"I've never liked the words 'famous last stand,'" Captain Kettle said, speaking to no one in particular. "In the first, it presupposes a day on my feet, which is never high on my list of priorities."

"That's true, sir," Drult murmured from his side. "If anyone knows anything about Captain Cattle, it's that he loves a good sit down."

If Kettle heard the rumble of laughter at the Sergeant's commentary, he chose to ignore it. "Then there's the idea about the whole thing being 'famous'. Could never be doing with that sort of talk. What do I say about fame, boys?"

"That it's a fickle mistress, sir?"

Kettle frowned at that. "Doubt I ever used the word 'fickle' in my life, Jinks. Where do you come up with this stuff!"

"That only the dead get famous, sir," another of the huddled men behind him supplied.

"That's the one. Only the dead get famous. Words you can live your whole life."

"Certainly ones not to die by," Drult added, sotto voce.

"And that brings me to the point of this morning's exercise." Kettle's voice raised now so that it could be heard by more than just his own company. "I don't want any of you getting the wrong end of the stick of what we're about here. We're not here to soak the dirt in our blood. The General hasn't put us here to earn our place in history. No. None of that for us at all. No one knows anything about us now, and nothing we're about to do this morning will change that. I want you to put all ideas of heroism out of your mind. This is just going to be another day in paradise for you all in His Majesty's army. We're going to stand here for a bit, persuade anyone who wants us to move the error of their ways, and then we're going to cross over yonder river after the rest of our mates and have tea and crumpet under the light the Harvest Moon. Are we all clear on this fact?"

The river behind them snaked beneath a cold, grey sky, its sluggish waters offering no comfort. Making their final preparations to cross, the refugees of Swinford crowded under tattered cloaks, their faces pale with fear, eyes fixed on the slope above them. The horizon boiled with dark clouds, and - well they knew - from those mountains came the corrupted warriors that had dogged their steps for the last week.

A little back from where Cattle was doing his best to raise the spirits of the bedraggled soldiers, what remained of the command staff of the King's Army watched those same hills.

“Not long now,” General Souit muttered, adjusting the gauntlet on his left hand. His gaze scanned the banks, already calculating the worst possible outcome and how to outmanoeuvre it. "Might be a good time to stiffen some sinews."

Taelsin grimaced, triggering . During their journey through the mountains, the reach of that Skill had increased as the Skill had levelled up. He did not think it said anything good about their progress that he could now easily encompass the entirety of the group within its reach.

"Do you have the mana to keep running, sir? I'd rather not waste any of the healers we have left because your people are a little tired and emotional."

Taelsin bit back his first reply. Over their march, he had long learned that diplomacy was not one of the Great General's many talents and skills. He was just stating reality as he saw it. "For sure, General. If I keep my focus on the refugees, that should not be a problem." A low hum filled the air as both of his new Skills rippled outwards. Soldiers stood straighter, steadier, the wild thumping of their hearts brought under control. Likewise, the movements of the refugees preparing to cross the river became less frantic, more focused.

Souit nodded. Satisfied. They would all be in urgent need of this clarity, for soon the dark tide massing in those hills would descend.

“Captain Kettle!” Souit’s voice rang out, snapping across the ranks. Cattle paused in his own efforts to raise morale and clanked forward, his armour thick with dents - both old and new.

“Aye, sir?”

“You know your orders?"

"Aye, sir."

"Repeat them to me."

"I'm to take my men and hold the northern bank. If they want to follow the refugees as they cross, they’ll have to come through the shallows there. We’re to dissuade that course of action.”

"Your men up for it?"

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Captain Kettle nodded, though, in truth, he was not so sure. The north bank of the river was treacherous with mud and thick reeds—hardly ideal terrain from which to hold a solid line.

“Major Degralk,” Souit turned, to look at his second in command. “You and what remains of our pike companies will support the captain, but be sure to stagger your defence. Your focus is to be those monsters. The Captain's men will repel the headlong charge of the mountain men. But those beasts? They’ll look to swarm.”

Degralk’s eyes narrowed. “The MyrkrÞræll?” His voice was thick with disgust. The memory of those shadow-things—their oily shapes sliding over the battlefield like spilled blood—was enough to twist his stomach.

Souit’s lips tightened. “Yes. Position your men along the ridge and ready the long pikes. Keep them at bay. They can't be allowed to get amongst the refugees." Degralk's jaw tightened, but he saluted without hesitation.

Finally, Souit turned to Taelsin. "Best you get your people across now, sir. Get them clear of the river as soon as you can. I doubt these things will think to use arrows, but let's not take the risk. We'll follow as soon as we are able."

Taelsin opened his mouth to, once more, protest against this course of action. He was no military strategist, but he could recognise the jeopardy of what Souit sought to achieve. The river would be an excellent barrier between them and the rampaging mountain men that had dogged their every step, but getting across it safely was a whole other thing. Taelsin feared he was about to witness the eradication of the last of the King's Army. And, without their protection, the Goddess knew what would become of Swinford's refugees.

Then, the scream of a horn—low and mournful—cut through the air. Souit’s gaze snapped toward the mountains. They were coming.

"Fast as you like, sir. We will see you on the other side."

Dark shapes crawled from the hillsides, black against the ashen sky. The corrupted men of the mountain, once proud hunters of their Bloodspires, were now reduced to shambling, horrific figures. Their flesh was twisted, bone visible through cracked skin, eyes wild and glinting with madness. They roared and shrieked, their voices rising with an eerie, unnatural pitch.

But they were not the true horror. Souit's forces had repelled their regular, frenzied attacks - if not easily - then with minimal fuss. They were professional soldiers, well used to pacifying savage tribes, and it took a lot to disturb their equilibrium. However, behind the mountain men, even darker shadows loomed. The MyrkrÞræll—twisted human sacrifices to the Dark God—flowed from the mountain’s roots like living nightmares. Each moved with an unnatural grace, their forms indistinct and writhing. Limbs extended in ways that no human’s should, and where there should have been eyes, there was only endless darkness.

Kettle swallowed hard, but raised his voice as he returned to his men. “Guardsmen, form up! We hold here!” Without a word, his men locked shields, the heavy iron plates slamming together, forming a wall.

“Pikemen!” Degralk barked, his voice cutting through the sudden wind that whipped across the water. “Hold fast!”

The corrupted mountain men began their descent, howling like wolves. Spears and axes flashed in their hands, but their movements were uncanny—faster than should be possible for something so twisted and monstrous. The first wave of arrows was loosed from the archers stationed along the ridge. The shafts hissed through the air, finding targets in the front lines of the corrupted. Some stumbled, struck down, but others barely seemed to notice the arrows sticking from their flesh.

“Here they come!” Kettle bellowed, hefting his broad shield just as the first of the mountain men crashed into the defensive line.

The impact was thunderous. Shields groaned under the weight of the assault. Swords and axes hacked down, glancing off steel and wood, but some broke through. Kettle slammed his shoulder into the press, knocking one of the twisted attackers to the ground, and drove his blade into its neck. It let out a gurgling snarl before collapsing into the mud.

The northern bank of the river was under siege, but Souit’s mind was already elsewhere. The real threat was not these rabid creatures—they were dangerous, yes, but predictable. It was the MyrkrÞræll. His eyes flicked to the shadows slithering just behind the battlefront, sliding like oil across the riverbank. They had not engaged yet, but they would. By the Lords, he knew they would.

“They’re holding back,” he muttered. “Why?”

Then, a terrible sound—a low growl, deep and guttural—rumbled across the field. It came from the rear of the corrupted forces. A MyrkrÞræll stepped forward, its body writhing in the half-light. It moved with a fluidity that mocked the human shape it once was. Then, with a horrifying screech, it lunged forward, crashing into the front lines like a force of nature.

Kettle’s shield buckled under the blow, and the soldiers behind him staggered. “Hold, damn you! Hold!” he screamed, thrusting his sword into the creature’s shadowy mass. It screeched, recoiling for a moment, but surged again, its amorphous body wrapping around his arm. Kettle gritted his teeth, trying to pull free, but the creature was too strong. He could feel its cold, unnatural grasp seeping into his skin, pulling him closer.

And then, a light—blinding and sudden—flared from behind the ranks. Taelsin, who had not followed the refugees in their swim across the river, stepped into the line, his sword raised high. The new Skill he had acquired during the many confrontations in the last week, , burst into life, sending bolts of luminescence into the monster. Kettle’s body shuddered, the dark grasp loosening as Taelsin's assault forced the creature back.

“Push!” Taelsin shouted, his voice clear and commanding. “Push them back!”

Souit nodded approvingly at the man's timing. His soldiers, emboldened by the surge of power, slammed their shields forward. Spears and swords thrust into the assaulting shadows, and, for a moment, the line held.

But it was not over.

The first of the MyrkrÞræll shrieked, recoiling into the darkness, but there were more of them. Far too many. Dozens now, sliding from the mountains, their shapes blurring with the wind and shadows. Souit’s jaw tightened. He had planned for this, but even his Skill-enhanced mind was struggling to calculate the path of every shadow, every strike.

“Major Degralk,” Souit called out, his voice steady amidst the chaos. “I think the next wave will be for you and your boys!”