After a moment of frozen confusion, spoons and forks stopped halfway to mouths and words left unfinished, the camp exploded in activity, men grabbing arms and armor kept nearby as loose groups formed around lance leaders seeking out their sergeants.
"Another attack?" Julia shouted in confusion. "They shouldn't be in any condition to strike again, it makes no sense."
"Doesn't matter," Markus hurriedly rose with a grunt, his bruised legs shaking slightly.
"Sit down Markus, you're in no condition to-"
"I'll be fine Orsen, I've dealt with worse… probably," The last he added under Orsen's disapproving stare.
The warhorn bellowed once more, and soon Markus' sergeants began to gather around him, and power-infused shouts came from Duke Terrath's colonel, echoing throughout the camp.
"Form lines behind the trenches, we will be set upon imminently!"
"Markus." Orsen spoke mildly as he shoved a longbow against his chest. "You don't need two eyes to fire a bow, do you? Stick with me for now."
After a moment, Markus clicked his tongue and took the bow, his gaze turning to Quinn as he pointed.
"Stick by your aunt's side, alright?" Then he found Sergeant Bryant and gave a few short commands. "Nothing fancy. We've no time for the horses, just form lines and follow the examples of Don and the Captain, understood?"
Bryant nodded determinately as others brushed by in a hurry, and Markus followed Orsen to a hilltop alongside the other dedicated archers.
The Hasshan were indeed launching another offensive. They never did appear particularly orderly in their advances—a symptom of the importance they placed on individual might—but from what Markus could make out in the last light of the evening, this charge was more chaotic and disorderly than most.
There were far fewer cavalry than he expected as if they'd had no time to mount steeds before the charge, and those that were riding were doing so alone and spread out among the ranks. Torches blazed in their hands, and none of their surviving warbeasts were to be found.
"Something is wrong." Orsen's bland words came from his side and Markus turned to regard the man's serious expression. That ill, foreboding sensation he had expelled was back. It should not have returned until he'd dreamt again, but he could feel it, like a creeping black cloud in the back of his mind.
Knocking an arrow, he eyed the long lines of men and women between he and the enemy, forming the simplest of defenses in response to the sudden attack, and wished he could be with his men. It would take time though, learning to use the sword with one eye.
"Draw!"
Seconds passed as the enemy grew closer, the earth faintly rumbling beneath his feet.
"Loose!" Markus released his bowstring and felt the transference of force as the arrow slung forth, whistling through the dimly lit sky to a cacophony of cries and roars.
...It did not hit where he had aimed.
"Tsk."
A second volley was loosed before the brutal clash of infantry began, and soon Markus and the other archers were left to their own devices, picking off anyone they could.
Drawing his bow, another arrow was loosed, sailing overhead to take a cavalryman off his steed as it continued running past. In fact, he had aimed for a footman from which he felt the power of a knight, but at least he had hit 'someone'.
His gaze alternated between watching Quinn as his longsword danced about in slightly too-wide motions, and searching the enemy army for high-value targets he could safely shoot at. Yet, no matter where he looked, none of the Hasshan seemed as composed as he might expect from the leaders of such stereotypically brave warriors. They all looked so…
'Desperate.' The word floated within his confused thoughts, clearer than anything else. They looked desperate… and fearful.
'Why?
In the distance, more enemy soldiers appeared from behind a distant hill, charging towards them as the last of the day's light vanished.
"Reinforcements," Markus said as he prepared to release another coordinated volley on the newcomers, but Orsen disagreed. "No. I don't think so." His eyes were squinted as he leaned forward in scrutiny, his bow neglected in his left hand.
"Why? What do you see?" he tried to join the man in his scrutiny, but the newcomers did not bear torches, and the dark had hidden them. "How can you see anyt–"
"Hurry!" "Break through!" "They're coming!" Shouts and panicked roars came from the Hasshan army, interrupting what he'd been about to say as the ranks became increasingly chaotic, formations falling apart as the battle was reduced to a messy brawl.
Yet somehow, even within all that chaos, Markus managed to pick out the words of one, particularly desperate shout. Words that painted his face as pale as death.
"The Fallen!"
The sound of wind whistling announced four black arrows, fired from an impossible distance, falling from the skies above. A dull thud rang out by Markus' side as he turned to see one of those arrows, half again as long as any other, of pure black metal without fletching, extending from the chest of another archer.
The arrow was twisted in a spiraling fashion with small barbs pointed in every direction, a horrid, gruesome thing, yet the man did not scream. His mouth hung wide, his eyes bulged, and he certainly seemed to be mid-wail, but no sound escaped his open mouth. Veins pushed against his skin as they ran black and color left the archer's face as he fell to the ground below, the thud of his collapse accompanied by three others nearby.
"Arrows!" Orsen shouted in his ever-calm voice as another set of whistling announced four more of those wretched missiles descending, and panic spread among the archers.
More thuds rang as four others fell, seemingly unable to produce a scream no matter how they tried. The frontlines grew more heated and desperate by the second, bodies dropping everywhere as the Hasshan attacked with reckless abandon.
The Hasshan were famed for their bravery and prowess as warriors, for every one of them to act like this…
Markus threw down the bow in his hand, sure he couldn't pick off high value targets no matter how many arrows he loosed, and started down the small hill towards the infantry. Orsen did not shout or try to stop him, but continued his duty in picking off enemies from afar.
Drawing the sword at his waist—not his, but the one looted from a dead ally earlier in the day—Markus shoved his way through the back lines to reach the Crimson Company, thrusting his blade at a nearby Hasshan footman. It didn't stab as deeply as he intended, the man was not as close as he thought, but that didn't mean he survived. Markus retrieved his blade as he stepped forward again, taking the man's head in that moment of shock from being stabbed.
The orderly ranks and formations had collapsed on both sides of the battle, the pure frenzy of the Hasshan inducing chaos. When Markus finally reached the front, the once distant army had grown closer, and he finally glimpsed their ranks.
"Julia!" He roared, the power of his Path booming within his voice. "We need to fall back! Look ahead, those aren't Hasshan!"
Julia, her crimson haired head unprotected as she gave orders and cut down one man after another, turned to regard him before eyeing the oncoming army. Her face ran as pale as his, but she did not issue the command for retreat.
"Julia!"
"We can't! We leave now and the lines collapse. The camps will be overrun before we even reach the wall."
A javelin sailed towards him, and as Markus caught the sound of the air whistling, he bore his sword in a swift arc to deflect the missile. He hit it too far to one end, and the javelin spiraled dangerously as he ducked under it.
Frustration welled at his lack of depth perception, but he smothered it down. Now was not the time for self-pity or tantrums. Moving forward, he stood by Julia's side, cutting down one man after another as a few stars appeared in the sky of his Gallery of War.
There was a limit to how much of the power you could channel. The more Gates you drew on, the less time you could withstand their effects. As a Grand Knight of six gates, Markus could channel three or less for an entire day, even if it was exhausting, but channeling all six was like the most intensive exercise he could manage.
"Quinn." Julia shouted as the young man appeared nearby. "Find the flag bearer and issue a preparation for retreat. I lost him in the chaos earlier."
Quinn nodded hurriedly and started wading through the messy ranks of men and women to find the man responsible for raising signal flags, and Julia spoke to Markus once more as she drove her slender blade through the gap in a man's armor.
"We wait for a proper call to retreat, and when it comes, we are the first out of this damned battle, alright?"
Markus nodded with a grave face as screams of terror rang out from the rear of the Hasshan army.
'They' were here.
The man Markus was fighting fell limp with a howl as a pointed tongue, long like a spear, pierced his spine, a horrid creature falling on his back to feast.
It was humanoid, though Markus felt sick to give it such a title. White skin pale as wax clung to an emaciated frame with elongated limbs. Its nose and ears were missing, as if severed, while it's brown eyes cried in pain and sorrow.
Though it lacked a lower jaw, it's throat and chest opened up in a horrific, fleshy display of fangs and saliva from which the most wretched smell Markus could imagine spewed forth—accompanied by that long, tentacle-like tongue.
It's bony fingers tipped with pointed claws tore apart the armor and body of the Hasshan man as he wailed, before the long tongue flicked to stab through the man's head, silencing the monster's disgusting meal.
"Ghoul!" Markus shouted as the creature turned its despairing gaze to him and leaped forth.
Six gates of war opened in an instant, an aura of power exploding forth with the blazing heat of the sun as Markus' blade swept with a fury that called the winds. The creature's sharp claws met his blade with a sound of severing steel as the Ghoul was sent flying, fingers scattering in the winds. Yet before the heinous creature touched the ground, its tongue suddenly expanded, shooting forth like a spear from meters away.
A small hint of panic surfaced in his heart as Markus tried to gauge the distance between himself and that spear-like tongue, swinging his sword and hoping for the best.
It worked, and the long tongue was severed, falling to the ground where writhed and wriggled on its own.
"Fallen!" He heard Julia shout nearby as more ghouls slaughtered their way through the ranks. "Remove their heads!"
The horrendous monster lept at Markus once more, emitting a twisted laugh so opposite the tragic look in its still-human eyes. His blade swept forth, again and again, performing a variety of radically different sword forms as Markus tried adapting to both his own lack of depth perception and balance, as well as the creatures frenzied, animalistic way of attacking.
Thankfully, his own speed and strength were far beyond the creatures, and even with those disadvantages and more, he managed to deliver deep wounds one after another. Every time his blade sliced through the body of the ghoul, its eyes would wince and the tears multiplied, but the body never ceased its attack, never flinched, or hesitated until the moment he took it's head, cutting through the open maw within its neck.
He was not tired, he had energy enough for more still, but his legs bore injuries from the days earlier battles and he wasn't entirely confident he could see this one to its end.
Turning to the side, he found Julia, a crimson and gold aura clinging to her frame as she cut down another ghoul, this one with a set of bloody red arms emerging from the huge jaw splitting its torso.
Grand Knights were not common, no more than twenty even in a battle this important to the two kingdoms, and not one of them would fall to a single ghoul, but the same could not be said for everyone else.
Men died everywhere as others deserted the battle, running back to the camps or fleeing for the mountains. The Fallen were a legend, a tale from the Age of Heroes, not something any man envisioned himself doing battle with.
"Retreat!" Duke Terrath's voice echoed through the air. "Retreat to the Dragon Gate!"
Having already prepared, the crimson company was the first to move, Julia and Markus protecting the rear of their escape as the ghouls leaped forth, sometimes running like a man, other times like beasts, the small holes that stood for noses testing the air as they did.
One after another, Markus fought off the monsters, sometimes managing to end their lives, though more often severing limbs or rendering them unable to chase. His sword chipped and dulled with every bone he split, unable to bear the might of his swings.
Other companies and noble's men began to retreat in the surroundings, most ghouls opting for those as the closer targets, and soon no more pursued the Crimson. Yet even as he retreated to safety, Markus's blood ran cold.
In the distance, a Grand Knight of Hasshan he recognized, Kondo Obi, battled a skinny, robbed figure, head and shoulders taller than Markus himself, with a dirty white skull for a head. Spiraling rams horns extended from the sides of that skull, while two more thick horns rose from empty eye sockets to point at the sky imperiously. It's lower jaw was missing, but its skeletal frame lacked the fleshy maw of the Ghouls, a robe dark as night covering all but its head and hands as it swung its sword—as long as a man was tall—in brutal, one-handed strikes.
Kondo's sword was broken, and his legs trembled alongside the earth with every strike blocked. He was going to die.
Raising his sword high, Markus acted without thought. He threw the weapon with as much control as he could manage, almost praying to Deros that he pulled it off despite his awry vision.
The sword sailed through the air towards that tall, horned figure as if to pierce its eyeless skull. Yet in that last moment before impact, it was swatted away, the monster turning its impossible gaze to lock onto Markus' position in neglect of all else.
He felt doom in that thing seeing him, knowing him. But Kondo Obi managed to get away in that moment, abandoning combat with the creature of legend.
"Dae'lith…"