The whole town was falling. It was the only place to make a stand.
When Zhai Jiang paused to breathe, the town was afire from south to north, and a sea of demonics surged through the streets. He knew the difference between the Duskreavers—Yingmo—and the swamplings. As a noble warrior of duke, he had been given a proper education about these creatures. He'd studied pictures. He'd trained for this, but it was like a nightmare. He was running again with the half dozen of his crossbowmen who stuck with him. The rest ran off into the town despite his admonitions. One fell at their feet, ripped to pieces by swamplings and consumed by something worse.
He could see the river and the fort, but the next section of the wall was crowded with enemies. The streets below were even worse.
But at the edge of the firelight, he could see a company of warriors with spears still holding one street, a crowd of panicked refugees behind them pressing against the fort gates.
