The horn blared. Distant and faint, it signaled a string of other horns to follow suit, growing closer to the keep. The scattering of men and shuffling of feet alerted many of the impending attack, clanking armor fastened to trained warriors and swords at their sides. Drayke Korstead, the youngest son of Lord Ferand Korstead, sat frozen in his seat. The meat fell from his fork, merely inches from his parted lips as his elder brother laughed from the opposite side of the table. This was the third attempted raid in the last month.

“Just your luck, eh? C’mon. Be it rebels or men of honor, they won’t last long at Fangs Gate.” Malrick teased his younger brother, securing his blade to his belt.

“Just my luck? I am cursed! I’ll never eat pig again at this rate.” Drayke whined, spearing his fork into the table.

Horns blared louder this time, much closer to the keep and the young lords spared a look of surprise toward each other before hastily rushing to battle. Malrick took extra care when descending the stone stairwell, but Drayke seemed eager, skipping two and sometimes three steps with such confidence.

“They’ve breached Fangs Gate! Bastards are Sylnamick.” Ferand Korstead hollered when his sons joined him at the entrance to the keep, swords drawn.

Drayke had only briefly skimmed the history of magic practices in his studies, Sylnamicks were a forbidden form of manipulation. They required eye contact from the victim before taking hold of the fluids in their body. Like a puppet master with live puppets. Dangerous and often ruthless, the Sylnamicks were deranged from years of torture and often resorted to cannibalism.

“Drayke! Get ye head out of yer’ arse and move!” His father growled, shoving a helmet into the young lord’s chest.

Wasting no more time, Drayke donned the helmet and fastened it to his head, joining the line of armed men at the front gate to the keep. They all stood firmly whilst the shouts of their comrades echoed through the canyons path. Soon enough, the shouts stopped. An eerie silence befell the keep as the men waited, watching the end of the path warily.

“Father, what are we do—” Lord Korstead thrust his hand upward, silencing Malrick.

The horizon offered a strange sight to the remaining soldiers. One of their own men stood at the end of the path, his helmless head hung low. Drayke narrowed his eyes, the man was familiar. Normand was his name. He had spent his life training to become a soldier and they had shared many drinks after training, talking about his family and his aspirations. He was a good man. A loyal soldier. Lowering his gaze to the mans gloved hands, Drayke noticed that each finger twitched separately. Straining and clicking at the joints as if resisting the movement. The soldiers head snapped upward, eyes blank and staring nowhere in particular.

“Loose!” Ferand commanded sternly.

Drayke flinched when Normand was struck with two arrows. His body dropped to the ground, like a sack of supplies discarded on the road. Shrill shrieks followed the collapse of the body, more of their own men charging toward the keep. They moved unlike any soldier Drayke had seen, flinching, twitching and jerking their limbs. Normand’s corpse stood from the ground, following the rest of them as they charged closer. The men clashed with their fallen comrades, engaging in an endless battle. They fell and rose again, unrelenting and soulless. Malrick and Drayke fought back-to-back, leaving no space open for weakness. Though, it would not be long before the brothers grew weary.

“Brother, this is pointless. They won’t die!” Malrick growled, thrusting his sword into chest of an enemy.

Drayke thrust his knee into the face of another, “There has to be a source.”

Lord Ferand struggled to hold his own against three of them, his dual swords holding two at bay whilst his foot collided with the chest of the third. Desperately, Drayke gazed up at the canyon’s walls and there, upon the ledges, stood cloaked beings. Only ten or so of them. Their fingers protruded from the safety of the cloak’s sleeves, palms faced downward as if they were strumming a stringed instrument. Puppets. The thought struck the young lord, his heart rapidly beating in his ears.

“Archers!” Drayke suddenly shouted, pointing toward the hooded men. “Loose!”

A shower of Arrows fell upon the strange beings and one by one they fell from the ledges, landing upon the dusty ground beneath.

The acrid stench of Iron and blood grew as the clash of steel settled with the dust. Bodies lay motionless, scattered across the desolate canyon floor. It was over. Among the surviving soldiers, Drayke stood rigid, sword in hand and his helm securely over his head. Crimson stained the sandstone. It was nothing like the stories he had read, the tales of valiant knights and just punishments. It was gruesome. Horrific to behold. Yet he stood tall, searching each lifeless corpse with a pitiful gaze hidden beneath metal. If he were to become a warrior of great standing, he would need to quell the nausea that curled in his stomach. Piles of meat. That was all they were… or so he had convinced himself.

“It’ll get easier, my son.” The gruff words of his father sounded from behind him.

Drayke nodded absentmindedly when his father’s hand clasped onto his shoulder. His first battle had not been nearly as bloody as this. This one came as a surprise. Intense and rushed with such hatred wielded in their swords. There was no warning, his own men, used like puppets. The young lord turned to leave when something caught his eye. Movement. If it were any later, he would have missed it. The subtle twitch and groan from a cloaked figure. He wasted no time in rushing to the injured man, his father following with his blade drawn. One knee planted onto the ground as Drayke kneeled to examine his features. Flattened nose, wide, downturned eyes and olive skin. His hair was an odd shade of brown and green, like murky swamp water. Searching lower, he noted that the man wore a serpent insignia upon his robe. He was not from their kingdom or any that bordered their lands. Without warning, the mans hand thrust upward, using the side of Draykes chest plate to pull himself closer. Lips moved shakily near the young lord’s ear, his breath ragged and limited.

“Daukr Ka Kra Serkea Javar.” He whispered before falling to the ground once more. Limp and lifeless.

Draykes brow pinched in confusion. The language was ancient, hints of Galdurian that he understood rather well.

“What did he say?” Lord Korstead urged, somewhat bewildered.

“He said—” Drayke paused, trying to make sense of the words. “Death to the Selkie Jewel.”