The Unknown Enemy.Chapter 2.

Chapter 2.

Fear wakes a village.

Nemon scrambled down the stairs so fast his boot slipped on the smooth stone. He slammed against the wall, his breath coming in sharp gasps. Above him, the beacon roared. Its orange light flooded the stairwell, dancing like fire-ghosts on the walls.

Halfway down, he froze.

A clinking sound drifted through the night—like metal hitting rock. It wasn't a mountain goat. It was a steady, heavy sound. Clank. Clank. Wagons, maybe. Or soldiers in armour moving away into the dark pass.

The sound didn't make him feel better. It made him feel hunted.

The beacon was blazing now. Anyone in the mountains could see it. Anyone could see exactly where Nemon was.

He hurried down the last few steps. The long wooden spear he was so proud of was now just getting in the way. It bumped against the narrow walls and slowed him down. He stopped for a second, looking at the sharp steel tip.

“I can’t fight a whole army with one spear,” he whispered.

He let the weapon fall. It clattered onto the grass at the bottom of the tower. He felt strange leaving it behind, but he had to be fast. The village needed to know.

He ran into the village square. It was dark and quiet, but not for long.  As in every settlement in the kingdom, a wooden frame stood before the Meeting House, a single iron bell hanging from its crossbeam , the alarm for fire, wolves, or worse.

Nemon grabbed the rope and pulled with all his might.

CLANG!

The sound punched through the silence. He pulled again. And again. By the fourth ring, the village started to wake up.

Windows popped open. Doors creaked. People stumbled out into the square, rubbing their eyes and looking up at the glowing tower. Nemon didn't stop. He kept pulling, the heavy bell ringing out a warning that everyone understood: Danger.

A shutter slammed open above the baker’s shop. A door creaked.

Someone shouted, “What’s happening?”

“What’s going on?” someone else yelled. “Is there a fire?”

Men, women, and children crowded into the square. The orange light from the tower made their faces look pale and worried.

Elara reached him first. “Nemon? What is it? Why are you here?”

He let go of the rope, his hands sore. “The towers to the North are dark, Elara. They’ve been put out.” He turned to the crowd. “I saw lights in the pass. Sickly green lights. And a banner I didn't recognise.”

A worried whisper moved through the crowd. The village elder pushed forward, tying his cloak as he came. “Are you certain, Nemon? Think carefully now.”

“I’m certain,” Nemon said, voice rough. “And Tower Thirty‑Eight should have answered by now. It hasn’t.”

The elder’s face tightened. He looked toward the mountains, where the beacon still burned bright and alone.

The innkeeper shook his head. “People see things all the time,” he said with a grin. “Especially after a pint of my cider. You must’ve seen a will‑o’‑the‑wisp, you and your green light.”

 Nemon stood his ground. “I know the mountains. I know their shapes and their shadows. This was neither. And I never drink your cider , ever. Tower Thirty‑Eight should have answered by now. If I am wrong, I will answer for it. But if I am right, and we do nothing…”

“You’ll have the King’s Guard down on us for false alarm!” a sharp‑voiced woman snapped.

The village leader stepped forward, holding up his hands for quiet. “Nemon is a good guard. He doesn't make mistakes.”

Just then, Raxon arrived, running and tripping over his own cloak. He looked up at the mountains and went pale. “Nemon… where is Tower Thirty-Six?”

The crowd went silent. They all looked North.

“It’s dark,” Raxon whispered. “It should have answered by now.”

Now the crowd was really scared. If the next tower wasn't lighting its fire, it meant the guards there couldn't—or they weren't alive to do it.

The arguments rose again , fear dressed as anger, disbelief clashing with Nemon’s certainty.

The elder raised his hand for silence. “That’s enough. We don’t stand here shouting while the northern towers lie dark.” He turned to the crowd. “Fetch young Taren, the miller’s son. He’s always boasting about how fast his horse can run.”

Taren was already stepping forward before anyone called his name. He was a skinny lad, but he was the best rider in the village.

“Taren,” the leader said, gripping the boy's shoulder. “Ride to the town of Hewdly. Tell the King’s men what Nemon saw. Tell them the North has gone quiet.”

Taren nodded, looking brave despite his shaking hands. “I’ll go.”

“Then ride fast,” the leader said. “And don't look back.”