Curse

Kthulhu · Sep 22, 2008, 02:22 PM // 14:22

Be warned: This story has a few rather violent parts and does not necessarily hold with accepted guild wars lore.

In the Wake of Heroes

Intently watching the night blackened horizon a stripling boy stood exhaustively awaiting the first rays of dawn. His name was Rioch and he was the youngest member of the New Ascalon Guards Hellfire Squad. The Hellfire’s were mostly comprised of the remaining troops from Captain Greywind’s unit that had made the fateful crossing over the Shiverpeaks with Prince Rurik and the Ascalonian heroes. As more people made their way to the Ascalon settlement bolstering the garrison Captain Greywind (the newly appointed Field Marshall of New Ascalon) began assigning his old troops to more perilous tasks. The squad’s new duties consisted predominantly of reconnaissance and search/destroy missions in an attempt to help pacify the settlements borders against the ever present Tengu tribes, Ettins and multitudes of other enemies. It was the squad’s high risk deployment’s that earned them the honorific name of The Hellfire Squad.

Rioch pointlessly wiped at a steady rivulet of sweat on his face, he couldn’t help but think about how he missed the more pleasant clime of Ascalon. As much as he missed Ascalon’s weather Rioch missed his parents and two older brothers more. His family had died when the damnable Charr had raised Ascalon, sentencing him into becoming the adopted son of refugees following Prince Rurik to Kryta.

“Rioch, I’ll finish your watch. You go get some sleep,” whispered a familiar voice behind the young soldier.

Looking over his shoulder Rioch saw the scarred face of Ceann, the Hellfire’s Lieutenant.

“Truly? Thank you sir, I appreciate it,” said Rioch.

“Don’t mention it, we’ll march at dawn so get some rest,” replied Ceann.

Ceann was the bastard son of a nobleman’s mistress. His mother had died during childbirth and the nobleman had wanted nothing to do with the baby. So as a babe Ceann was left in the care of a churches orphanage; however on his ninth birthday Ceann ran away, unable to stand the tyrannical priests any longer. For nearly two years Ceann managed to survive in the gutters and alleys of Ascalon pilfering what he could to survive. One evening Ceann had stolen the purse of a well to do looking army officer; although he had gotten the purse the officer had become aware of Ceann’s thievery and had put up chase. The pursuit ended with Ceann running headlong into a large and rather unpleasant looking fellow. The officer chose to see how the situation would transpire before reclaiming his coins; he was surprised by the outcome. Ceann had tossed the purse in the air and while the man was distracted Ceann had landed a well placed kick in the man’s groin.

The officer did catch Ceann but had taken an interest in the young boy; the officer in question had been known as Lieutenant Greywind. On the evening of his capture Ceann had found himself being fed dinner while Greywind listened to the boy talk about his life. It wasn’t long before Ceann was working as Greywind’s retainer, responsible for the upkeep of his armor and weapons. On his fifteenth birthday Ceann had become a loyal member of the Ascalon army.

Though Ceann was only in his mid twenties he had seen more battle than most men far older than he. His courage and success in battle had earned him the undying loyalty of his men. Ceann was taller than most and barrel-chested with close cut blonde hair. He may have been considered to be attractive except a Charr spear thrust had left him with a wicked looking scar that started at his nose and finished at a mangled right ear.

At the approach of dawn Ceann relaxed slightly and felt the beginnings of a pleasant mood brought on by the uneventful night. As the first rays of sunlight began to shine he let out a whistle perfectly imitating a nightingale’s call to awaken his slumbering squad. Before long a grisly looking beast of a man appeared at Ceann’s side.

“G’ morning Svard,” said Ceann.

Svard was the squad’s second in command and a veteran of countless battlefields. He was of middling height yet so thickset with muscle that he looked as if he could easily out wrestle a bear. Though of impressive size it was Svard’s face that people most took note of. He was completely bald and the left side of his head was covered in scar tissue that disappeared under his cuirass; his left eye was milky white and he opted not to wear an eye patch. The scarring was the gift of a fire trap from which he had saved a new recruit, back when Ascalon fought the Charr on the proper side of the wall as he liked to say. When Ceann was but a teenager he had saved Svard’s life; while marching in a shield wall formation against some brigands Ceann had noticed Svard stepping over a fallen foe feigning death and gripping a dagger with murderous intent. Ceann had dispatched the man with a thrust to the throat and since then Svard had never been far from Ceann’s side.

“Morning sir, pardon me for being presumptuous but isn’t this supposed to be Rioch’s watch?” asked Svard.

“Going to be a busy day, thought I’d let him get a nip of sleep,” replied Ceann.

“You sure that being with us Hellfire’s is the right thing for the lad? Maybe a garrison squad would be best?”

“The boy’s fire burn’s too hot to sit holding a wall.”

“Maybe garrison duty will help cool that fire; our work will only kindle it.”

“Hmm and why didn’t you recommend me for garrison duty when I was his age Svard?”

“Because you were a miserable little cuss of a lad and I didn’t want to punish the hard working garrisons,” replied Svard with a laugh.

Ceann permitted himself a smile; he appreciated Svard’s banter. It had been a long time since anyone else had dared speak to Ceann in such a manner.

“Remind me why I keep you around?” asked Ceann.

“You love me for my looks sir!”

Ceann couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright, muster the troops; we got work to do.”

“Yes sir,” replied Svard.

The Hellfire’s were three days out of New Ascalon and had been steadily marching south shadowing the main road to Lion’s Arch. At midday Ceann instructed the squad to stop for rest and a quick meal. While eating some dried meat and biscuit Ceann walked amongst the men briefly chatting as he went. He would check a man’s foot for sores, inquire as to how an archer’s arrows were faring in the humidity, and so on. It was all quiet unnecessary for most of the men were battle hardened veterans but they still greatly appreciated his concern none the less.

“So do you mind if I ask what we are doing out here?” asked Svard.

“Greywind received some intelligence that the Mantle have been unusually active north of Lion’s Arch. He wants us to do a little information gathering,” replied Ceann.

“Why’s he worried about the Mantle? They were the one’s that gave us the land for New Ascalon.”

“While it’s true that the Mantle did in fact give us the land; I have to admit that I’ve always found it odd. Granted it’s a malaria infested bunghole of a demons rat pit; but it is still land and most rulers war over land rights rather then giving them away.”

“Good point. By the way, was it when you were a little alley urchin that you learned to speak with such poetic grace?” asked Svard.

“Hmm, doubtful it was part of Greywind’s lessons,” replied Ceann with a smile.

“So another bloody look but don’t touch mission eh?” asked Svard.

“Let’s just see what we find,” responded Ceann.

Not long after resuming the march Ceann glimpsed a dancing of light in the distance. He ordered his squad to a stop and motioned Svard to his side.

“You see something?” asked Svard.

“Not sure just yet; have Adaric get the lads into some cover while you and I go have a look see,” said Ceann.

Ceann and Svard made their way to a ledge that was of moderate elevation just east of the main road. Once atop the ridge they were afforded a decent view of the road for several miles. Not far to the south was a large contingent of men marching northwards, their well polished helmets and spear tips shining in the sunlight. Ceann reached for his spyglass and saw that the soldiers were wearing White Mantle tunics and were armed for war. Without a word he passed the glass to Svard and quietly contemplated the situation.

“They don’t look to be out for a simple patrol. I’d say that there are over five hundred of the buggers,” said Svard.

Ceann nodded his agreement. “Only New Ascalon and Nebo Village to the north,” replied Ceann.

“Gods damnit but what’s this all about sir?” asked Svard.

“I’m thinking that we need to have a chat with one of those men and find out,” suggested Ceann.

Once back with the squad Ceann spread word about the Mantle soldiers and instructed his men to stay out of sight. It took a long time for the Mantle to pass, a battalion of heavily armored troops and their baggage train move far slower than most people would imagine. The Hellfire’s on the other hand were light infantry consisting of footmen and archers; they traveled light and carried all their supplies in their packs. They could move fast and be deployed unsupported for long periods of time, often using foraging skills to supplement their food supplies.

The Mantle maintained a steady march right up until dusk before they stopped to make camp for the night. Ceann’s men backtracked about a half league and made their own camp in the bush. The Hellfire’s camp consisted of nothing more than a few small cooking fires that burned in freshly dug pits so as to keep the flames from unwanted eyes. Ceann and Svard sat with some of the other men around one of the cook fires and discussed the recent turn of events.

“So what are you thinking sir?” asked Svard.

“The Mantle have no reason to quarrel with Nebo village and if they did they wouldn’t need a battalion to deal with them. They must be heading for New Ascalon,” said Ceann.

“But what dispute could the Mantle have with us?” asked Adaric, the Hellfire’s senior archer.

“Greywind never mentioned any trade issues or border disputes. I’ve been wondering if maybe those bloody Ascalonian heroes have run a foul of the Mantle. If so it only reasons that New Ascalon would be the first to pay the price,” suggested Ceann.

“Your theory is a might reaching but it makes sense,” said Svard.

“What’s your plan sir?” asked Adaric.

“We have too many questions and not enough answers. Svard and I will pay their camp a quiet visit tonight and snatch ourselves a new friend,” said Ceann.

“Hmm, sounds like a good idea; but are you sure that it should just be the two of you?” asked Adaric.

“We’ll be fine, any more and we’d just risk making too much noise,” replied Svard.

“I never did like those damned heroes,” said Adaric in an acidic tone.

“I still remember our final confrontation with the Stone Summit while crossing the Shiverpeaks. When our right flank fell and the shield wall broke; Ceann was throwing himself at the dwarves screaming ‘hold them’ while those heroes ran with the refugees and Rurik’s personal guard close behind,” recollected Svard.

“The best part was once we got to Kryta and all the refugees started praising the six bloody heroes as saviors. Listening to the stories you’d think that those six fought off every enemy we faced,” said Adaric.

“We should have died in that last fight with the Stone Summit, would have too if Greywind hadn’t forcibly taken command of Rurik’s guards and reinforced us. As it was we lost over forty good men that day,” added Ceann.

“I remember the night when we rejoined the caravan; I was walking through camp and happened to pass the heroes fire, they were sitting there complimenting each other on how nice their armor looked. I could hardly believe my ears,” said Adaric.

Adaric’s final comment had quickly ended the conversation and the soldiers sat in a melancholy silence.

As the shadows lengthened and the evening fell under a shroud of darkness Ceann and Svard left their armor and items with Adaric; keeping only their daggers they headed out into the night. Years of shared battlefields had formed an intuitive bond between the two men and not a word was spoken as they sought out their target, it wasn’t long before they could see the glow of the Mantle’s cookfires. Silent as melandru stalkers the pair moved deeper into the jungle, carefully picking their way though the bush.

As they approached the Mantle camp Ceann’s soldier mind was considering the possible upcoming seige that New Ascalon would face. To the north the settlement was well fortified by a mountain range and the eastern border was protected by a tall steep ridge. If an enemy wanted to attack New Ascalon then the assault would have come from the south or west and a new stone wall had recently replaced the palisade that had defended both fronts. Five hundred well trained troops could have made short work of the settlement during its initial months but it would be much more difficult with the new fortifications.

When Ceann had watched the Mantle make their northern march he had not seen any siege equipment amongst the baggage train aside from ladders. The presence of ladders confirmed that the Mantle was indeed aware of the newly made walls, yet a five hundred man escalade didn’t feel right to Ceann. With each passing minute he was becoming ever more convinced that the group of Mantle he was hunting was not the entirety of the assaulting force. The Mantle could be planning any number of surprises and Ceann was intent on discovering their plans.

The White Mantle camp was in a clearing on the west side of the main road with jungle bordering two sides. The Hellfire’s were blessed with a moonless sky that greatly assisted their planned abduction. As Ceann and Svard left the cover of the jungle they continued forward on their stomachs, slithering in the darkness. Before long they were close enough to see the sentries posted around the perimeter at regular intervals assisted by scattered watch fires. The pair slowly made their way round the camp seeking a suitable target; so far all of the guards were within eyeshot of another. As they approached the northwestern corner of the camp they found the baggage train wagons sitting side by side in an orderly row. There was a sentry smoking a pipe in the shadow of the wagons, his obscured location presented an ideal target for the pair of predatory men.

Ceann soundlessly continued his approach as the guard casually blew rings of smoke into the veiled sky. When Ceann was less than three feet from the Mantle guard he paused and waited, in a matter of seconds he felt the anticipated tap on his leg, it was Svard signaling that he was ready. Ceann moved to a crouching position and abruptly grabbed the man about the neck with his arm, dragging him to the ground. Svard was already binding the sentry’s hands while Ceann was still choking him into unconsciousness. Within moments they were dragging the bound and gagged soldier off to a location where their interrogation could not be overheard. After traveling southwards for near an hour Svard unceremoniously dropped the Mantle soldier on the ground alongside a mosquito infested bog.

“Alright friend, I have a few simple questions for you and then you can be on your way. If you cooperate then I’ll have no reason to hurt you, if you prove to be difficult then I can only promise pain,” said Ceann in an emotionless tone.

The man simple lay immobile and stared a look of death into Ceann’s cold-blooded eyes, evidently quite unafraid of his captors.

“I’m going to remove your gag now; yell if you want, there’s no one around to hear,” said Ceann as he cut the cloth tied around the soldiers head.

“Where are you and your Mantle friends going?” asked Ceann.

The Mantle soldier spat at Ceann and began laughing. “I don’t talk to dead men!” he venomously replied.

Without a word Svard effortlessly held the soldier to the ground while Ceann proceeded to cut off one of the man’s ears. With the removal of the ear the Mantle soldier’s defiant composure wholly disappeared. The man spewed obscenities until Svard told him to shut up and boxed him in the wound that had recently been his ear.

“Now once again, where are the Mantle soldiers going?” asked Ceann in his disturbingly icy tone.

“We are going to the Ascalon settlement,” hissed the Mantle.

“What reason do you have for attacking the Ascalonians?”

“You know what you stole!” shouted the captive.

As Ceann considered this response he cast a quick look at Svard who was dispiritedly shaking his head. Both men knew with the utmost certainty that the theft of which the Mantle soldier spoke of was the work of the Ascalonian heroes.

“Where is the rest of your attacking force?” asked Ceann.

Svard cocked his head in surprise while the Mantle soldier hesitated just a little too long before answering, betraying his lie that there were no other troops. Ceann knelt and with a quick jab of his dagger he punctured the captive’s right eye.

“You son of a Charr,” screamed the Mantle soldier repeatedly.

Ceann grabbed the man by his hair and roughly twisted his head to the side, fixing him with a horrifying stare. “Answer my question or by the gods I swear I will flay your skin inch by inch until you’re begging me for death’s warm embrace,” growled Ceann as he held the tip of his dagger to the soldier’s remaining eye.

“The east, they’re coming from the east,” stammered the Mantle soldier hurriedly.

“Explain!”

“They are landing by ship on a beach east of your settlement. Rumor is that they will launch a surprise attack over the eastern ridge while we are drawing all the forces to the south.”

“How many?” demanded Ceann.

“Around two hundred men from our battalion where dispatched over a week before us, I can only guess that they are the men launching the eastern assault.”

Ceann savagely threw the man’s head to the ground and said, “That’s all the information we need. Kill him and dump his body in the bog, the crocs will take care of the rest.”

Svard ignored the man’s terrified pleas and quickly slit his throat. As the body was suddenly jerked under the surface of the water by an unseen predator Svard asked, “So what do we do now?”

“We need to hurry back to camp and get the men on the move, it seems that time is our enemy for now,” replied Ceann.

Upon returning to the Hellfire camp Ceann began writing two identical letters detailing the newly acquired information. Once Svard had roused the men Ceann dispatch two of them as runners on separate routes carrying the letters of warning to Marshall Greywind. The remaining Hellfire’s set out on a forced march following Ceann in a northeasterly direction. Though it was apparent that Ceann intended to somehow stop the Mantle’s eastern attack, Svard had no idea how it could be done with only forty-five men.

Ceann’s urgency was infectious and the Hellfire’s hurried through the jungle as fast as the night’s darkness would allow. Once Ceann was confident that they had safely out distanced the Mantle troops he lead his men onto the road and it was well into the following night before the Hellfire’s were permitted an ephemeral rest. Though it was clear that the Hellfire’s were rushing into danger the soldier’s were well aware that trusting Ceann was their best chance for survival.

It was midday on the second day after spotting the White Mantle when the Hellfire’s blistering march ended. Ceann had brought his men to the eastern side of the ridge where the surprise attack was supposedly to happen. He was pleased to discover that the terrain and natural landmarks were exactly as he had remembered from previous patrols. Directly east of the ridge was a gorge that bordered a shallow bay, the gorge appeared to be the remains of an ancient river and was the only practical access to the ridge’s eastern slope. On the eastern side of the bay was jungle and beyond that a large stretch of beach. Ceann was confident that the Mantle would be landing somewhere along the beach as all but the smallest of boats would founder in the bays extended shallow sea bed.

Ceann guessed that the Mantle troops would not arrive for two to three days as they would not want to risk discovery before the primary assault. After being made aware of Ceann’s battle plans Svard and Adaric set about completing the preparations. Firstly, all of the archers relinquished their supply of ground niter and brimstone which they carried to make fire arrows by combining with charcoal and urine. The men were then split into two work parties; one set about digging while the other was sent to collect and sharpen bamboo sticks. While the Hellfire’s were engaged in their labors Ceann lit a curiously low burning fire that smoldered in a narrow deep pit while he stood ascertaining a rocky outcropping adjacent to the clearing along the bay.

Svard blinked away the mist of the waves that were breaking against the rocky shore as he inspected the final results of the digging crew’s efforts; he was pleased with what he saw. Immediately west of the stone outcropping were two freshly dug pits near ten paces in width, they were positioned side by side and separated by the same distance as they were wide. Further west there was a shallow trench that spanned over half the distance of the clearing from the jungle to the sea shore. Once Ceann had given his approval of the diggings the sharpened bamboo sticks were firmly lodged into the bed of the pits with their deadly points directed upwards. The make-shift tiger pits were then loosely covered with foliage and sand effectively camouflaging their locations.

Ceann’s smoldering pit had finished converting the burning hardwood into a moderate sized pile of charcoal that he ground into a coarse powder and cautiously mixed with his archer’s niter and brimstone. The volatile mixture was then poured into a crevice in the rock outcrop behind a boulder that appeared to be the lodestone of the loose rock formation. All of the openings around the boulder and surrounding stones were then tightly packed with clay from the newly dug traps.

“Nothing left to be done now except wait,” said Ceann as the glowing red orb that was the sun descended towards the horizon.

“It’s a blessing that the White Mantle have not yet arrived. Seems like we may have the gods favor in this battle,” suggested the ever superstitious Svard.

Suddenly Adaric and a pair of his archers came charging out of the eastern trees.

“They’re here, the gods damned Mantle ships have arrived and they are coming ashore,” said Adaric through heavy breaths.

Young Rioch was fervidly sharpening his spear in hopes that the effort would mask the gnawing fear that threatened to overwhelm him. He watched the battle hardened veterans as they quietly smoked pipes, sharpened weapons or slept. Rioch promised himself that one day he would be as tough as these men, not realizing that they were just as afraid as he. While Rioch sharpened his spear he imagined himself leading a group of warriors back to Ascalon, killing every Charr in the land. His imaginings were interrupted as Ceann sat beside him.

“I’d say that spear looks sharp enough to shave with,” said Ceann.

“I want to make sure it’s sharp enough to kill,” replied Rioch.

“You’re a tough one, there’s not a man here who doubts that. I know you’ve seen a skirmish or two but this fight will be different. The Mantle are professional soldiers just like you and I. Fighting them isn’t going to be like killing the wild things we’ve faced before; it’s going to be a nasty bit of shield wall work. Keep your head behind your shield and whatever happens make sure you stay locked in the wall. If you do that then I promise you will get through this fight just fine,” said Ceann in a fatherly tone to the young soldier.

“I won’t let you down Sir.”

“I know you won’t lad, I know you won’t.”

The night passed slowly as each of the Hellfire’s wrestled with their personal demons, trying to steel themselves for the fight ahead. There are few men who retain notions of glory and honor after their first battle, survival with all of ones limbs attached is the primary desire for the vast majority of fighting men. Dawn arrived to find the Hellfire’s nine archers and thirty-six footmen eating their morning meal in full battle dress.

“Adaric, you and your men get up on the gorges northern plateau. Remember not to blow the rock facing until the first Mantle troops have hit the pits,” instructed Ceann.

In addition to being a consummate ranger Adaric had been gifted with the slightest aptitude towards the fire elements. When he was young he had been considered for mage training, though it quickly became apparent that he would never be able to more than set sticks aflame. Although Adaric’s fire casting abilities were minimal they were more than enough to ignite the explosive mixture buried within the rocks.

The hours passed by as the Hellfire archers sat in their vantage point and the infantrymen waited just beyond the entrance to the gorge. By now the White Mantle assault force would have discovered the enemy troop’s presence and would be making their own plans for battle. There was rush of birds taking flight as Mantle soldiers began appearing in an orderly formation along the eastern tree line. They were not heavily armored like their southern assaulting counterparts; rather they were light infantry, similarly equipped to the Hellfire’s.

It was not long before two hundred White Mantle soldier’s stood on the far side of the clearing waiting to engage the small force before them. Ceann was in the center of the Hellfire’s shield wall where the fighting would be fiercest, with Svard standing on his right. All of the men gave their shield a pull checking that it was firmly locked in an overlapping pattern with the men beside them. Spears were gripped in an overhand position ready to be thrust over the iron bound rims of shields.

The White Mantle Captian briefly assessed the pathetically inadequate group of soldiers facing his men and had taken note of the archers on the northern plateau. The Captain was a grave man and his orders were clear, he was to scale the Ascalon settlements eastern ridge by the morrow and nothing was going to get in the way of his orders. It was clear that this small band of Ascalonian soldiers intended to fight but their numbers were such that the Captain did not see any real threat. The Mantle soldiers were ordered forward, their Captain ever mindful of his schedule.

The White Mantle came forward in disciplined and orderly lines, their shield wall an exact copy of the Hellfire’s but to a much larger scale and benefiting from multiple ranks. Their progress was unhurried and intimidating; the ground shook with their perfectly timed march. Without warning both wings of the forward ranks stumbled into bamboo staked traps while the following ranks massed behind unsure of what had happened. As the Mantle ranks were closing up and reforming the rock face to their south exploded raining stone and tumbling rocks onto their left flank. The White Mantle Captain seeing his ranks dissolve into chaos and fearing the disgrace of not meeting his schedule ordered his men to charge the pitifully small shield wall.

The Mantle soldiers charged into the Hellfire line like rabid animals on the scent of blood. Adaric’s archers began raining volleys of arrows into the throng of men as they ran headlong into the final trap. The trench did little to slow the Mantle troop’s progress with the mass of men using the impaled corpses of their friends as a bridge over the bamboo stakes. While the Mantle formation had been broken and their ranks thinned they still greatly outnumber the Hellfire’s as they crashed into their line.

The soldiers smashed into the Hellfire shield wall with all the force of a battering ram. Shields were crushed into rib cages, men shoved with all their might resisting the devastating force. The soldiers heaved, stabbed, sweat and bled while the ground quickly became slippery with blood. Howling like madmen in the madness of battle the Hellfire’s miraculously held the attacking Mantle force. Adaric’s archers no longer shot in organized volleys but launched arrows as fast as their burning muscles would allow.

Ceann thrust his spear into an exposed shoulder while twisting from a stabbing sword. His spear then became lodged in a Mantle throat and Ceann was blinded by the arterial spray. Drawing his sword Ceann huddled behind his shield frantically rubbing his forearm at his eyes clearing away the blood. As his vision became restored he stabbed at a foot in front of him while Svard’s spear was killing anything within reach. Bodies had piled up in front of the Hellfire’s line and their footing was treacherous when Ceann ordered the shield wall back several paces.

The attack seemed endless, for every Mantle soldier that was killed two seemed to take their place. The Hellfire’s were gasping for breath; their shield arms a writhing mass of pain from the endless shock of enemy blows. There was no finesse to the attacks as they stabbed and smashed ignoring the exhaustion and agony that was assailing each man. It was when it seemed certain that the Hellfire line would surely fall and the day would be lost that that attacking force suddenly broke away. With a blood curdling cry Ceann ordered his men to attack and they broke rank charging down their enemies, lost to the primal bloodlust of battle.

Freed from the terrible confines of the shield wall Ceann’s exhaustion vanished as his fury was unleashed on the fleeing foes. He hacked a man down with a slash to the neck and severed another’s arm at the elbow. The Mantle Captain recognizing the design of rank on Ceann’s helm sought him out seeking revenge for the disaster he had been dealt. With a perfectly executed feint and reverse lunge the Captain knew he had slain his foe yet Ceann contemptuously used his sword to knock aside the blow and smashed the rim of his shield into the officer’s face. The Hellfire’s remorselessly hunted the remaining enemy; the concept of mercy had been lost, death ruled the day.

The fighting was done and the Hellfire’s had won their personal war, the eastern assault had been stopped and the battle for New Ascalon was now in Marshall Greywind’s hands. As the wounded were being attended to the remaining men searched through the mass of bodies filching items as they sought out their fallen friends. Ceann stood motionless amongst the dead, as his blade had run out of enemies and the blood lust had cleared from his mind an emptiness had settled upon his soul. He had won another victory and New Ascalon had been saved for one more day. Yet as Ceann looked upon Rioch, whose skull had been cleaved to its jaw, he could not help but think that the price had been far too high.