NOVEL NEXT Chapter 18: The Nightfall Raid on Eldermere
The village of Eldermere sat nestled in the shadow of the Graythorn Ridge, a mountainous borderland in the northeastern reaches of the Kingdom of Aradorn.
To the west, the thick expanse of the Duskwind Woods stretched endlessly, its twisted trees concealing many dangers within.
The village itself was a modest settlement, built with sturdy oak and stone, its buildings clustered around a central well. A few watchtowers lined the perimeter, though they were scarcely manned, as no true enemy had ever come this deep into Aradorn's lands.
The night sky loomed above like an ink-stained canvas, stars barely visible through the heavy clouds. A cold wind howled through the narrow dirt roads, rattling wooden shutters and flickering torches.
The villagers had long since retired to their homes, except for a few wandering drunks from the local tavern, their laughter echoing the silence.
Then, it began.
A sharp whistle pierced the night, followed by the distant thunder of hooves.
Moments later, a wave of figures descended upon Eldermere like hungry wolves, slipping through the village's crude defenses with ease. They came on horseback and foot, clad in ragged leathers and dark cloaks, their weapons glinting under the pale moonlight.
Men, women, and children barely had time to scream before the slaughter began.
Blades tore through flesh. Doors were kicked down. Fires erupted as torches were thrown onto thatched roofs. The smell of blood and burning straw quickly filled the air.
A man cloaked in black and white stood at the village center, watching the chaos unfold from beneath the shadow of his hood. His face was hidden behind a featureless black mask, only his piercing silver eyes visible. He remained eerily still, his gloved hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the attack like a conductor overseeing a grim symphony.
"You know what to do," his voice was calm, yet it cut through the screams like a blade.
The raiders moved.
Men were cut down where they stood, their bodies discarded like refuse. Women and children were seized, bound, and dragged away, kicking and screaming. Some were beaten into submission, others knocked unconscious. Those who resisted were made examples of—a dagger through the gut, a broken limb, a backhand across the face.
One of the raiders, a wiry man with greasy brown hair and a missing eye, yanked a woman from her doorstep, his fingers digging into her wrist.
"Come on now, love, don't make me break something important," he sneered.
She spat in his face.
Snarling, he struck her across the mouth with the pommel of his sword, sending her crumpling to the ground. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, muttering, "Should've just played nice."
A burly man with a scar running from his cheek to his ear dragged a wailing child out of a small home, the boy's tiny fists pounding against the raider's leather armor.
"Lemme go!" the boy sobbed.
The raider merely chuckled, tossing the child over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Ain't no one comin' to save you, runt."
At the village's western end, near the ruined remnants of a blacksmith's forge, a group of adventurers had gathered—the last semblance of resistance Eldermere had left.
Their leader, Gareth, a broad-shouldered warrior with a dented breastplate and a chipped longsword, stood at the front. His knuckles were white around his weapon's hilt, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though his teeth might crack.
Beside him was Elira, a young mage with auburn hair, dressed in a threadbare cloak, her trembling fingers gripping an old wooden staff. Next to her was Tobin, a rogue with unkempt blond hair, and Brann, a former soldier with a badly-healed leg wound, who had barely managed to stand straight.
"We have to fight," Gareth growled. "We can't let them take the villagers."
Tobin scoffed, his twin daggers already drawn. "Fight? You seen how many of them there are? We should be running, Gareth."
Brann gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip on his rusted axe. "Run where? You think they'll just let us go?"
Elira stepped forward, her voice firm despite the fear in her eyes. "If we die here, no one will be left to defend the others."
Gareth nodded, raising his sword. "Then we make them bleed first."
The adventurers charged, clashing with the raiders in a flurry of steel and desperate fury.
Tobin's daggers flashed, cutting deep into the throat of a man wielding a spear. He ducked low, spun, and drove another blade into a second raider's gut.
Elira muttered an incantation, her hands glowing faintly with magic. A burst of frost shot forward, striking a raider in the chest, freezing his skin solid. He screamed as Brann's axe buried itself in his skull.
For a moment, it seemed like there might be hope.
Then the tide turned.
A massive raider with a chain-wrapped club swung his weapon into Brann's side, shattering ribs and sending him crashing into a wooden cart.
Tobin was grabbed from behind, a dagger sinking into his kidney before he was thrown aside like a ragdoll.
Elira barely had time to scream before a gauntleted fist struck her across the face, sending her reeling. Blood dripped from her nose.
Gareth fought like a demon, cutting down one raider after another, but there were too many. His blade grew heavy. His breaths came ragged.
Then, a sword pierced his stomach.
He gasped, looking down at the steel jutting out of his gut before his knees buckled. The world spun.
As he hit the ground, he could barely see the black-masked leader approaching.
The man in black crouched beside him, tilting his head slightly.
"A commendable effort," he mused. "But in the end, nothing more than a struggle against inevitability."
Gareth tried to speak, but blood filled his throat.
The masked man stood, giving a simple command.
"Kill the men. Take the rest. We have what we came for."
The last thing Gareth saw was a raider's sword swinging down.
And then—darkness.
.....