As if in response to the increased activity of the Dark God's monsters, the sky above darkened, thick clouds rolling in like a shroud, casting the battlefield into an even colder twilight. What little light remained flickered over the blood-soaked mud, painting everything in grim hues.

"If you had it in you, sir, I think we'd all appreciate a bit more of that glow. If you didn't mind, of course."

Taelsin winked at the soldier with a humour he certainly did not feel, pushing even more mana into . As he did so, and his sword glowed with an even richer shine, he felt the dull thud of a familiar headache form in the centre of his brow. He was in danger of running dry. Again.

The Wandering Steward glanced over his shoulder at his people. The first of them, the strongest, were about halfway across now, but even they were struggling against the surging current. Goddess knows how the old, the sick, and the children would fare. But then the weight of the mountain men surged against Cattle's formation again, and his mind was elsewhere.

“One step back!” Kettle roared. His men, feet slipping into the red-soaked earth, fumbled to follow as the corrupted came down upon them like an avalanche.

The unexpected movement from the shield wall, performed with parade-ground precision, unbalanced the frenzied attack. The front row of the mountain men swung at thin air, allowing the defenders a modicum of space. Even then, though, the impact of the assault took a toll. The first to fall was Henswick. A jagged spear punctured down through his neck and out of his stomach with a sickening crunch. He tried to scream, but only a blood-choked gargle escaped his lips as his intestines slithered out and pooled around his boots. His attacker—a monstrosity of rotting sinew and cracked bone—snarled and pulled him closer, tearing the spear free in a wet, sucking sound. The man collapsed, his body twitching in the slick earth, forgotten.

In response, Kettle drove his sword up under the creature's ribs, tearing through muscle, feeling the vibrations travel up the hilt. The mountain man shuddered violently, black blood gushing from the wound in thick ropes, but - somehow - its strength did not falter. It grabbed Kettle’s arm with a clawed hand, squeezing, and Kettle felt something snap in his wrist, the pain blossoming like fire. Teeth, yellowed and broken, snapped inches from his face, and he jammed his shield up between them, feeling the sickening crunch of bone as he broke its jaw.

“Hold!” he screamed. “Hold!”

His men were desperate to splinter into smaller groups. Some were eyeing the dubious safety of the river, whereas others were keen to simply run and leave this horror behind. Yet, deep down, they all knew their only chance of survival was to stay in line. Years of training had drummed that into them, and they were all survivors of numerous encounters where those who broke first, ended up dead. The air was thick with the scent of blood and filth, the cries of dying men mixing with the inhuman screeches of the corrupted. Yet, whilst their Captain stood and as long as that blade of light hovered in the front row, they found the courage to stand.

Those of the common solidery did not possess many Skills, but they made use of them. All along the line, Strength increased in bursts, wounds healed as Skills were triggered on cooldowns, and tips of weapons bloomed with fire, lightning or whatever element individuals had within their capability. Few held much back in reserve, recognising the extremity of the situation.

Then, just as it felt like the tide might be turning - that the line would hold - the shrill sound of a horn, unnervingly close, cut through the chaos. Kettle’s blood ran cold. He knew that sound. The MyrkrÞræll.

Out of the darkness they came—gliding like smoke over the bodies of the fallen, their forms constantly shifting, never staying solid for more than a heartbeat. The first one struck without warning, appearing from the gloom, and ripping through a soldier before anyone could react. One moment, the man was standing; the next, his chest cavity was opened like a split fruit, ribs splayed wide and organs spilling out in a steaming mass. His legs twitched in the mud, still standing, even as the rest of him slumped.

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Major Degralk, drenched in the blood of those around him, drove his Skill-empowered pike straight into the centre of that dark mass of shadow and bone. The point sank deep, and for a moment, the creature froze. But then it twisted, its body warping around the weapon, pulling the pike from Degralk’s hands as easily as a child pulling a thread from cloth.

“Damn it!” Degralk spat, yanking a knife from his belt. His sole Skill was focused on that weapon, without it . . . well, no point wondering about that. He lunged at the creature, his blade flashing in the reflected light of Taelsin's sword. He slashed at its form, black blood spattering his face, but the MyrkrÞræll barely noticed. It turned, its head stretching unnaturally as its featureless face hovered inches from his. There were no eyes—only an endless void.

Degralk’s pulse roared as he cut again, this time cutting deeper. The creature laughed—a high, piercing sound that drilled into his skull—and lashed out. The impact was immediate. The tendril of darkness smashing into his side, flinging him backwards through the air. His vision blurred, pain exploding from his chest as he hit the ground hard. He rolled through the shallow water and mud, groaning, and pushed himself up, barely managing to stagger to his feet.

Around him, the battlefield was devolving. The MyrkrÞræll were everywhere, slipping between their formation, tearing through armour and flesh with their ghostly appendages. No one was safe. One soldier was lifted off the ground, a tether of black wrapped around his throat, his body jerking as it dangled like a broken puppet. His eyes bulged, blood pouring from his nose and mouth as his neck was wrenched violently to one side. The snap echoed through the fray as the MyrkrÞræll dropped his lifeless body like discarded meat.

Degralk looked behind him; most of the refugees appeared to be in the water now, with a decent number emerging, wet, onto the far bank. Maybe they had some room for manoeuvre.

“Fall back!” Degralk shouted, his voice hoarse. “To the river!”

His men obeyed, stumbling back, step by step, their retreat far more organised than he had any right to demand of them. The river loomed behind them, its rushing water offering their only hope of escape. But not yet. Not until the people of Swinford were clear. Yet the MyrkrÞræll were relentless, flowing through the dwindling, leaving a trail of broken bodies and shattered minds.

Kettle fought through the carnage, his shield and sword slick with gore. He hacked at anything that moved, desperate to keep his company in order, to keep them pulling back in good order. But the ground beneath his feet was a mess of churned-up bodies, blood and mud, and every step was a struggle to stay upright.

To his left, he saw Sergeant Drult struggling with one of the mountain women. The corrupted had wrapped her hands around Drult’s leg, pulling him down, dragging him into the mud. Drult screamed, his blade slashing wildly, but it wasn’t enough. The woman was trying to drown him, her grip crushing bone and flesh alike.

“Drult!” Kettle slammed into the corrupted with all his weight. His shield crushed her head against the ground, and he drove his sword into her chest, again and again, black ichor spilling from the wounds like tar. The woman writhed beneath him, her body twitching and spasming, before finally going still. Kettle collapsed beside it, his chest heaving, hands trembling.

Drult coughed, clutching at his mangled leg. “Good timing, Captain.”

“We’re not done yet.” Kettle hauled him to his feet, triggering to stop the blood pouring out. There was a thrum of a notification as he felt that Skill level up. It hardly suggested he was moving towards a comfortable retirement that this was the second time he had received that message in a week. Supporting Drult as they staggered toward the riverbank, he said, “We’ll reform here!" But he did not know who he was trying to kid. Behind them, he sensed that the battle might rage on, but it was no longer a fight. Indeed, it was in danger of becoming a massacre.

From the rear, Souit watched it all unfold, his eyes scanning the chaos for some last thread to pull. His men were, as he had feared, collapsing under the weight of the assault. The defence of the northern bank was all but at an end, the pikemen in danger of being overwhelmed. In fact, without the unexpected intervention of the Wandering Steward, he doubted they would have stood so long.

It was now or never.

With a sigh, he began to reach for a Skill he had hoped never to use again.