Chapter Two

As the head of the small group began to withdraw his blade, a sudden rustling in the trees behind them caused him to jerk around. Before he could brace himself for the worst, his comrade whom he had sent to scout ahead only moments earlier emerged from the darkness, much to his relief. He let out a soft exhale and released his grip on his stone sword. Then he looked at his returned partner as if waiting for him to provide news of some sort. Instead, he just nodded and gestured to the dark path behind him.

That was all the man needed to know that a safe haven of some kind was just ahead of them. He turned to his other compatriots. “Let’s move,” he ordered, then pointed down at the wounded slump still lying on the ground. “Grab him. Let’s get out of here.”

Without hesitation, the one who had been carrying the half-conscious victim picked him back up and slung him over his shoulders. The rear guard produced his sword again and resumed his position, while the leader of the party grabbed the old lantern sitting on the ground and adjusted the rusty vents on it to enlarge the small flame. Once they all recovered their positions for the seemingly perilous hike, they continued forward through the dense woods. They moved with more haste now, anxious to get to safety and away from the eyes and ears and claws of whatever was out there.

Fortunately, the second part of their journey was much shorter than the first. In only a few minutes of winding through the trees a faint light could be seen in the near distance. As they approached it, the dark outline of a human figure rushed to meet them. Not far behind him, in a clearing amongst the trees, was a small cluster of shabby tents pitched in a circle. The light they had followed came from a weak fire which had a much larger group of people crowded around it, all dressed and armed as they were. The party stopped in their tracks and the man sent to meet them only looked on with an expression of wide-eyed confusion.

"Hey, hey, hey, what are you doing here?" he said in a stammering whisper. "You guys aren't supposed to be back for another two days!"

The man holding the lantern grew impatient. “I’m not talking to you, Miller,” he replied, raising his finger at his confronter. “You tell that idiot Wilson to stop hiding behind his tent flap and come out here and face the truth for himself.”

Miller opened his mouth to respond, shocked by what he had just heard, but he was suddenly interrupted by a hard, stern voice behind him. “Face the truth for myself?” 

With that comment, Miller lowered his head and stepped to the side. Just behind him, another figure stood up from the crowd surrounding the fire and ambled toward them. He was significantly taller and looked older than most of them, but no better dressed. Unlike anyone else, he was displaying a rather arrogant smile as he approached the entourage. “Morales. I don’t believe we’re expecting your group back so soon,” he stated, outstretching his arms carelessly. “If everyone under my lead was just as sad and pitiful as you then how do you think that would reflect upon me?”

Feeling enraged, the man leading the group, called Morales, released his hold on the lantern and let it drop to the ground with a loud clang. “This is bull crap! How many more of us have to die out there before Morenno sees reason?” he spat at the one called Wilson.

“Hey! Don't speak like that about Ramon Morenno!” the man who Miller angrily interjected.

Instantly, Wilson put his hand out to silence his companion. “It’s alright, let him speak his mind. You don't know what it's like to spend so much time out in a desolation like this." Miller nodded his head and stepped back.

Morales was still feeling the heat of his outrage fill him up. “You listen to me now, and you listen good; twelve of us you sent out there last week, Wilson, twelve!” He rounded his arm in front of the rest of his party. “Five of us came back this time. We can't keep patroling blindly through the mountains like this. It’s madness!”

Before he even finished speaking Wilson raised his hand and rolled his eyes. “You know what, Morales? It’s the same thing every time from you: I send you out on typical recon like I do all of the others, but you’re the only one who comes back with nothing but excuses. ‘Someone attacked us on the path’,” he mocked. “You don't have a clue what that really looks. Spend a tour in Iraq with the Marines and you'll have an idea."

"Then explain why I'm missing more than half of my entire party if you're so damn clever!”

Wilson looked at the men standing behind his subject and hissed quietly as he tried to sum up the situation. “Because you're incompetent. Insubordinate. You claim it’s ‘the enemy' assaulting your men and stalking you in the middle of the night but tell me this, have you ever seen them? Ever caught them in the act?”

Morales’ eyes widened. He was taken aback by the question. Sure it was true he had never actually seen who or what kept disturbing them out in the darkness of the mountains, but he simply could not understand what more he needed to say to convince Wilson and everyone else that something needed to be done immediately. “How can you still be so ignorant?” he said, frustrated. “Why can't you face the facts!?”

Wilson's face twisted into a snarl, but before he could fire back, his attention was caught by the sound of the slumped figure hanging over Morales' comrade’s shoulders as he began to groan and writhe again in discomfort. Feeling weary of lugging him around, the man carrying him set him down on the ground, where he continued to squirm.

Wilson glanced at the unfortunate wretch. “What the hell's wrong with him?”

Morales stepped over to stand by the side of Wilson and spoke softly into his ear. “They left us a message.” 

Wilson’s eyebrow raised in curiosity as Morales then turned and signaled for his comrade to show him what he was referring to. The man settling their derelict peer sighed as he repositioned him so that he was sitting with his back facing the two of them. Then he reached over and brought the lantern closer as he pulled up his smudged top to reveal the flesh of his back.

Upon seeing the revolting sight underneath, Wilson gasped out loud and the crowd behind him at the camp fire began murmuring anxiously amongst themselves. Even Miller winced in disgust at the sight that marred the man’s flesh. Gathering his nerves, Wilson knelt down to get a closer look at the wound.    

“Ever see that on one of your tours?” Morales taunted him.

Wilson stood back up and turned toward him. “What does it mean?”

“You’re asking me?" Morales responded. "All I know is after I came to, half my men were gone. Not dead, just gone. We searched the area but couldn't find any sign of where our attackers had gone. That was when we found him hanging from a low branch by his shirt, and the message they left for us."    

Wilson only looked down at the terrifying sight in dread. His mind was racing as he tried to sort out the situation. What was he going to tell his superiors who were supposed to report directly to the Morennos? That after three years, their worst fears were suddenly becoming realized? Maybe Morales was right. Maybe it was time something was done about the savages that were out there watching their every move.

“Wilson,” Miller stepped forward impatiently. “What do we do? Should we send out a warning to Ramon’s camp?”

Wilson considered all of his options for a moment. He let out a sigh before turning to Miller. “No,” he replied. “Not yet. Send a message to Caine at the Iron Furnace. He knows the savages better than anyone. Let him decide how to handle this. Go, quickly!"

Miller nodded and darted off into the startled crowd behind them. Wilson reached up and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he stared one more time down at the large, choreographed lacerations carved into the wounded man’s back that read in bloody writing:

"Ravenna will be avenged!”