*clang*

*CLANG*

*CLAANG*

The last strike of the bell was so loud that Abrūtil’s bed practically shook. Stirring from his sleep, the man groggily stared at the half-darkened room. He could still see a touch of sunlight shining through the small window perched high on the wall, and he frowned. It’s not time for my shift yet.

*CLAANG*

The bell rang again with urgency and Abrūtil leapt to his feet. The bell. We’re being attacked. Dashing over to the rickety chair that held his belongings, he quickly pulled the long black tunic over his head. His hands shook as he tried to attach his sword to his belt and it took him three tries before he successfully closed the latch. He paused at the door a moment and took a deep breath, trying to summon his courage. What if I just don’t go? It was an appealing, if ignoble, thought. He was a damned good swordsman, but he had yet to breach past level 50; what could he do that his stronger brethren couldn’t do far better? Why risk it?

But he hesitated only a moment before yanking the door open and stepping out into the hall. Maybe he wasn’t the strongest warrior in the group, but you didn’t get chosen by the goddess if you were a coward. Live or die, he would serve Yas̆gah with honor.

He jogged lightly down the hall, nodding to a few of his brethren as they emerged out of their own rooms, woken like him from their slumber. Ahead of him, a bleary-eyed woman stumbled out of her room. Her usually immaculate hair was sticking up wildly in every direction, and she was still struggling to adjust the quiver on her back as she pulled the door shut.

Abrūtil slowed up as he approached her, and despite the gravity of the situation, his heart beat a little faster from something other than fear. “Do you need help, Ilbanāh?”

The woman, who had her back turned to him, literally started in shock, but she turned to face him with a warm smile. “Can you help me buckle this cuirass?” He quickly laced the leather breastplate up, tightening it snuggly against her, and then the two continued down the hall, though not without glancing down at his own unarmored chest in discontent. He’d had armor until recently; unfortunately, after a night of a bit too much drinking, he’d gambled away his cuirass and hadn’t quite managed to scrounge enough money to buy it back. Well, he actually had, but had chosen to buy a gift for Ilbanāh, a gift he was rather regretting now that he was about to be thrown into battle without armor. Yas̆gah, watch over me.

When they reached the entry hall, it was already milling with people.

“Squad 3, fall into formation!”

“Squad 4, around me!”

Dueling voices roared over the crowd, summoning the brethren to their assigned positions, and Abrūtil was forced to take his leave from Ilbanāh. As an archer, her spot was behind the lines, in squad 12. His was, unfortunately, at the front.

Following the voice of his squad leader, he pushed, shoved, and squirmed his way through the mass of bodies, while shooting curious glances at the door. The thick, iron-barred doors stood as proud and sturdy as ever, both still and silent, without any indication that they were being assaulted. Where are the enemies?

“Squad 7!” A voice roared practically in his ear, and pushing aside one last man, Abrūtil reached his squad leader. The man was a monster of a Djinn; one of the barbaric Seraphs, he towered a good foot taller than Abrūtil and stared down at him with a scowl.

“Where’s your armor, Abru?” The man demanded.

“Don’t have it,” he grunted out.

The Djinn snorted. “Let me guess, you gambled it away again.”

Abru could feel his cheeks burn with shame, but he stared the leader down stolidly. “Where do you want me?”

The man shook his head, massaging the space between his brows with a pained expression. “I wanted you on the front line, but without your armor…” He sighed. “Stand behind Labs̆adammu, and be prepared to step in if he falls.”

Brushing past the squad leader, Abrūtil took his place in line and tried to ignore the glare his usual second offered him.

The hall continued to buzz with excited, frenzied activity for the next fifteen minutes as more and more of the brethren joined the halls, many of them swarming up the stairs that led down to the lower levels.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A shiver crossed his spine at the mere thought of the oppressive darkness. Thankfully, he’d only been sent down there once, and that had been with a group of nearly twenty delivering dozens of boxes of food and weapons to the Nizirtū. The ruins might have been fascinating if it wasn’t for the sheer terror that they exuded, and that terror proved to have been more than a mere trick of the mind when his group returned one man short. They hadn’t even seen him taken, but his body was eventually discovered by another group, pale and drained of blood as always.

But slowly, the rush of reinforcements slowed down to a mere trickle, and the frenzied hubbub died down. The minutes ticked by almost excruciatingly slowly as Abrūtil stared at the door. It hadn’t so much as shaken as he arrived. Did they really drag me out of bed for nothing? He began to feel annoyed. His shift was supposed to start in just a few more hours, and his frustration only mounted as he watched his chance to sleep slip through his fingers.

The frenzied excitement died down as the hours passed, transformed into a mixture of nerves and annoyance. Abrūtil kept craning his head, trying to catch a glimpse of one of the Brotherhood’s esteemed elders, but he was disappointed. Apparently, they hadn’t deigned to show up. The rational side of him suggested that they might just have set up a second line of defense deeper in the pit, but the part of him that was beginning to think this was a false alarm, couldn’t help but be annoyed. Do they think they’re too good to fight with us?

Three hours of silence had passed since the alarm, and the mutterings in the crowd had begun to wax louder when the squad leader still refused to let them leave.

KABOOM

Abrūtil had been staring down at his feet when it happened. With a boom loud enough to shatter every remaining pane of glass in the foyer’s windows, the doors rocketed off their hinges His eyes snapped up just in time to see the doors smash through their gathered lines and transform a solid score of his brethren into mush. Fury of Yas̆gah, he gasped. They must have a strong mage.

His intuition was proved correct as the enemy charged through the door. At their head was a tall man with almost burgundy-colored skin riding astride a massive grey horse. Strangely, the Djinn’s head was bereft of horns, but from the volley of fireballs that quickly shot in front of him, it was clear he was a mage. He must have released a half-dozen spells in a matter of seconds, as dozens of small fireballs shot in every direction toward the enemy. At least he’s just a fire mage.

One veered straight toward them and Labs̆adammu blocked it with his shield. He was thrown back a step from the force of the explosion, and Abrūtil reached out to steady the man. “You alright?” He asked. The man only answered with a grunt, holding up a shield that now bore a charred and singed hole. Powerful for fire mage, but still… Abrūtil couldn’t help but feel a touch of relief as he watched his brethren surge forward to plug the hole in their lines that the doors had created and lower their spears. Most of the brethren were high enough level to have at least some fire resistance. We can weather him.

Perhaps Abrūtil jinxed things, for no sooner did he think that thought, then the mage cast a different spell, and spurred his horse straight toward the still weak portion of their line. He watched in fascination as a pale white flame quickly spread over both the mage and his horse, but he wasn’t too concerned.

The mage collided with the line. Their formation was strong, but the monstrous-sized horse was too powerful to be denied, and smashed through the front lines, creating an opening. His followers should have been close on his heels, but strangely enough they stayed away from him, choosing to slam into the shield wall on either side instead. It seemed a clear tactical blunder, a saving grace that would give them the opportunity to close ranks and perhaps even isolate the mage - right up to the moment, that is, that the Djinn gathered around the man and his horse began to scream.

Abrūtil watched in sick horror as the warriors swarming the mage stumbled away, desperately trying to beat out the white flames that quickly spread across their limbs. But it was of no use. The warriors burned like candles dipped in pig grease, and the strange fire spread to anyone who tried to help them. The mage raised his hand again, and a long, black whip appeared in his hand. With a flick of his wrist, it smashed through the mass of burning men and new screams filled the air, unearthly shrieks as three phantoms manifested around him and latched their gaping maws on the brethren.

Whatever semblance of order the squad leaders had managed to maintain crumbled as the brethren closest to the burning mage turned and fled. The two flanks tried to hold firm, but with the center collapsed, their Moon-kissed attackers were able to attack from two sides. Labs̆adammu fell as a spear was thrust straight through his damaged shield and into his chest, and Abrūtil lost sight of the mage as he was forced to step into the gap.

His mind fell into a flow as he blocked one thrust of his opponent’s spear after another with his sword and shield. He may not have been the best warrior, and he might not have had his armor, but he was a damn good swordsman. He was at a disadvantage in reach, but he bided his time patiently, waiting for the moment to strike. When it came, the Moon-kissed’s thrust was just a bit too high. Angling his shield perfectly, he deflected the strike up and above his shoulder. His opponent was pulled forward, overextended, his body vulnerable. Abrūtil’s blade struck through, stabbing straight for the only unprotected portion of the warrior’s body - the eyes. The brown eyes widened in terror and then were obliterated.

Yanking his sword free, Abrūtil quickly sheltered behind his shield as a new attacker filled the spot of the fallen. This one wasn’t wielding a spear, though. He blinked in confusion as a Corsythian, of all things, leaped into the gap, and it didn’t register until too late what weapon he held above his head. His shield splintered as a massive axe slammed down it with enough force that he was sent flying backwards, out of the formation. He slammed into the ground hitting his head hard, and the last thing he saw before he passed out was the Corsythian decapitating his squad leader. Yas̆gah save us.