The Desolation of Banonthrep
(An Excerpt from the Kalabra Series)
The tranquility of Banonthrep, so lovingly draped over its every nook and cranny, was shattered by a piercing alarm that sliced through the fabric of the morning calm. This was no joyful tolling of the bell tower, marking the hour or calling the town to festival. Instead, it was a cry from the outskirts, a raw, guttural shout of warning that reverberated off the cobblestone, urging an awareness that something dire was amiss. Initially, this cry was met with skepticism — perhaps the product of an overactive imagination or a misinterpretation of natural phenomena. Yet, as the day unfolded under an increasingly uneasy sun, the dismissive laughter and skeptical whispers died down, giving way to a mounting dread.
By mid-morning, an ominous pall began to cast shadows over the town’s vibrant hues. Smoke, thick and acrid, clawed its way into the blue expanse above, signaling a danger that no longer could be ignored or rationalized away. The pastoral scenes that bordered Banonthrep, once alive with the bucolic symphony of grazing livestock and the harmonious toil of the fields, fell eerily silent. Shepherds and workers, their faces etched with fear, abandoned their routines in a frenzied rush towards safety, their panicked flight lending a chilling credence to the earlier alarms.
The marketplace, the heart of Banonthrep’s daily life, became a scene of confusion and fear. The calls of vendors were drowned out by the clamor of urgency, as townsfolk scrambled to make sense of the smoke on the horizon and the warnings now echoing through the streets. The cobblestones, worn smooth by generations of peaceful passage, suddenly felt foreign beneath feet that now ran not in the leisurely pursuit of daily errands but in a desperate bid to escape an unseen threat.
As the reality of the situation took hold, the town’s initial disbelief transformed into a collective terror. The Southern hills, once just a picturesque part of Banonthrep’s surrounding landscape, now loomed ominously, harboring a menace that approached with a speed and ferocity that left the town’s inhabitants reeling.
As the unsettling cry of alarm penetrated the walls of Venment’s tailor shop, a primal fear gripped his heart — a fear not for his own safety, but for that of his family. With hands that had known the delicate dance of needle and thread, he now hastily shuttered his windows, the fabric of unfinished garments forgotten in his urgency. The shop, usually a place of meticulous order and creative endeavor, was abandoned in a state of disarray as Venment bolted into the burgeoning chaos of the marketplace.
The square, usually a vibrant hub of Banonthrep’s community life, had transformed into a tableau of panic. Stalls were left unattended, their goods spilling out in disarray, as vendors and shoppers alike were caught in a desperate scramble for safety. Venment’s eyes scanned the chaos, searching for the familiar figure of Antranecia, his wife, known for her gentle spirit and the healing herbs she peddled with care.
“Antranecia!” Venment called out, his voice barely cutting through the cacophony of fear that had overtaken the square. His journey through the crowd was impeded by the frantic movements of his neighbors, each absorbed in their own struggle to find safety or loved ones. Amidst the turmoil, a young boy, no older than their own son, collided with Venment, his face etched with confusion and tears.
“Mister, have you seen my mother?” the boy cried, tugging at Venment’s sleeve with a desperation that mirrored his own.
“Not now, lad, I must find my wife. Stay close to the well, someone will find you,” Venment replied, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he could offer no more help. Pushing forward, he finally caught sight of Antranecia at her stall, hastily gathering her herbs and vials, her face a mask of determination shadowed by fear.
“Antranecia, thank the stars!” Venment exclaimed as he reached her side, pulling her into a hurried embrace. “We must find the children, now!” together, they navigated the panicked crowd, their shared purpose a beacon amidst the turmoil. The town’s defenses, such as they were, began to rally, but Venment knew in his heart that against the Drakkieos, such efforts were likely in vain. Their only hope lay in escape, in the slim chance of outpacing the devastation that nipped at their heels.
As they made their way through the market square, a figure known to many as Old Man Corrin stood defiantly by his fruit stall, his refusal to flee a silent protest against the encroaching darkness. “Fleeing won’t save us!” he bellowed, a lone voice of defiance in the growing din.
In the playing fields just beyond the town gates, laughter and play filled the air, a stark contrast to the burgeoning chaos. Hazleflar, Morte, and Jonnai, along with a dozen other children from the town, were lost in the world of their games, a bubble of joy oblivious to the shadow of danger creeping closer. The gentle rustle of the wind through the grass and the distant calls of their play were the only sounds — until the first screams shattered the peace.
The games stopped abruptly, every child frozen in a moment of confusion. The laughter died on their lips as a second wave of screams, closer and more terrified, reached them. A paralyzing silence fell over the group, their breaths held in suspense, until one child, his eyes wide with fear, recognized the threat for what it was. “Drakkieos!” he shouted, the name cutting through the air like a blade.
Panic ensued instantaneously. The idyllic field transformed into a scene of desperation as the children turned as one, fleeing toward the safety of the town. But safety was an illusion; the Drakkieos were already upon them, their arrival heralded by a hail of arrows that cut through the sky with deadly precision. Several children fell, their cries cut short, as Hazleflar, Morte, and Jonnai dodged and weaved, their hearts pounding with a primal fear.
Hazleflar could feel the power within her stirring, a fiery anger at the injustice, at the attack on their innocence. Yet, even as her instincts screamed for her to unleash it, to protect, to avenge, she knew the cost of revealing her abilities amidst the chaos. Morte, his own powers a dark undercurrent to his sister’s fire, shared a glance with Hazleflar, a silent agreement. Not here. Not now. Survival was their only priority.
As they reached the town, the full scope of the devastation became apparent. The marketplace, once a hub of activity and laughter, was now a battlefield. Stalls were overturned, goods trampled underfoot as the townsfolk scrambled in a frenzied attempt to find loved ones or escape the invaders’ wrath. The sound of steel clashing, the cries of the wounded and the dying, filled the air, a cacophony of despair.
Jonnai, her adventurous spirit quashed by the reality of their situation, clung to Hazleflar’s side, her eyes scanning the chaos for a path to safety. “Where are my parents?” she shouted over the bedlam, her voice tinged with panic.
“Jo, we’ll find them. Come with us” Morte responded pulling both his sister and their best friend’s hands as he weaved through the crowd of chaos.
“We need to head home,” Hazleflar shouted back, determination steeling her voice despite the fear that clutched at her heart. Morte nodded, his gaze sharp and alert as he scanned the crowd for any sign of their parents.
In the midst of the tumult, a figure emerged from the throng, marked by the grim badge of battle — a broken arrow protruding from his left arm. It was Dyron, his face etched with pain yet alight with a flicker of relief upon sighting Hazleflar, Morte, and Jonnai. Despite his injury, his eyes burned with a determined resolve, signaling to the trio with a urgent beckoning. His presence, a familiar anchor in the storm of chaos, spurred them into motion, guiding them through the panicked crowd toward a semblance of safety.
Jonnai initially resisted, her heart torn between escape and the shock of the devastation around her. Her hesitation was cut short by the sight of her sister’s blood-stained doll, lying abandoned on the ground — a stark reminder of the personal losses amidst the broader catastrophe. In a swift motion, fueled by a mix of desperation and protection, Dyron scooped Jonnai off her feet, her small frame light in his arms despite the grim weight of the situation. Together, they hastened towards the east gate, Morte and Hazleflar flanking them, their steps fueled by a blend of fear and hope.
The path to the east gate was fraught with peril, every step a defiance of the dread that sought to overwhelm them. Morte, with his inherent sense of the shadows, navigated them through less conspicuous routes, his instincts honed not just on stealth but on an acute awareness of the danger that lurked with every turn.
As they arrived at the east gate, the sight that greeted them was one of bittersweet reunion. Antranecia and Venment stood waiting, their faces a mosaic of worry and relief. The joy of seeing their children safe momentarily pierced the veil of fear that had settled over the town. Jonnai, tears streaming down her cheeks, was a poignant emblem of the day’s horrors — a child thrust too soon into the realm of loss and survival.
No sooner had Dyron set Jonnai down, offering her a gentle nod of reassurance, than an arrow found its mark. The cruel shaft struck him in the neck, a silent thief of life, and he slumped to the ground, his fall marking the end of hope for a stand at the gates. The sight of him falling ignited a fury in Venment. With a heart heavy with loss but burning with defiance, he rallied the few men willing to make a stand, their resolve as poignant as it was futile.
Antranecia’s voice, clear and urgent amidst the chaos, pierced the air. “Run into the forest!” she cried out, her directive a final act of protection. But her command was cut short as a Drakkieos warrior struck her down, her fall a devastating blow to the family already reeling from Dyron’s loss. Venment, witnessing the fall of his beloved, let out a roar of grief and rage, launching himself at her killer with a desperation that knew no bounds. But the brute, a monstrous figure of war, dispensed of him with a ruthless efficiency, his fall marking the end of their last stand.
In the heartbreak of that moment, Morte, Hazleflar, and Jonnai, bound by years of friendship and now shared tragedy, turned and fled into the forest. The dense woods, once a backdrop to their childhood adventures, now offered the only semblance of refuge from the nightmare their home had become. Behind them, the gates of Banonthrep became a fading echo of what was, the town’s last cries drowned out by the sound of their desperate flight.
The forest swallowed them whole, its shadows a stark contrast to the destruction they left behind. Though the path was unclear and fraught with its own perils, the instinct to survive propelled them forward. Not many made it past the town’s boundaries; the Drakkieos, content with the havoc they had wrought, did not give chase into the dense woodland. This small mercy, however, was of little consolation. The weight of their losses pressed heavily upon their shoulders, each step away from Banonthrep a painful severance from their past.
As they navigated the forest’s uncertain terrain, the sounds of battle and destruction from the town grew distant, replaced by the natural cacophony of the wild. Morte, Hazleflar, and Jonnai, their hearts heavy with grief and their bodies weary from the escape, pushed on. The forest, indifferent to the sorrows of the world beyond its borders, offered no comfort, only the promise of survival for those brave or fortunate enough to seek its shelter.
