On the horizon, three riders emerged from the mist. The horses pranced, their nostrils exhaling long plumes of steam. The farmer stepped out of the building.

  “Have you noticed anything unusual in the area?” the soldier asked.

  The guard dismounted, his boots sinking into the mud. In the shadow of the doorway, a silhouette took shape.

  “Who goes there?” he growled.

  “I’m a traveler passing through,” Armyr replied.

  “This place reeks of death. Give me one reason not to cut you down right here.”

  “If you insist, go ahead and try,” he said, bursting into laughter.

  The guard drew his sword and struck. But before the blade could fall, Armyr had already slipped a hand beneath his jacket and seized the stake. The weapon plunged into the soldier’s eye socket, spraying a viscous jet across his cheek. A scream tore from his throat as his body buckled under the convulsions. His hands clawed desperately for a hold: mud, gravel, anything. The two other guards dug their heels into their mounts’ flanks, and the horses leapt forward.

  “We’re going to kill you, bastard.”

  “Death to you, vermin!”

  Steel flashed, but before the blade could reach him, the farmer threw himself into its path. As it pierced his torso, Armyr lunged toward the farmhouse.

  “Stop, scoundrel!”

  He raced down the steps two at a time, the guards hard on his heels, and burst into the kitchen. When they followed him inside, they froze at the sight of the hundreds of stakes.

  “What is this mess?”

  Armyr leaned against a pillar, a smile on his lips.

  “I’m a puppeteer, and you’ve just fallen into my trap.”

  A tide of puppets poured into the kitchen.

  “Demons,” the soldier stammered.

  His elder did not answer. His gaze was fixed on one of the creatures: a slender figure with tapered fingers, tapping a stake. A shiver ran down his spine, stirring the legends whispered around campfires, those of possessed puppets, of souls trapped in wood. There were also tales of vanished soldiers whose faces reappeared decades later, frozen in a carved smile.

  “Positions, and don’t die just yet,” the elder breathed.

  “Go to hell.”

  A puppet leapt forward and its stake struck the soldier’s breastplate. He struck back: the marionette burst under the blow, spraying splinters of wood against the walls.

  “They’re everywhere!”

  Already, two more were emerging, one from the ceiling, the other crawling out from beneath a table.

  “Then cut them down, damn it! Do you know how to use your fucking sword, or are you waiting for them to skewer you?”

  The stake glanced off his shoulder, tearing out a spark; he spun and severed the wooden head. But for every puppet he felled, two more sprang up.

  “We’re done for,” the younger one whispered.

  “Then we’ll make them pay, cut down anything that comes close.”

  A puppet planted itself in front of them, its eyes reduced to two black holes. In a single motion, they gutted it, and the creature collapsed.

  “I’m going to find that fucking puppeteer and make him swallow his strings one by one.”

  “I’ll buy the round when it’s over.”

  Their laughter was swallowed by the din of blades, hurried footsteps, and splintering wood. Around them, the kitchen closed in, engulfed by the horde. The marionettes parted as Armyr passed, continuing on to the center of the room. Amid shattered chairs and scattered utensils, the two bodies lay submerged in a red pool. The younger man’s gaping throat pulsed with a thin stream of blood, his empty eyes fixed on the ceiling. Beside him, the elder had collapsed onto his side, an open wound gaping at his hip.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The young soldier’s arm bent backward until his elbow pressed up against his shoulder. The skin of his forearm stretched, then tore, releasing a dark filament.

  The elder shuddered in turn, his leg thudding against the floor. His eyes rolled beneath his lids as his limbs twisted. And the two bodies rose.

  Armyr stepped outside, where the horses snorted, their hooves hammering the mud. They strained against their tethers, nostrils flaring. He drew his blade, and it sliced the first one’s throat. Blood burst forth in a spray, splashing the earth. The beast let out a strangled whinny, then collapsed. The other reared, its rope whistling through the air. Armyr raised his sword, and a red line blossomed beneath the mane. A tear slid down his cheek as he lifted his eyes toward a canopy of dark clouds. He brushed it away with the back of his hand.

  After a week, more than five hundred puppets were crammed into the yard.

  That morning, when he tried to sit up, his arms trembled. His fingers, clenched against the rough mattress, searched for support. He tore himself free of the sheets, panting, until he managed to sit upright. Dizziness seized him, drawing a shiver from his body; he closed his eyes, jaw clenched, then toppled out of bed. As he staggered, his shoulder struck the wall. He leaned against it, short of breath.

  A marionette slid an arm under his shoulder, and he let himself be guided to the kitchen. The table sagged beneath the food: fruit cut into wedges, roasted vegetables, golden bread. Two puppets slipped in behind him and settled him onto a chair. One of them returned carrying a bowl from which a wisp of steam rose. The vessel wobbled, and a drop slid along its rim. The next instant, the liquid spilled out, tracing a brownish trail that stretched across the table before vanishing into empty space.

  “Come closer,” Armyr ordered.

  The marionette stepped forward, its empty gaze fixed on him.

  “Blow your own skull apart.”

  It turned toward the wall, lunged, and its head struck the surface. The wood shuddered under the impact, but it did it again, faster, harder. Cracks spread, and a brownish fluid slithered down its body. Then, in a final surge, its skull box exploded, and its body collapsed onto the floor.

  Armyr dipped a piece of bread into the soup, and the liquid soaked into the crumb, weighing it down until it became a soggy mass. Suddenly, a gust shattered the window, and the lantern flames flickered. A shiver ran down his spine as an invisible pressure slammed into his chest. The walls trembled, a groan rose from the wood, and cracks slithered across their surface. The black fluid crawled to the center of the room and traced a circle. The walls quivered, the floor gave way beneath his feet, and he struck an icy surface.

  Around him stretched a corridor, its walls veined with black markings. Two glowing red rifts tore through the darkness. His heart hammered against his ribs; his knees buckled. The rock split apart, and a throne rose from the bowels of the stone, its surface crawling with gaping mouths.

  “She is approaching…”

  “Do you hear it? She is already breathing inside you…”

  “The throne senses her… the throne awaits her…”

  “Do not speak her name…”

  “Not here. Not before her.”

  “She is already here.”

  The mouths fell still, sagging lips frozen, as a mist rose from the seat, from which Thana emerged.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.

  Cold seeped beneath Armyr’s skin and slid down his spine. From nothingness, a hand emerged and brushed his skull. Then a tidal wave surged through every nerve, every bone, every fiber of his being, and his exhaustion vanished.

  “With this energy, you will have no limits left.”

  Thana cracked apart, and in his place remained only a heap of viscous matter. Insects crawled out of it, their backs bristling with spikes, their legs jerking with frantic spasms, before scattering. A pull yanked him upward, hurling him back into the kitchen, where his back slammed against the wood. At the center of the room, the wood was rotting, releasing a nauseating stench.

  *****

  At dawn, Armyr gazed upon his army, five thousand puppets standing before him. Energy roared within him, pulsing through his blood. He raised one hand, and the marionettes lurched forward, a rumble spreading through the earth.