Chapter Two: A Song and Dance
The Death Knight stood before us, staring, and the aura of hate surrounding him was almost as tangible as a mace to the face. We all stared back, and someone, somewhere in the line, started screaming at it. And suddenly, we all joined in. Men broke ranks, made obscene gestures, or spat on the ground in derision. Weapons beat against shields. I screamed until my voice was hoarse and dry.
Through it all, Aelfric's standard, a black raven sitting atop the crest of Lordaeron, hung limply from its pole.
Once more, the air grew quiet, as men lost their voices, and the Death Knight walked back towards it's waiting horde. We all exchanged glances with each other, grim faces hidden behind faceplates and beneath aventails. And that's when the enemy gave it's own war cry.
I say war cry, because there is no real word to describe the sounds. It was, if anything, a chorus of the damned. Hundreds of dead throats groaning, gurgling, gasping, hissing, growling, wailing—a wall of aural torment. So powerful was the feeling that our whole line took two or three steps back.
As our line stepped backwards, the Scourge advanced. There were so many of them that the ground seemed to tremble beneath their tread. The Death Knight led the charge. There was much space between our line and theirs, but their advance seemed to take forever. Men were wavering, mostly the soldiers, and our left and right flanks began to bend backwards before the battle had even begun. I do not blame them. The thought of fleeing had crossed my mind numerous times over the course of the night.
"Over river an' stream, an' through forest an' field, they marched…" The voice cut through the sound of the advancing horde like a knife.
"…With fire in their eyes!" Came a chorus of replies. Somewhere down the line, a man started banging a spear against his shield in time with the words.
We all joined in. As we had earlier, we banged weapons on shields, stamped our feet. Our flanks straightened out, and a breeze picked at Aelfric's standard. Closer and closer, and I wondered why they weren't just charging mindlessly at our shield-wall.
"To death we do go, but we'll let them know…"
I wondered if I had left a suitable tip at that tavern in Capital City. Hope so.
"…The power of Lordaeron's might!"
A good song, a fine chant. Fit to light a fire in a man's belly. I'm surprised I still remember the words.
"Here they come lads, eyes to the front, plant your feet, and keep those goddamn shields locked!"
Here it comes, here it co—
Slam. Stagger. Push. Slash. Slam. Stagger. Push. Step forward. Slash. – That is, in essence, what a shield wall is. It is not an open fight, where men of both sides fight on their own, where lines become non-existent. That is a hell all of it's own. I have fought many times in both, and every time, I would choose an open battlefield.
The sound is deafening. The sound of claws on steel, the screams of dying men, shouts of encouragement, and grunts as the lines shift and move. You're also blind half the time. My arm was numb within seconds, my legs hurt from pushing against the tide, my shield was being torn to pieces, and I was bleeding from numerous cuts. Gripping my sword was hell because it was completely covered in rancid blood.
A spear blade slammed into my shield, piercing my shield hand. I screamed with hate and slammed my short sword into the leering, dead face in front of me. Slime spilt from the wound, covering my sword hand. The rotting corpse dropped, and our line moved forward another step. A man to my left, a soldier, glanced at my hand. The spear, still whole, was still hanging from my shield, and the man did me a small favor by hacking the spear shaft off, leaving only the blade. I thanked him, through clenched teeth, and moved forward with the line.
We had already left a trail of death behind us. It was carnage comparable to what I had witnessed during the second war, against the hated Orc. Surprisingly, very few of our side had fallen, and the flanks were holding. But that meant nothing. Only a few minutes had passed since the start of the battle, and we were fighting against a foe that knew neither fear nor exhaustion. As if that weren't enough, their number seemed to be limitless.
An axe descended towards my head, but was checked at the last minute by a fellow Housecarl, who turned the blow with his own shield. For his trouble, he took a pitchfork to the guts. He fell to the ground, and I sent his killer to hell. Another man took up his place instantly, putting his comrade out of misery as he stepped up beside me. Another creature tried to drag my shield down, but I slammed my shield into it's face, the rotting bone collapsing beneath iron and wood. I stamped on it's head a few more times just to make sure it wouldn't get up, and moved another step forward with the line.
That's when I noticed the patchwork abominations hadn't joined the battle, and neither had the Death Knight. Perhaps he had retreated just as the lines met? I guessed he was judging which flank was the weakest, or whether the center would break first. Anything was possible. Our center line was only two ranks thick in most places, one in a few. The flanks were bending backwards, and if it kept going that way, we could end up being surrounded.
So far, we had advanced a whole ten feet. That was it. Ten feet. Against a living opponent, that might have been seen as progress, but against a foe that showed no intention of slowing or thinning out, it was ultimately meaningless. And men were beginning to tire. Pushing, struggling, staggering, tripping, slashing, and killing for ten hard won feet is exhausting.
My shield splintered beneath an axe blow, almost taking my hand off. I snarled and kicked my attacker back, a ghoul dressed in plate that toppled over in a heap of rusting metal. I used the respite to rip the spear blade out of my hand and toss my shield to the ground. I cursed when I realized my spare shield, beaten and battered itself, had been left on one of the wagons in the caravan. Being without a shield in a shield wall is a huge liability, so I drew my war-axe and switched places with the man behind me.
The next few minutes were spent heaving and shoving the man in front of me, supporting him when a fresh wave of enemies hit the wall, and helping him move forward whenever possible. It was more tiring than actually fighting, and by now my breaths were ragged and short. I felt like I would pass out.
And then the wall broke. The abominations, led by the Death Knight slammed into the left flank, and pieces of men went flying. I swore, and the man in front of me swore. Then his head caved in. Dead tired, half blinded by brain matter and blood, I staggered back as the man's body hit the ground. His killer, a large ghoul with a war hammer, shambled over the body and swung the weapon at my chest. The blow would have collapsed my rib cage and sent half my guts out of my mouth, but I staggered drunkenly backwards. As the weapon passed, and took a step forward, and brought my axe down on the creature's head. Black brain matter, yellow fluids, and skull fragments painted my face and weapon.
An open battle broke out, as the shield wall disintegrated, and every man fought for himself. On the left, it was pure carnage. Bodies in plate armor were heaped two or three high, and the dirt road had become a soupy mix of mud and body fluids. Only one of the abominations had fallen, dragged down by a mass of desperate men. The rest were cleaving their way through the survivors of the left flank. Aelfric pulled his men, now only eighteen in number, into a close knot as the right flank broke.
"Alright boys, we're getting out of here. We move fast. Shields up in the rear. Once we get to the far side of this mass, we break formation and run for it. Understood?"
Those of us able to do so nodded. Aelfric looked at me and Beornoth, his standard bearer.
"We need a path cleared, you two. Feeling hungry?" Despite the situation, a savage grin split his face. It was infectious. We both knew what he meant, though I was far more reluctant to do what was being asked than Beornoth.
"Aye, I reckon we could both use a bite to eat, lord."
We started to move. Beornoth had handed the standard over to Aelfric, who kept the banner held high. I fumbled through the pouches on my belt, too tired and worried to find what I was looking for immediately. After a couple seconds of fumbling around like an idiot, I found my herb pouch. I took one of the dried, red mushrooms from inside, and shoved it in my mouth. I began to chew, exchanging looks with Beornoth, who had already eaten his.
I hadn't even swallowed the whole thing before my tongue started tingling. My blood felt like molten metal, and my hair felt like fire. The deafening sound of war faded, replaced by the thunderous beating of my heart. Beornoth's incoherent battle cry was a dull keening at the edge of my perceptions, and my vision turned the color of freshly spilt blood. The berserk fury had taken me, my sanity locked away in a cage.