Percival’s men had done their job. The second retreat order was given. Archers leapt from rooftop to rooftop in deft movements back to the citadel. They were the first to leave the battlefield. His men’s place, however, was on the ground. Percival watched a young man run just a hair too slow. A hand clamped on the soldier’s ankle in a corpse vice and pulled him into the black fog. The recruit must have been no older than sixteen. Percival vaguely remembered seeing him in training. He just didn’t expect to see a human face contort in such a way. It didn’t matter; the face was pulled under in seconds, submerged in the black curtain. Percival hoped to God he didn’t have to see him again.

“There is a third line, right?” Barathon said.

“I have faith.”

“But you don’t expect us to.”

Percival saved his breath. Fear draped over him like a prickling wave, driving him forward. He wondered how many years one had to fight to become desensitized. Evidently, twenty wasn’t enough.

They ran and ran down the road towards the city’s center. The citadel’s walls were still so far, and there was nothing but road between here and there. Once these streets were vibrant with city affairs and festive chatter. Empty now, as what citizens remained bunkered away in the citadel. And the mages’ ghostly stars only made a mortuary of the road.

Another young recruit screamed behind him. Percival couldn’t tell if it was his own blade chilling him or his fear. No one was waiting for them. There was no third line. Aldren was letting them die. Fear was becoming anger.

A wall of water broke against his face. He gasped and held his breath instinctively. Cold sheets of what felt like the lightest rain swept past his skin, his armor, but it did not adhere to him like rain should. The droplets crystallized like splinters of glass and listed away into the air, sparkling. A wide procession of mages was suddenly ushering them forward.

“Get out of the way!”

“Come on!”

He glanced behind him as he followed the instruction, mouth agape in confusion. Every soldier that made it through was wiping away water that didn’t exist with silly swipes of their hands. Then they jumped at the sudden appearance of the mages. The wall of invisible water rippled with the entrance of every new survivor. Hundreds of mages were preparing Spells all around him. The itch in his neck was nearly unbearable.

“Looks like you were right,” Barathon said. “Come on, close your jaw. We did our part.”

Percival recovered and continued toward the citadel. Countless Spells detonated over his shoulder. The pavestones ahead flashed with brief illumination at each one. He heard giant bones shatter and wispy cries.

Citadel guards waved the beleaguered second line infantry into the courtyards, where water, food, and medical attention was waiting. Percival had no appetite. He sat on a tree stump, emptied water skin in hand, and watched his people be treated. In an open tent nurses were stripping armor off a screaming man fighting the leather bonds they had placed on him. When the clothes were finally removed, Percival saw sloughs of blackened flesh. Some of the other soldiers looked away. Some couldn’t stop looking. The doctor was saying something to the nurses. Percival turned his head.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The screaming stopped.

A piece of bread hovered near his nose.

“Come on, brother you need to eat,” Barathon said, offering.

“Not right now.” Percival pushed it away with the back of his fingers. When was it time? He didn’t know. Perhaps he could never eat again. He left his seat and started up the stairs to the parapets. Two hundred steps to the top. His legs were steeping in exertion, but he needed the distraction.

At the top he saw the third line engage the undead monstrosities. It consisted of the far more experienced mages. There wasn’t enough to cover the second line further out, so they had concentrated them here closer to the citadel, sheathed in false vision. With the giants crumbling, the hordes were retreating. Yet the night was far from over.

He smelled the metallic tang of a heavy storm, coming from his side.

“Success, for now,” Highcaster Tireliam said. “You fought as well as you could have.”

The mage leaned on his staff leisurely. The arcane weapon stayed upright, despite having naught to prop against.

“Your cadre couldn’t have at least assured us we had a plan?” Percival held back most of his fury. He didn’t have the energy.

“Against any other enemy, perhaps morale could have been prioritized.”

Percival turned away. The Highcaster nodded in acknowledgement. “I know. How about I tell you this. There is a fourth defense. The work of my personal party.”

“You trust me to survive if they make it through your mages?”

“I want you to at least have an idea of what it’s like to harbor that which you cannot disseminate, no matter how much it would alleviate your comrades’ fears.” Tireliam chuckled. “But yes, please don’t die to him now that you know this.”

Percival made a grunting noise. He raised his farglass. By the entrance to the city, the bodies were accruing, climbing over each other, becoming something bigger. At their feet the figure in black beckoned unnatural energies, fingers violet with power. One demonic orchestra of dreadful Spells.

“How are you planning on dealing with him?” Percival asked.

“Hm…”

“Or don’t tell me. Probably a better idea.”

“We’re not sure if necromancers are capable of staying dead.”

“What?!” Percival whipped his head away from the sights. “We had a whole campaign telling our people that-”

“Yes, well, a hopeful lie produces more utility than a measured estimate.” Tireliam sighed. “Don’t blame us. Blame the public’s constitution. Humans are simply too… short lived to know better.”

“You are human as well, Highcaster,” Percival said, making sure every syllable was clear.

“I wasn’t disparaging human nature, Percival. Our growth needs more time than the amount most of us are allotted. Why assume I was looking down on you when, here at the end of an empire, I still stand with you?”

Percival turned away.

Tireliam stopped leaning. His staff snapped to his grip.

“Good luck,” he said. “When this ends, I’ll collect you, and we can debate Aldren’s failings in safety.”

Again Percival smelled thunder and rain. He was alone on the wall once more.

“He’s right, you know.”

“Shut it.”

“How many times can you humans make the same mistake? So much excess. Every empire you’ve ever built, you’ve suckled on the teat of manifest destiny. With your teeth. Until disaster outpaces your bureaucracy, and you run out of easy resources to claim.”

“You are a nasty, petty creature.” Percival sighed. “But you’re right. It’s like this in every world, I suppose. I always thought the Spanish Flu was God’s punishment upon the people from my world for trying to destroy our brothers and sisters. If we all believed, if we all had faith…”

“You think your God would have intervened? Ha.”

“Faith isn’t about what’s physical or literally real, creature. Faith is a willful bond, a handshake with others that transcends science and logic, so what is human can never be quantified, and people can never become just a number. After witnessing so much death from the Flu, do you think the humans of my world will want to fight each other again? That’s the power of solidarity; that’s what we need in this world. I don’t expect a godless thing like you to understand.”

The voice only laughed in response. But it said nothing else. Percival continued watching through his farglass, his lips pronouncing silent prayers.