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‘Drive it back,’ Thea bellowed. ‘Drive it back to the Warswords. They can finish it off. They can carve out its black heart!’
Shoulder to shoulder with her fellow Thezmarrians, their shields overlapping, Thea led the formation forward, forcing the creature back, its attacks growing weaker against their braced armour.
Beyond their formation, the Warswords at last escaped the poisonous tendrils, brandishing their blades.
More and more shieldbearers and warriors joined Thea’s wall, shields slotting into place, their strength growing as they advanced inch by inch, pushing the —
A spray of hot liquid rained down upon them, and even in the dim light, Thea saw the black-streaked red.A reaper’s blood. A trickle of it ran down her face and her nostrils were filled with the scent of burnt hair.
She peered through a crack in the wall as they pushed onward, to see Torj brutally bringing his hammer down on the creature’s head, and Hawthorne, covered in blood, holding a wet mass in his clenched fist - another heart.
‘Forward!’ she yelled, putting her whole weight into the shield.
Together, they drove the monster back.
A victorious shout echoed across the ruins and something thudded on the ground, rolling towards Thea’s boots. Slowly, she lowered her shield.
The head of the reaperlay there. Its clouded blue eyes now blank, staring up at the sky.
The remaining darkness ebbed away and Thea’s unit gradually broke apart, a wet sucking sound filling the silence as Torj used a dagger to cut out the creature’s heart.
Nearby, someone threw up into the dirt.
The morning light that had been swallowed by the creatures of darkness slowly returned, illuminating the aftermath of the battle in horrifying clarity.
Thea had been so caught up in what was happening with her own unit, she hadn’t seen what had happened to the others. Men lay sprawled across the ruins, some bleeding profusely, some with limbs sticking out at strange angles. Then she remembered —
‘Esyllt!’ Dropping her sword and shield, Thea threw herself to where she’d seen the weapons master thrown from his horse. She felt Kipp beside her as they rushed to what remained of the city walls, finding Esyllt amidst the rubble, his back against a half crumbling stone pillar. His grey hair was matted with blood – his own.
Thea skidded to her knees beside him. ‘Esyllt, can you hear me?’
The weapons master groaned, his chin clumsily lifting from his chest. ‘Yes, unfortunately I can…’ he muttered.
Thea sighed with relief, sitting back on her heels while Kipp examined his head wound.
‘You’ll need several stitches, Sir.’
‘Not by your hand, boy,’ Esyllt growled, wincing beneath Kipp’s touch.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Sir. Only the best for you.’
Esyllt scoffed, causing a line of blood to leak from his mouth.
‘Kipp,’ Thea said, suddenly remembering. ‘Get the black satchel from my saddlebag. I might have something.’
Kipp was already on his feet.
‘Where’s Vernich?’ Hawthorne’s voice boomed.
Waiting for Kipp, Thea peered across the carnage, searching the grounds for the older warrior.
‘There!’ someone shouted after a moment, pointing to a limping figure approaching them from the northern ruins.
As the older Warsword drew closer, Thea could see that under the grime and blood, he was pale. The fabric around his left leg was split open, as was the flesh beneath it, fresh blood pulsing from the wound.
‘Torj!’ Hawthorne shouted as he rushed forward, catching Vernich as he stumbled.
‘What happened?’ Torj demanded, joining his fellow warriors and peering down at the grotesque state of Vernich’s leg.
