Kerrick scanned the crowd, watching the dancers. No one stood out or appeared to be the Skeleton King. No Belen, either. Slipping south, he spotted a number of smaller campfires. The town’s square was filled with milling soldiers and an array of tents. It seemed odd that the army hadn’t occupied the buildings. And where were the townspeople? The best way to survive an invasion was to play host and hope the army would leave soon.

He continued south. Kerrick counted soldiers, estimating their numbers. He also noted their weapons—swords, knives, clubs, pikes—all fashioned with, he guessed, bone handles and hilts. From this distance, he couldn’t be certain.

Looping around to the west, he realized the soldiers didn’t act like they’d just conquered a town. No celebrating, laughing, drinking, or debauchery. Unless there were more men inside the buildings? But besides the chanting and drumbeats, the rest of the town remained quiet. Still no Belen.

He stopped behind the jailhouse. It was the best place to keep the captured townspeople and, perhaps, Belen, as well. Leaning against a tree, Kerrick waited and watched. Near the building was a large fire pit. No flames crackled. Instead, bright red coals glowed, pumping out heat. Spits of meat sizzled over the coals. A man turned them, one at a time. Enough meat to feed a substantial army. From what he’d seen so far, he estimated the army to be about two thousand strong.

After a couple hours, the Skeleton King approached the jailhouse. No doubt the man was the infamous king. His armor covered him from head to toe and resembled a skeleton. His helmet had been constructed from a skull. And a crown carved from bone sat atop his head.

The Skeleton King pulled open the door and shouted. His words were garbled at this distance. Kerrick crept closer.

“...need our offering. The moon’s at its zenith,” the Skeleton King said, stepping back as guards wrestled with two screaming men, dragging them over to a broad wooden table near the cook fire.

Horror welled. Kerrick recognized the design. He started forward, grabbing his sword’s hilt, but stopped. What could he do? He’d use all his strength just to reach the man. After that, getting caught and killed along with them would be the only outcome.

The guards strapped the first prisoner to the table. The Skeleton King spread his arms wide, tipped his head back, and howled at the moon. When he finished, his soldiers howled an echo. Then the king brandished a knife and in one quick motion, sliced the prisoner’s throat. The man who had been turning the spits rushed to collect the gushing blood in a bowl.

Kerrick clamped down on a cry as anguish and impotent rage flowed through him. His grief intensified when the second prisoner joined the first. The howling repeated and another bowl was filled with blood.