Truly ghastly.”


    “Toughen up!” Harrold barked. “What did you expect?”


    “Forgive me. I can’t stomach it. It makes me anxious. I feel like I’m going to faint.’


    “There will be no fainting today, and when Mudrak’s armies arrive, you’ll see worse. We have no time for your nerves.”


    “You’re right. I must adapt. I mustn''t faint.’


    As they passed a blazing church, a goblin lunged from the shadows, axe raised, its yellowed teeth glinting. “You cheeky fuckers should’ve stayed home,” it cackled. “I’ll carve you to pieces!”


    Basilius, ever vigilant, wheeled to face the threat. In a flash, Harrold leapt from the saddle, sword drawn. The goblin swung its axe, but Harrold dodged and parried, then cleaved its head clean off with a single stroke. Blood sprayed like dark ribbons, and the creature crumpled.


    “Anthrak, you spineless cur!” Harrold roared, sheathing his blade. “Get back here!”


    Anthrak emerged from beneath a cart, brushing off dirt. “I’m sorry, Harrold. I’m such a coward.”


    Harrold seized his arm. “If we’re to reach my father’s castle alive, I need you with me—not cowering in mud. I can’t have you bolting at every shadow.”


    “Forgive me, it’s my nature. After my father’s death, violence undoes me.”


    Harrold’s expression softened briefly. “Stick close and stay alert. We don’t know how many more lurk here.”


    He took Basilius’s reins and led the horse down a cobbled street, Anthrak following. Amid the carnage, a man limped from a burning tavern, sword in hand, an arrow protruding from his leg.


    “Oi!” Harrold called. “You there!”


    The man turned and hobbled over. “Who are you? Travelers? Merchants?”


    “I’m Prince Harrold, son of King Hocken. This is my servant, Anthrak.”


    “My prince,” the guard rasped, bowing awkwardly. “I didn’t recognize you.”


    “No formalities,” Harrold said. “What happened here?”


    “Goblins from Thrakka, sire. Hundreds. They hit at dusk and breached the northern wall.”


    “You’re sure they were Thrakka’s?”


    “Aye, they flew the pale moon banner,” the guard confirmed, wiping blood from his face. “They slaughtered without mercy. We pushed them out, but at a terrible cost. Too many good men fell.”


    “How many guards remain?”


    “Most are dead.”


    “The town master—is he alive?” Harrold pressed. “I must speak with him.”


    “He died fighting. The goblins took his head, mounted it on a pike, and paraded it through the streets.”


    “I’m going to faint,” Anthrak mumbled, sinking to the ground and burying his head between his knees.


    “Get up!” Harrold snapped, kicking him. “No time for that.” To the guard, he said, “What do you need?”


    “Flee, sire. Flee now and don’t turn back.”


    “Yes, let’s go,” Anthrak agreed, scrambling up. “He’s right.”


    “I can fight,” Harrold insisted. “Tell us where to stand.”


    “The town’s lost,” the guard said. “Goblins still prowl the woods. It’s only a matter of time before they come back.”


    “I’ll not be driven off.”


    “You’re a fine swordsman, I’m sure,” the guard said, gripping Harrold’s shoulder, “but you must leave. Go to the capital and send for aid.”


    “That’s wise,” Anthrak interjected. “We should go.”


    A horn blared in the distance, followed by the ominous thud of drums.


    “What’s that?” Anthrak asked, voice trembling. “What in the bloody hell is that!”


    “Goblin war drums,” the guard said. “They’re rallying for a second wave.”


    “Then we’ll face them,” Harrold declared. “Drive them back.”


    “No, sire,” the guard said sternly. “The first was their vanguard. This is the main force. You can’t win this. You must flee.”


    “Let’s flee,” Anthrak pleaded. “Now. Flee to safety and then send for help.”


    “I’m no coward,” Harrold retorted. “I’ll fight to the end. Goblins won’t hold my father’s land.”


    “Only a fool fights a hopeless battle,” the guard countered. “Flee, my prince. Tell the king we died bravely—like true soldiers.”


    The drums grew louder, shouts rising from the walls. Harrold hesitated, then relented. “Fine. Let’s go.”


    “Thank the gods,” Anthrak breathed.


    “We’ll send help from the capital,” Harrold told the guard. “I’ll tell my father what happened here. You Shall not be forgotten.”


    “Yes, we’ll send aid,” Anthrak added, “once we’re safe and warm.”


    The guard smiled faintly. “Go now, young prince. May the spirits guide you.” He limped toward the ramparts and vanished into the smoke.


    “Climb up,” Harrold said, offering Anthrak his hand.


    Anthrak clambered onto Basilius’s back, clutching Harrold tightly. “Let’s move—before they catch us.”


    “Hold fast,” Harrold said, spurring Basilius into a gallop. The horse surged through the desolate streets, leaping an iron fence and bursting through the northern gate into the open meadows beyond. Glancing back, Harrold saw goblin hordes spilling from the woods, their frenzied cries piercing the night as flaming arrows arced skyward. He knew Tandor would fall by dawn.