T Lain - Return of the Damned

Another man stepped in to take his place, rushing Regdar with his shoulder down. The soldier crashed into Regdar’s chest and grabbed him in a bear hug. Regdar had leaped into the air when he saw the man coming, so the force of the impact carried both men backward several feet and out of the immediate fray. Regdar’s weight was too much for the man to bear, however, and the attacker had to let him drop to the floor.

Regdar landed on his feet and took two long steps back to steady himself. His opponent was still off balance, so Regdar slammed his sword down with all his might against the top of the man’s helmet. The blade struck with such force that it knocked him flat on his stomach. Regdar quickly stabbed the point through the gap below the man’s helmet, cutting through his spine. Though the wound didn’t kill him outright, the man lay on the floor unmoving, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Regdar was now separated from Clemf, and the tattooed human was surrounded. A black-clad soldier stepped behind him and jabbed a dagger at Clemf’s unprotected flank. The dagger sank into Clemf’s soft, fleshy backside, making him jump straight into the air.

Regdar charged back into the melee, zeroing in on the soldier stabbing at Clemf’s rear. He took two steps before the sound of a bowstring filled his ears. He cringed, bracing himself for the impact.

The arrow wasn’t aimed at Regdar. Green fletching sprouted in the ear of the man ahead. His knees went weak, and he spun around just in time to see Regdar before the greatsword knocked him to the floor with a blow to the chest. To his right, Tasca winked as he nocked another arrow and loosed it into the dwindling crowd.

Glad he’s on my side, thought Regdar. He took a second to check on Whitman. The dwarf was flinging his hammer around in a figure eight pattern, bashing away blades and moving the soldiers back with his unorthodox style. Regdar had encountered men who had fought that way before. They had come from the far east, but they fought with small, finely crafted blades and trained for years in the ancient arts of swordplay. Somehow, seeing the dwarf use his hammer in the same fashion seemed comical—and effective.

Clemf stepped next to Regdar, rubbing his behind.

Another rumble echoed through the great hall—the sound of more marching soldiers.

The remaining fighters before Regdar and his men suddenly disengaged, falling back and forming a defensive line.

Tasca continued firing arrows into their midst, but now many of them were bashed away by blades or shields.

As they waited, the darkness at the far end of the room stretched and grew, widening along the edges, rolling out into the open and snuffing what light dared enter. Bits of that growing shadow broke off and separated into individual, man-sized chunks.

Regdar shook his head. It wasn’t a shadow at all. It was an even bigger unit of black-clad soldiers.

“This doesn’t look good,” said Regdar.

“Not good at all,” agreed Whitman.

The soldiers filled the room, forming ranks behind the defensive line. They stood for a moment, completely still. Only the sound of Tasca’s arrows clanking off splint mail or sinking into flesh broke the silence.

As a group, the soldiers raised their swords.

Regdar stepped up beside Clemf. Tasca and Whitman did the same, forming a short line of their own.

The big fighter took a deep breath. He’d faced a lot of men in battle. Some were scared, some cool and confident. Then there were those who didn’t care whether they lived to fight another day. It was those sorts who were the most dangerous.

Regdar looked at the eyes of the men standing before him—cultists of the god Hextor. They glared back, hard and cold. These men had no fear of death. They would come and come and come until they either won or all were dead. Regdar was sure of that.

They came.

Metal clanged on metal. Feet shuffled, and in the first few seconds, as soldiers clashed, men died.

Regdar and Clemf killed the first two, each with one swing.

Whitman slew two more on his own, and Tasca dropped one to his knees with an arrow to the gut. But for every one they removed from the line, another took his place. Rank upon rank moved forward. They filled the whole room, pushing away the light as a storm cloud blots out the sun. Regdar and his men were surrounded, fighting back to back.

Tasca dropped his bow and whipped out his rapier. He stood back to back with Whitman, slapping away blades with a zigzagging pattern. Whitman twirled his hammer, doing the same from the front.

Clemf spun around to protect Regdar’s flank. Regdar smiled to himself at the thought of Clemf being stabbed twice in the ass in the same combat. There was no time for amusement, though. Swords flashed so quickly Regdar could barely track them. The attackers were so numerous that they interfered with each other. He and his companions, on the other hand, could attack almost anything that moved. Ferocity was their best protection, and they used it to its fullest advantage. They slashed and stabbed in all directions, heedless of the risks, trusting in raw aggression and each other to protect their backs.

As he bashed a blade into the air, stars burst across Regdar’s field of vision, and he fell to one knee. A soldier stood over him with a mace raised for another shot at his head.

The mace swept down just as Regdar twisted his head away. It connected with the side of the helmet. The impact and the ringing clatter rattled the fighter. Pain shot through his skull, as if his brain were swelling and pressing on the back of his eyeballs, forcing them out of his head.

Focusing his eyes as best he could, Regdar tried to get back on his feet. The soldier hovering over him wound up for another blow. Regdar pulled back and tried to dodge. Silver flashed in front of his face, and the mace, still gripped by the man’s gauntleted hand, dropped to the ground.

Behind the stunned, maimed cultist stood Clemf. Another quick stab with his sword killed the soldier whose fist he’d just amputated. Clemf then grabbed Regdar by the scruff of his neck and lifted him to his feet.

Desperate for anything that could buy them time, Regdar shouted at the top of his lungs, “Surrender! Surrender!”

The fighting ceased almost immediately. All of the attackers took a step back, but they didn’t reform ranks. They just stood silently, surrounding Regdar and his men.

Regdar stood up tall, breathing hard, and adjusted his armor.

Whitman had a cut along his forehead. Clemf had dozens of small wounds across his arms and chest. None of them appeared serious, but he was covered in blood. Tasca, on the other hand, was completely untouched. It’s good to be quick, Regdar thought.

Over the noise of shuffling soldiers and creaking armor came the sound of a set of heavy boots. The soldiers parted, creating a pathway from the far wall all the way to Regdar and his men. A single figure approached out of the darkness.

Tall, thick, and heavily armored, whoever it was obviously wore full plate mail. Black spikes jutted from the figure’s shoulders, knees, and forearms. The mysterious person stepped out of the shadows into the light.

“We meet again,” said a deep, gravelly voice.

Regdar narrowed his eyes. There before him, whole and unscathed, stood the blackguard whom he had battled in the City of Fire—the last person he’d seen standing beside Naull.

The big fighter snapped. Roaring his pain and fury, he charged at the blackguard, arms pumping, legs straining with every ounce of strength he had.

The soldiers moved to intercept him. Regdar cut them down. His blade carved a path through the wall of bodies before him. He was two steps beyond the slain before their bodies hit the floor.