The weather was not lovely the next day, nor the day after that. Heavy rains arrived from the south, turning the ground into one swirling mass of dark red mud. The swollen lake lapped at its bank and threatened to spill out into the streets. All through the day and sometimes in the night, the town was a bustle of men filling and piling sandbags by the lake's edge, and women and children towing their belongings to higher ground. Even Lady Perelli was spurred to action, nosing through the crowds with a satchel in one hand and a weathered parasol in the other.
Making his way the opposite way down the street was Tamm, his armor mud-splattered and his shoulders hunched. Rain dripped steadily into his eyes and pooled into his scraggly goatee, and he had long since stopped caring. It was difficult to be concerned with comfort or appearance when he seemed to be watching the destruction of a city being played out slowly before his eyes.
Calmer scenes, of course, played about him as he walked. A mother scolded her children, a girl flirted with her sweetheart, and old men gathered to discuss their livestock. Tamm stopped beneath the overhanging roof of the smithy to yank his hair away from his eyes and simply drink in the sweet sights of normalcy. With every bat of the lashes, or clucking of the tongue, it was blissfully easy to forget the pounding of the rain, the churning of the lake, the ringing of the bells… bells?
Tamm sprinted forward and turned his eyes south, expecting to see waves crashing in through the narrow alleys. But there was nothing, nothing but the clanging of bells and a growing surge of voices. All flirting and scolding and gossiping had stopped; every head was now turning in vain to find the source of the trouble. Out of the corner of his eye, Tamm saw Alina Perelli fleeing to her house, her eyes wide and hat askew. Besides her, everyone seemed rooted to the spot, waiting…
Tamm's questions died on his lips when he spied a lone figure running towards him from the fog. The man skidded to a halt before him; a drenched and breathless Symion. This was Symion as Tamm had never seen him: pale and grim, his eyes wide with fear. "It's the orcs," he whispered hoarsely. "The Blackrock. They're coming."
The next moments were filled with screams and a general commotion that was little more than a blur in Symion's mind. He recalled Tamm thundering by, shouting orders, and the sounds of metal ringing as swords were drawn. The crushing flow of militia and townspeople caught him in the throng and carried him to the shambles that marked the outskirts of Lakeshire. Even to Symion's untrained eye, one look at the muddy field was enough to tell him that this was no place for a battle. Along the road were half-filled sandbags, slumped against each other, and piles of discarded lumber. Abandoned carts were left in the mud, up to the spokes of their wheels in the mire.
After orders had been shouted and a general sense of formation among the ranks had been accomplished, it grew quiet. The silence was broken only by jagged, shivering breaths and the faint rustling of chain mail. All eyes were turned to the nearby hills in grave expectation. Symion felt the moment appropriate for some sort of quip or jibe, but as he drew his two flimsy daggers, the only words to leave his lips were, "Say a prayer for me, Tamm."
Tamm's plated hand fell heavily on Symion's shoulder in response. "Light, please keep Simon far away from Goldshire."
Symion chuckled in spite of himself and shrugged away from Tamm. "Not that kind of prayer, you fool," he said, attempting to twirl the dagger in his right hand. It was a poor attempt, but it somehow made him feel more prepared to face what would come.
A low murmur swept through the crowd. The first orc appeared through the gathering fog, then another, then another -- soon dozens were crawling over the hills. The uniformity of the approaching horde was disturbing; every snarling maw and twisted axe among them had the look of death. Heavy boots slid in the mud, leaving deep furrows in the hillside as the Blackrocks continued their descent.
Tamm had seen little of real battle in his life, only minor skirmishes with the Defias and others of their ilk. But from the moment he felt the weight of his weapon connect with an orc's skull, he felt the usual feeling of disconnectedness wash over him. He gave little thought as to where he swung his mace, or when he should step to the side to avoid a blow; his mind was no longer in the black-and-red hills, but back in the Cathedral. It was not pounding adrenaline coursing through his body, but the Light. Every muscle felt it.
And so he fought, his actions not entirely his own. He could not tell how many orcs he felled, or whose lives were restored by his prayers-- the battle wore on, a blur of clanging metal and crunching bone. Dimly he was aware of Simon fighting nearby.
Gradually, Tamm's head cleared and for the first time he saw the ground strewn with bodies both orcish and human. It was clear that the people of Redridge had won this battle; the few orcs who still drew breath were already captured and bound for interrogation. Tamm breathed a prayer of thanks for the Light's protection before turning his attention to the dead and wounded around him.
The situation, he could tell, was grim. There were far too many casualties and far too few healers to tend them. Tamm knelt by the man closest to him, his stomach turning at the sight of the open flesh exposed by sundered armor. Already the rain was washing away the blood, revealing the full extent of the wound. One look told Tamm that the man should not be alive, but he sensed that a part of the man's spirit still clung to the body.
Silently he beseeched the Light, calling upon the power promised to its faithful servants. A glow formed around his hands and he felt the Light fill him once more. The sensation was not like on the battlefield, when he hardly felt in control of his own body, but rather a clear-headedness that was almost painful. An acute awareness of the moans of the dying made his prayers more difficult to muster-- but all the more heartfelt.
The soldier drew a long, rattling breath. His eyes widened for the sparest of moments before rolling backwards. Tamm continued to pray, calling upon every spell he knew.
Nothing happened.
No longer could Tamm sense a lingering spirit residing in the man; all that was before him now was an empty shell, growing cold under the freezing rain.
Tamm breathed one last prayer for the departed before forcing himself to stand and turn away. He closed off the part of himself that grieved, leaving behind the corpse and turning to the rest of the wounded.