The Battle of Twelve

Prologue Shrieks of agony pierced the moonlit sky as the first hut was set alight. The flames spread quickly, jumping from house to house, flickering over the windows and creeping in with a crackling hiss. Silhouettes of frightened villagers, wrapping their belongings into bundles, rushed to awaken their neighbors from their terrible fate. The cries of children filled the village as a bearded man shouted, “Protect the women and children! Charlie! Don’t you dare forget—” The man’s words were cut off when he was impaled by a flaming arrow from behind, his eyes rolling back into his head as he slumped forward onto the ground. Clouds of smoke enshrouded the few huts that were still standing, swirling up into the air to mask the light from the moon. The villagers scrambled away from the godforsaken village, the hungry flames throwing their eerie shadows along the beaten dirt paths. A group of men was trying to lead alarmed people out of the village and to safety. Most had their weapons out, bracing themselves against the dark army that was advancing toward them. With a roar, the two sides charged at each other, their weapons clashing. Among the chaos of people running either away from the battle or toward it, it was easy to pick out one man sprinting into the heart of the village, a burlap sack clutched against his chest. A cruel laugh sounded from behind him, and the man stopped dead in his tracks, turning around to face his mocker. “Fiend,” Charlie snarled, tensing. The other man smirked, toying with the dagger at his side as he stepped out of the shadows. “I won’t deny it. I must say, I have outdone myself this time, haven’t I?” “You won’t get it. It will never be yours!” “You don’t know how many times I’ve heard that,” the raven-haired man said with a scoff. He unsheathed his dagger, balancing it in his hand as his steely eyes locked onto the pair of stubborn ones that looked back at him. “But let’s skip all the formalities. It’s such a waste of time. Hand it over.” “Well then, it’s a pity I was never very good at following directions, isn’t it?” His eyes widening slightly, the raven-haired man sensed what the other was about to do and flung his dagger at him. It hit its target, directly at his heart. Charlie gasped, recoiling slightly. Blood flecked the ground with every breath that shuddered past his lips as he pulled the dagger out of his body. He chuckled, silently at first, and then robustly, as he fell to his knees. “Too late,” he whispered, spreading his arms wide, the sack gone. “Maybe you’ll have better luck next century?” The raven-haired man stared at the dying man coldly, his face contorted into a grim smirk. He crouched down beside the man’s ear and whispered, “Don’t you worry. I’ll find it eventually—and when I do, you’ll all pay.” Already dead, the man only stared back at him with glassy eyes, the ghost of his grin still imprinted on his face. His murderer stepped on his hand, grinding his heel into it. “Kill them all! Leave nothing behind!” he ordered the dark army. “I want them all dead. All of them!” On the other side of the ruined village, great balls of fire rained from the sky and burst into a shower of sparks. One landed not too far from a girl and her mother as they ran away from the fray. The young child let a scream escape her lips as her mother scanned the skies for another bomb, aware that danger was imminent. She sensed the bomb hurtling toward them before she saw it, felt the burning heat before she heard it whistling through the air. As it drew nearer, she instantaneously knew what must be done, and abruptly pushed her daughter toward a pit created by the force of a previous bomb. The girl gave a small sob as she fell into the pit. As she hit her head on a rock protruding from the ground, the world seemed to spin and the colors before her slurred together. The scene she left behind played over and over again in her unconscious mind, the details horribly similar to those of her worst nightmares—the nightmares that had now become her reality. * * * The sky was already tinged with the red of the rising sun by the time the girl opened her eyes. Slowly, she struggled to stand, taking a look at the destruction that lay before her. Where a village once stood was nothing but burned ground and debris. Bodies lay scattered everywhere and an unbearable stench filled the air. The stench of death. Taking wobbly steps, the girl approached a mangled figure that was slumped over on the scorched earth. She stared in disbelief, falling to her knees. Reaching out shakily, the girl picked up a gold bracelet that had miraculously survived the ordeal without any devastating damage. It was her mother’s. As she got up to her feet, a lone tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye, streaking down the side of her face, only to be brushed away quickly. There was no use in crying now; it would not bring back the dead. The girl looked toward the horizon clutching the bracelet to her chest as the sun rose over the mountains.