The sound of pained panting was choked out by the humidity as bloodied footsteps parted the green. A lone orphan clutched his open wounds, the boy’s teeth gritted, and leather armor soaked red. Sweat stung his bloodshot eyes. Each step testified to the fury that fed on the excruciating pain testing his will.

  Clinging to a gore-smeared wagon, he dragged himself toward a small flame, then let his body collapse onto the muddied ground. With his free hand, he grasped a splintered arrow and held it to the glowing fire. The shaft caught quickly, threatening his fingers. He tossed it onto torn fabrics and ruined goods. The flame eagerly devoured the cloth, revealing woven bandages beneath.

  Reaching forth, he grasped a bandage and brought it to his wound, before the flame could capture it. He leaned back and stared at the sky, glaring at the thick black smoke rising through the trees. A strange numbness settled over him as an alien coldness shook his flesh.

  “Don’t fall asleep.” A voice came from his right.

  Turning, he locked eyes with the familiar face of Marcus, whose own hands pressed a bloodied wound.

  “I know you,” Marcus said. “Ian, right?”

  The boy nodded, his already pale face turning ashen.

  “Ian…” Marcus spoke, a terrible burn flared through his side, urging him to stay still. Summoning his courage, he braved the pain, pulling himself forward, Marcus grasped his fellow Roosters hand. “Stay here Ian, with me.”

  Ian nodded, blue eyes drifting toward the black smoke. “They… took our brothers…”

  “You did well, brother.” Marcus met his gaze, a helpless glare mingling with tears streaming down Ian’s face, until the light in his eyes faded.

  Turning from him, Marcus looked upward through the canopy. Small rays of light pierced the overgrowth where blackened smoke pierced the sky above, shrouding him in shadow. His breaths grew shallow as darkness coaxed the injured orphan toward the aching pull of sleep. His eyelids fluttered, closing for a moment, then fighting open, each surrender lasting longer, the grasp tightening.

  “Not like this…” he muttered, eyes too heavy to hold.

  As everything began to fade, a loud, proud crow erupted from the green. A strange energy surged through Marcus. He drew a deep breath, eyes snapping wide.

  Scanning the undergrowth, he saw no sign of life until a branch cracked beyond the blinding foliage. “Who’s there…” he rasped.

  A mellow bok answered. The brush parted, and a thin, skinny, three-clawed foot stepped through. A wild red rooster strutted onto the path, pecking at the ground.

  Marcus held his breath at the absurd sight. The bird moved carelessly along the bloodied trail, strutting through a path of lifeless combatants. Pausing near each fallen brother, pecking close to their heads, ignoring the dead Wildmen. As it neared Ian, Marcus swung his hand to shoo it. The rooster froze, glaring at him with unmistakable condescension. It stood free of his reach, cocking its head as Marcus inched closer.

  “Leave him alone,” Marcus panted.

  It approached Ian again, pecked near his head, then looked back at Marcus, seemingly challenging him. A rush of wind brushed past as the bird flapped its wings and hopped atop the nearby wagon. Marcus stared up into its black, beady eyes. The rooster gazed down as if appraising him. The forest fell silent. For a long moment, the two held still.

  Then the rooster threw back its head and crowed again, launched forward, strong wings carrying it beyond the path and into the brush.

  Marcus followed its path until it vanished. From the same spot came the sound of rushing footsteps, youthful voices, breaking branches, and the sudden appearance of his fellow orphans, turned rescuers.

  “Look at all this…” Tom said, scanning the area, bow at the ready.

  “Look…” Tom-Tom replied.

  “Go back home, we need wagons for the dead, tell the Masters!” Tom ordered.

  Tom-Tom nodded at his brother’s request, disappearing beyond the path.

  Marcus strained to raise his hand amid the crowd of bodies and blood. “Here…” he said, voice fading. “I’m alive.”

  “There!” Another boy pointed towards the sole survivor.

  “Marcus?” Tom called, his footsteps signaling his approach.

  “I’m here. I’m alive…” Marcus’ words slipped away as his hand fell and the distant darkness claimed him.

  When he opened his eyes, a shadow descended over him, familiar branches extended over him, the voices of his fellow Orphans drowing the natural sound of the jungle. Looking upward, his eye’s laid upon the dim shine of a Doter Knight.

  “You…” The word cracked from Marcus’ dry mouth.

  Sir Andreyas stood above him. “I remember you. You fought well, boy. What is your name?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Marcus…” he managed.

  Andreyas scanned Marcus’ bloodied turtle-shelled gloves. “Quite the warrior, rest now Marcus… There is much to come.”

  Turning away, Klawn pressed past the knight to tend the lone survivor. Andreyas stepped into the tent where the Masters and Marcy waited, their faces tight with worry.

  “I counted fewer bodies than the boys we sent,” Falix said. “Prisoners, if anything…”

  “We cannot wait for your knights, dear Sir,” Rutger replied. “We strike now. Arm the boys.”

  “We will still strike first,” Andreyas said. “I doubt they pose any true threat.”

  “Very well,” Rutger conceded. “I ask only that you leave a contingent, along with our own—to guard the encampment.”

  “I will leave one knight,” Andreyas answered. “That is all we will need.”

  Rutger gave a silent nod.

  The wounded were barricaded inside cabins, windows reinforced, doors sealed. Twenty boys and a single knight stood guard.

  Falix led a group of boys toward the surrounding green, where they heaved open a hidden passage beside the soil. Inside the dark corridor, they moved quickly, torches raised, toward a vast chamber littered with the armor and weapons of raiders and rogues who had fallen to the Rooster’s blade.

  “Take it all!” Falix ordered. “I hope your vengeance remains unquenched. Remember your brothers in what is to come.”

  Marcy watched the line of boys arming themselves- cloth, gambeson, chainmail, plate, each piece claimed with grim purpose.

  “Marcy.” Rutger’s voice drew her. “May I assume you will join us?” he asked.

  “I believe so…” she replied softly.

  “Good. I will need your assassin’s skills. From the old days, before their blight, they bowed to a chieftain who led them in ceremony and life alike. If he still lives among them, his death may shatter their way.”

  Marcy nodded. “I see. With no information on them… I can only try.”

  “I know this is much to ask,” Rutger said.

  “Nothing I have not done before.”

  “That is where my guilt is born.” He looked away. “I am sorry…”

  “Don’t worry.” She met his white eyes. “Sometimes a single death can save many lives.”

  “This land truly is cursed,” Rutger murmured.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I have seen worse. This place is… raw.”

  Rutger fell silent as the word hung between them.

  “I will see to this,” Marcy continued. “I saw what those boys can do, but this will not be a simple battle.”

  “Of course not,” Rutger agreed, “but it will be swift. Come, the boys are gathering.”

  As they approached the large group of armed boys, Andreyas watched, reaching into a leather pack. He withdrew a single white rose, held it close, and whispered, “Carry this message for me. We march with the boys of legend against an enemy unknown. If we do not return, for I see our victory uncertain—carry on with your mission, Sir Garcia.”

  The rose burst into flame. A tantalizing blaze danced across its petals, reshaping into a bright dove that lifted away, flowing through the wind and beyond the canopy. Some boys stared in awe at the display of Doter mysticism.

  “You believe it worthy of such caution?” his commanding musketeer asked.

  “Battle always demands caution,” Andreyas replied, eyes still on the vanishing dove. “This will be like all others. Do not let it test your hubris. It will not be long now.”

  “You seem prepared!” Rutger’s voice cut through.

  Andreyas turned to see the mass of armored children facing a withered, blind man standing on a stone stoop, Marcy at his side.

  “Shield boys!” Rutger cried.

  A wall of shields rose with a deep, unified “Woop!”

  “Raiders!”

  Franker led a loud “Woop!”

  “Bow-boys!”

  Anders lead another, “woop!” Many bows protruding into the air.

  “Monkey boys!”

  “Woop! Woop!” The short-statured boys at the front cried out.

  Andreyas smiled at the sight, a childlike energy wrestling with the grim tension before battle. Turning, he glanced toward the cabins where the wounded and young watched, eyes full of regretful tears. Behind him, armor clanked.

  “Ready to serve, sire.” A steady voice said.

  Beside him stood a tall, well-groomed knight, rose-adorned helmet in hand.

  “Sir Lewis,” Andreyas addressed, facing his fellow knight. “Follow.”

  He turned. Their armor caught the light, piercing, the canopy as they moved.

  The boys witnessed the titans, their eyes scanning them as they examined their defensive positions. Andreyas knelt, piercing the soil with a drawn dagger, etching a line in the soil.

  “Here,” he said. “They do not cross this line.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “They’re so… tall,” William whispered, resting beside Fernando, his mangled hand bandaged. The two boys peered out their cabin window.

  “What are you two doing?” Tom asked, walking up. “Spying?”

  “What are you doing?” Fernando raised a brow. “Dodging combat?”

  “How dare you!” Tom shot back.

  “Yeah,” Tom-Tom piped up, joining his brother, “how dare you!”

  “Quiet, Tom…” the elder Tom said.

  “We’re here to protect you,” Tom-Tom added, peeking between his brothers.

  “What is this?” William asked. “I still got one good hand. That’s all I need.” He patted the sword at his side.

  “Master said we protect you,” Tom-Tom insisted.

  “Something like that,” the elder Tom added. “I’m on defense. These two aren’t ready for combat.”

  “Yes I am,” Tom-Tom squeaked, scowling.

  William smirked. “Whatever you say.” He glanced at Fernando’s sling. “You could probably wield a knife.”

  Fernando smiled. “Maybe I already am.”

  William laughed, then sobered. “Some of them will die today.”

  “I know…” Fernando said.

  The elder Tom nodded. “I know too.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Tom-Tom added.

  Deep within the EverGreen, where engrafting humidity thickened beneath a canopy so dense light could not penetrate, a guttural growl echoed a dark enchantment. It sank into the wood of elder trees sickened with black tar that oozed like sap, pooling on the ground. Within shadowed hollows, a single large fire illuminated the haunted wood, perched beside cavernous burrows that riddled the earth like an ant colony. Thin, naked men coated in blackened tar chanted around the flames, twisting in contorted dances that threatened to snap bone. Thin women draped in black cowls lavished them with dried branches and greens that clung to their bodies.

  A pair of frightened eyes watched the blackened ritual. The stolen Roosters sat bound by sturdy rope, pressed together. Young Cole gazed forward, forsaken aura pulsing through his veins.

  “Don’t look,” Lucas grunted, head low, eyes on the ground. “You can feel it?” He panted, forcing hot air down his throat. “The sickness… they’ve embraced it.”

  Cole obeyed, turning away, yet the contorting cries pierced his ears. He needed no further sight; the darkness had already entered. An absence coursed through him, purging what hope remained, flooding his heart with desolation that weighed on his shoulders.

  In an instant, all sound ceased: the grunts, the chants, the crunch of leaves underfoot. From the largest burrow, its engrafting shadows released an elder Wildman. Draped in a dark green silhouette, filth-covered, he regarded the flock of Roosters. A sinister grin revealed near-perfect white teeth. Turning to his ritual band, the elder spoke in a terrible tongue laced with malice.

  “Who’s that?” Cole muttered.

  “Our executioner,” Lance replied.

  Under a damp tarp, the chattering of a Wildman’s teeth was met by the donning silhouette of Klawn, who stood before the beast.

  “Let’s see what you know…” Klawn said, approaching the Wildman bearing tools of torture.