Mireille didn't even have time to catch her breath before they finished off the horde of attackers.
Unfortunately, this did not mean the end of hostilities. In truth, they were still far from being in the clear.
Behind them, a final guttural groan announced the belated arrival of a last group of creatures.
They burst out from the edge of the village like living wounds, frayed, skinned, crippled by the previous battle — and for some, by their first encounter with Mimi — but still driven by that vile rage and despicable bloodlust that refused to die.
A bloodlust directed towards one particular goal. One person. One target.
Silas.
Mireille continued to pierce, tear, cut, parry and kill, helping her young master to find shelter — all the while slicing their way through the nightmare.
Finally, after a few minutes of endeavour, they managed to find refuge not too far from a set of houses that had miraculously been spared by the assault of the Orcs and Venomous Wolves.
But also, and above all, a set of houses that had been spared by the flames that spread like wildfire and ravaged the village's dwellings.
Unfortunately again, all this accumulated, creating a horrific scene where the acrid and disgusting smell of burnt flesh, straw, blood and smoke mingled; all merged with images of people trapped in these houses and poor innocent victims falling under the blows of the hellish creatures.
After making sure that Silas was safe, for the moment, the maid quickly returned to the 'battlefield'.
And so, the fight for the survival of the village and its inhabitants continued for a long time to come — bringing with it screams, cries, and the cacophonous sounds of blades and crushed bones.
Silhouettes collapsed in the mud — sometimes human, sometimes not — not entirely distinguishable in the chaos.
The ground became a swamp of ash and viscous fluids, so slippery that Silas almost fell backwards as he tried to get up again as he barely avoided a crumbling piece of wooden roof.
Mireille struck again and again, her blade moving so fast that it became almost a trail of light. Each impact produced splinters of bone, sprays of foul-smelling liquid, and agonising groans.
The battle raged on... Silas didn't even know how long. Minutes? Tens of minutes? Each second stretched out as if the night refused to move forward.
Then, finally, the last monster collapsed with a thick gurgle.
***
Soon, silence fell suddenly, brutally, almost indecently after the screams and clamour that had raged until then.
It was a cruel silence, heavier than all the noise of the battle — almost alive, as if the air itself were holding its breath at the sight of what remained of the poor village.
There were no cries of victory. Only muffled cries, deep moans, and the horror that gradually but inexorably settled... slowly in the eyes of those who had survived.
The smell, which was already assaulting the villagers, came first. A suffocating mixture of warm blood, burnt tallow, open viscera and thick smoke.
The corpses—evil creatures as much as humans—littered the ground, some still twitching nervously. Others were dissolving piece by piece under the lingering poison of the ochre wolves.
Their flesh melted into soft patches, collapsing with a disgusting crackle, as if even death refused to keep them intact.
The nearby houses, gutted, spewed dark wisps of smoke. Charred sections of framework were still collapsing in places.
Drops could be heard falling—rain? No—blood, dripping from the torn roof of a barn. The poor remaining animals howled or writhed in agony, their suffering mingling with that of the men.
In the midst of it all, the villagers, covered in dust, mud and blood, stared at Mireille and Silas as if they had finally discovered the source of their nightmare.
Their faces wore an expression that one only sees after massacres. A mixture of shock, raw grief... and wavering terror, ready to mutate.
Silas immediately sensed the breaking point—that fragile moment when a crowd's fear turns to hatred.
His stomach twisted.
The young boy wanted to apologise, to scream that it wasn't his fault, that he too had nearly died... but the words remained stuck, crushed by a ball of guilt that slowly swelled in his chest.
The villagers, already wounded, huddled closer around the flickering torches. Some trembled so violently that their makeshift weapons — pitchforks, pickaxes, kitchen knives, and long-disused swords — clattered to the ground with small metallic clinks.
This repetitive, nervous sound was almost like the clanking of chains... announcing the fate of the two travellers.
The air reeked of fear, blood, and the nauseating stench of flesh dissolved — both by flames and by the poison of the Ochre Wolves.
In the dark puddles, the orange reflections of the torches made the sprawled bodies appear even more deformed, more monstrous.
As the torches flickered, revealing the wounds, the torn limbs, the broken houses, the looks on people's faces began to darken.
Some were still crying silently. Others had dry, completely frozen faces — which was worse.
If some had already turned to Silas, a new wave rose towards Mireille.
Then again, they turned on Silas — the newcomer, the apostle of horror for this village — with that slowness that precedes hatred, that irrational rise that needs only a small breath, a faint spark, to become uncontrollable violence.
Whispers arose, muffled at first. Then clearer. Then venomous.
Accusing fingers rose slowly, still stained with blood and soot.
"It's... it's because of them..." stammered the man who had helped kill the first orc to arrive in the village.
The poor man's lips trembled, his voice broke, but anger still found its way through.
"Y-Yes. They brought this here..." added a woman, her pupils dilated with distress.
Silas felt his heart break when he saw her holding the body, or rather the detached, lifeless torso — disfigured, half-burned — of the young girl who had been struck and ended up half-devoured earlier while trying to help.
He wanted to speak, to say something, anything...
But nothing came out.
Mireille remained motionless. However, her fingers clenched imperceptibly on the hilt of her sword — already stained with the creatures' blood.
The servant-protector's gaze swept over the crowd. She knew. She had seen angry crowds turn violent after massacres before. She knew there was nothing to say. Nothing to explain. Not in this state.
The first scream was not long in coming:
"Get them!"
The order echoed in the brief silence like a clap of thunder. The entire village rose up, drunk with fear, pain, rage, and frustration, looking for someone to blame.
Even the wounded tried to get up, dazed but determined. Torches were snatched from the ground and raised like weapons. Stones rolled under hurried footsteps.
"Mireille..." whispered Silas, almost voiceless.
"Run!"
She didn't wait for the boy to make up his mind. Her hand grabbed his arm with an iron grip, and they both sprinted out of the circle of light, fleeing the screams, the threats, the broken crowd that was descending into madness.
Behind them, the torches lined up like a trail of fire in the dark night.