No Sleep for the Weary


Once before had I smelt their kind. Once before had I seen a village massacred in a three day fit of bloodrage in honor of nameless, heartless Gods.

“Calm yourself, Jusef.” Qillian caught my anger and held it before I could act. “This is a mission of truce, let’s not be the ones to start a war.”

“As you wish.” I forced my hand away from my sword, my knuckles white from where I’d grasped the hilt.

Across the flames of the huge campfire I saw them arriving. Forty or fifty of the creatures, sneaking like shadows into camp just before the dusk, carrying who knew what hidden tools of torture and war.

Thank the Gods the aroma of the spit roasted pigs on the fire helped mask their foul stink. The rotten scent of sour blood and death.

“But I, for one, will not sleep easy tonight,” I answered.

Qillion nodded, called over our patrol mage. “Make good the Watchmen,” he said. “Our friends have no taste for peace.”

The mage nodded, left. I grinned. Tonight my village may be avenged.

View this story's 7 comments.