The forest road

    Her cries were growing weaker. Crystabel, his daughter, his heart, his life, would likely be dead before much longer. That was both a torment and a relief. A torment because every cry of agony tore at his heart like a rabid musek, making him long for death. A relief because he knew he would soon follow her to the underworld where, together, they would walk the silver-lined road to the gates of paradise.

    He was hardly aware of the pain of his broken bones, or the blood that flowed from his bound wrists, dripping from his fingers to the leaf-strewn ground. He struggled, as he had since he awoke, to go to her, to save her from what those beasts were doing. All he could see was her face, only hours ago filled with wonder at scent of a purple and red flower, a common weed found at the sides of most roads in this forested area, now burned nearly beyond recognition and twisted in pain.

    One of the men lifted a sword from the fire, it's tip glowing a baleful red. He held the sword over that once-beautiful face as Crystabel whimpered in fear and pain. This would be the end. She couldn't take any more. His six companions chuckled as one of them held her head still and another held her left eye open wide. The smoking sword descended slowly toward that open eye as Crystabel struggled helplessly. She was silent now. Too terrified even to scream.

    The sword exploded.

    Shards of hot steel flew in every direction, whistling through the air and killing two of their seven captors instantly. Before the others could recover from their surprise, one was jerked into the air by some unseen force. He screamed in terror as he struggled against whatever held him. Then his screams turned to the wailing of agony as his body was twisted and ripped in half at the waist. Blood and entrails splattered to the ground from the still-twitching corpse.

    The four remaining fled in terror.

    Two, running side-by-side, took four strides before bursting into flames, and a fifth before collapsing in twin heaps of ash. One made almost a dozen strides before his head exploded like an over-ripe melon. The last man made it all the way to the tree line before the broad blade of a spear erupted from his back.