The Weight of Ashes

Another day waned into darkness over the village of Eastwood, a small and quaint settlement nestled beneath the towering mountain range of Procerus. Giant, white-tipped pines blanketed the landscape in a flood of greens and browns, nearly swallowing the village whole, leaving only a small opening in the vast forest canvas. The village bore the marks of harsh winters, yet it harbored a people who were strong and proud—a hardened race that preferred seclusion from the world beyond their borders. The people of Eastwood rarely traded outside the village, and when they did, it was only with a few trusted merchants. This isolation granted them peace from the troubles of the world and kept them safe.

‍

For the most part.

‍

Among these proud people lived a man named Malum. He was a sturdy, hardworking man with a stoutness that could rival Procerus itself. Once a handsome young man, the passing seasons and long days spent working as a blacksmith had carved his features into the likeness of the mountain cliffs that loomed overhead. Though seemingly unsightly, Malum had a reputation for kindness and generosity throughout the village.

‍

Malum was the father of two children, twins: a boy named Solis and a girl named Luna. He cared for them above all else but did so alone. His wife had passed a few winters after giving birth, a tragedy that weighed on him like stones in his heart. Each winter grew harder, though Malum could never tell if it was the weather or the guilt.

‍

“I should have been there. I should have tried harder,” Malum repeated in his head as he extinguished the last of the forge fires, their orange glow flickering into darkness. The village was quiet at this late hour, the streets dimly lit by candlelight from windows above. Locking up his forge, Malum began his walk home. As he passed the “Blinded Widow,” the village's only inn, an uneasy feeling crept over him—as though he was being followed. He quickened his pace, but the sensation grew stronger. Rounding a corner past the inn, he suddenly found himself face to face with a silhouetted figure looming before him.

‍

“Who are you?! Why are you following me?!” Malum yelled.

‍

“Not following, no, not I. He follows!” shrilled the tall figure, pointing behind Malum.

‍

Turning, Malum came face to face with a Mange. A truly evil and vile creature, its flesh rotted eternally from the bone. The stench of decay filled his nose, making him want to vomit. As fast as he turned, the Mange swung a hard wooden mace, striking Malum across the skull. Blackness enveloped him.

‍

A sliver of morning light slipped through his eyelids as he began to wake. Pain shot through his head, and the cold had seeped into his bones. Shuddering, Malum pulled himself to his feet, his eyes widening at the atrocities around him. Houses lay in ashes. The inn was in ruins. Villagers stood sobbing over what appeared to be bodies.

‍

“Wha... wha... what happened?!” Malum thought frantically. “The Mange! Has the Mange done this?” he cried to a man stumbling through the street.

‍

“They came, Malum,” the man choked out. “They came and... and they slaughtered... women and children! Oh my God! Then they took the younglings that they didn’t—” His words trailed off as he wandered further into the carnage.

‍

“Luna... Solis...” Their names echoed in Malum’s head. Terror seized him. “LUNA! SOLIS! Please be okay! I can’t lose you like I lost her! Please, God, let them be safe!”

‍

He sprinted to his home, now a smoking heap. Dropping to his knees, he picked up a singed, tattered piece of clothing. It smelled of them. It smelled of home. Lowering his head to the ashy soil, he wept.

‍

“I will find you, my son. I will find you, my daughter. I will bring you home. I will not let this happen again.”

‍

Rising to his feet, Malum faced the ruins of Eastwood. Grimly, he turned toward his forge. Heaving open the doors, he ignited the flames, sending black smoke billowing into the sky. The building appeared to breathe fire. The sound of heavy smithing hammers striking anvils filled the streets. Glowing steel took the shape of a great sword. When he quenched the blade in cool water, its surface reflected a face he hardly recognized—a face filled with terror and anger. A face filled with revenge.

‍

Closing his eyes, Malum whispered, “I promise you, my love, I will burn, break, and slaughter the evil that took you—that took our children—and I will bring them home.”

‍

With final preparations made, Malum strapped on his sword and set off to track the creatures.

‍

A cold breeze blew across his hardened face. Eyes on the ground, he followed the Mange’s hoof-like tracks. He had hunted before, but tracking these creatures felt all too familiar.

‍

“Solis... Luna...” Their names still echoed in his mind. He gripped the sword tighter and tighter until it felt fused to his arm. The sun was beginning to set, and night crept across the land. Tracking would be difficult in the dark, but every second without them meant another second he could lose them.

‍

Then, the trail became fresher. The Mange had slowed.

‍

“I must be getting close,” Malum thought.

‍

Drawing his sword, he crept up the next ridge—his eyes ablaze. Below, in the gully, lay the Mange’s camp. To the side, he could make out the stolen children. Shadows danced in the firelight, making it difficult to count, but there appeared to be five or six. The sleeping Mange, however, numbered at least seventeen.

‍

As he rose to descend, a hand gripped his shoulder. Spinning, he found himself face to face with fellow villagers, fathers of the stolen children. They bore cleavers and swords, their faces hardened with grief and vengeance. Guilt washed over Malum. He had been blinded by his own pain, failing to seek allies.

‍

He extended his hand in condolence, then devised a plan. Their numbers were small—only eight men—but they burned with righteous fury.

‍

At his signal, they struck.

‍

The sleeping Mange had no chance. Malum's blade cleaved through rotting flesh. The creatures fought back, but the villagers fought harder. Screams filled the night. Blood stained the earth. Malum did not know how many had fallen. He only knew he would not stop swinging his sword until every last Mange was dead.

‍

At last, it was over.

‍

Seventeen Mange corpses littered the ground. Three of their own had fallen.

‍

Cries from the children pierced the silence.

‍

“Luna... Solis...”

‍

Malum ran to them. They were scared but unharmed. He took them in his arms, his tears falling freely.

‍

The world seemed still. A whisper rustled through the trees—a voice only he could hear.

‍

“I saved them, my love. They’re home.”

‍

‍