They descended like the heralder of the apocalypse, one hundred riders with the setting sun at their backs, casting shadows that seemed to scythe through the village before the steel even touched it. They were the harbingers of cinders, turning everything under the sky into a blackened wasteland.
What they could not carry, they committed to the flame. The granaries, swollen with the gold of a successful autumn, roared into pillars of orange heat. The fields, some ripe and heavy-headed for harvest, others still green, were reduced to grey drifts of ash. Any beast was left for the earth to drink; they opened the throats of cattle and sheep alike, leaving a banquet of cooling flesh for the ravens and the worms. By the time the moon rose, the land was a barren womb. No food would be grown here for a year.
