Chapter 26: The Black Hounds

At the very least, we had time to prepare.

The traitors came in small, loose groups. They were careful, but not cautious, approaching in staggered lines, lacking real cohesion.

But we were not.

Surrounded on all sides, with nowhere else to go, the unanimous decision was to fall back, even as we fought. We steadily backed up to a hill. Its peak ended in a sheer cliff, which fell down into a chasm, carved by the golem's destructive light not so long ago. Some shards of malformed glass still clung to its edge, sparkling like jewels, while the rest had shattered and littered the bottom. There, we planted our feet.

That first group was the scarcest, the least prepared. They'd come expecting to find corpses, and they were surprised that instead they had found survivors. We were the ones to catch them off-guard. We were the ones that broke them, forcing them to retreat with heavy losses.

Then came the second wave, which was larger, and more organized.

They came at us almost shyly, knowing that even when outnumbered, we were far from easy opponents. With the rough terrain and our scavenged spears and shields, we were able to hold them at bay for some time until the taller, more formidable aberrants began to arrive. Then, when a minotaur gored Klein in its dying flails, we retreated further up the hill.

The aberrants created a bottleneck for themselves in their frenzied efforts to overwhelm us. One after another, they tried to push up the hill, only to break themselves against our shoddy shield wall. Some of them died, impaled on our spear points. Others were cut down with swords, and still others were crushed underfoot as they tried to climb the hill. All the while, the hill grew slick with blood and gore. But we'd break, eventually. There were just too many of them for any other outcome to be possible. Sooner rather than later, they would make it to the top of the hill.

I was already wounded by then. A long, ugly gash ran down my side, and my shoulder was bruised from the blow it had taken. It was difficult to focus on any one thing. But despite all that, I felt surprisingly calm.

"You guys ever wonder what heaven's like?" asked Matz, wheezing as he struggled to breathe. I glanced over at him. He was leaning on his spear, panting heavily. His face was pale, eyes drifting open and shut. "I mean, the stories about it, the sermons, and what-have-you. You think any of that stuff's real, or is it all just a bunch of bollocks?"

"I have thought about it, aye," said Ryam with an empty chuckle. He awkwardly slapped at Matz' back, forcing himself to grin. "Wouldn't worry about it now, though, Matty. You're goin' straight to hell like the rest of us."

Somehow, that set Matz off laughing. "The fuck I'd do to get that kind of treatment?" He kept laughing, and it spread to the rest of us Hounds, like a sickness. They all joined in, cackling like lunatics at their own deaths, even as we peered down the steep incline, at the cloud of smoke that hid our killers.

I didn't have it in myself to join in. I could barely keep my breathing steady, my heart racing a mile a minute. The seven of us would all die here, without even knowing what the hell it was even for.

The rest of the traitors' force seemed to have arrived by then. The mass surged up the hill, a writhing, undulating wave. As the first of them reached us, I braced myself for my last battle.

I'd expected a storm of something within myself. Anger. Fear. Desperation. Anything. Instead, there was an odd stillness. Like the air became thinner and heavier, all at once.

I lifted my borrowed sword. The first traitor came charging, morningstar raised high above his head. I stepped forward, and met his attack head-on. Our weapons connected, and I pushed forward, shoving him back. Then, as the momentum of his attack carried him through, I swung my sword upwards. The blade cleaved deep into his stomach, carving him open. He gasped out something as he fell and rolled down the hill.

I saw Thomas die. His body fell limp, like a ragdoll, and was trampled by a dozen men in a moment. The man who had cut him down was someone whose face I recognized: He had been a soldier, once, and he had left the army to join the Hounds a year ago, after Halem. I had never learned his name. He fell screaming, wide-eyed as I ran him through.

The traitors kept on coming. My body kept on moving. My mind didn't give any input; I simply acted. Nebenhut—the rear guard—before I hacked away a man's legs. Then Langort—the long point—placing distance between myself and an aberrant, before striking again with another hew. Schlüssel—the key—to lock my opponent's sword aside, before plunging my own into its throat. I swung, and swung, and swung, and swung. And as I did, the battle around me seemed to slow, and all I could hear was my breathing, and all I could feel was the blood dripping down my fingers. I could hardly even remember where I was anymore.

A goblin tackled Astor, throwing the full weight of its tiny form against his midsection. It latched on to him, stabbing at his stomach again and again, until Astor's legs finally gave out, and he tumbled back onto the ground.

Some ways away, I spotted Matz. He looked like he'd been flayed alive, with skin hanging off him in tatters. He stood protectively over Karsten, who stared down dumbstruck at his own guts, resting across his lap. Even as Matz swung a hatchet and spear in either hand, screaming profanities at the top of his lungs, the two of them were steadily surrounded by the mass of traitors. Slowly, Matz faded from view, swallowed up by the press. I never saw him again.

I didn't witness the others' deaths. Before I knew it, only three of us remained: Fat Edd. Ryam. Me. We retreated one step farther, slamming our backs into one another's, and continued to fight.

I couldn't feel my hands at all anymore. And my sword had broken at some point. Typical. I let it fall from my hands, and snatched a hand axe from the ground. In truth, it was more like a hatchet than anything, the kind one might use to chop firewood. Too small, too light, and the heft of it felt almost awkward in my palm. Still, it'd have to do. I struck out with it. Someone died. Then, I struck again

The world seemed to shudder for a moment, as if a giant had just kicked the hill we stood on. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I nearly toppled over.

An orc burst through the crowd, screaming, damn near frothing at the mouth. It hefted a broad cavalry lance, the kind that was far too long to be used on foot. Howling again, it lunged forward, the weapon lowered like a charging bull's horns. I heard Edd shout something, but I couldn't make out the words. I stumbled back, yanked by someone's hand.

Someone else dove forward, moving to stand in front of me. For a moment, I had no idea who he was. Hair hanging loose around his head, face streaked with grime and blood, his body barely holding itself together... Ryam barely even resembled a person anymore.

He met the enemy's charge, sword raised to bat the lance away. It wasn't enough. His sword bounced uselessly off the lance's shaft, and the orc's strength punched it forward. Right through his stomach, cleanly past his ribs, emerging out his back.

I watched Ryam's expression change. His eyes bulged, and his mouth opened wide. Some strangled, wordless cry escaped his throat. But he didn't let himself die just yet. Ryam brought his hands forward, gripping at the lance that stuck out of him.

Then, he yanked the lance further into himself. With a choked cry, he heaved forward, pulling the weapon and the aberrant holding it towards him until they were face to face. He wrapped his arms around it tightly, as though embracing a lover. With his last moments in this world, Ryam gasped out a curse, and hurled both himself and his killer back, off the cliffside, and down into the chasm below.

And so, only two Black Hounds remained in this world.

...I was tired.

I hadn't realized it until then, but my body had been stoked with energy —a fire—for the entirety of the battle. It had driven me forward, made it impossible to feel anything else. And now it was gone. Evaporated, like water on a hot day.

The fight had drained from my body, and all that was left was a dull, heavy weariness. I couldn't muster up the energy to move, or even to breathe. I simply stood, and stared blankly as the mass of enemies moved in.

Gods. What was the point? Why struggle against that tide? I was too weak. Too slow. I'd failed at everything. At fighting, and protecting, and helping. There was no reason to fight anymore. Not even the fear could drive me. Not anymore.

A heavy hand fell on my shoulder, jostling me. I looked up at Fat Edd's face. And, for a heartbeat, we were alone, the entire battlefield pivoting around us. No more enemies. No more fallen comrades.

I met my friend's eyes during that bizarre lull, and saw that once again, he was staring blankly into the distance. When he blinked and properly looked back to me, tears trickled freely down his ruddy cheeks. I saw his mouth move, and despite the deafening ringing in my ears, I heard him clearly:

"She's waiting, Ansel. You're the one who'll set her free."

He smiled, wide and bright. Dropped his spear and shield. Brought a shaky fist up over his heart. And shut his eyes.

Someone emerged from the smoky haze. He was a tall, lean man, with features that reminded me of a fox. Even through all this, Hicks had managed to survive, up to the very end. I should have felt some relief, maybe even joy. But I couldn't. Somehow, some part of me understood what was to come next.

I was tired. Far too tired to do anything but beg.

"Hicks... don't."

He was swift and sudden. A lightning bolt, lancing out from the dark. Hicks raced forward, an arming dagger clutched tight in his hand, and leapt up high, flinging himself at Edd's back. Edd offered no resistance as Hicks wrapped an arm around his head, securing his position, and thrust the blade into the nape of his neck.

Why?

His teeth were chattering. What an odd thing to make note of. The wind whistled past his ears, the smell of smoke hung thickly in the air, and a low, continuous ringing filled his head. His teeth wouldn't stop chattering. The dagger, held loosely in between his fingers, barely seemed to weigh anything at all. And even his fingers seemed far too light and distant. They didn't feel like a part of him at all. They seemed so strange, almost alien. It felt like he was watching himself, through someone else's eyes.

Why?

But Hicks knew exactly what had just happened. He knew how the man he was staring down had just died. Another dead comrade. Yet another person who'd put his faith in him. And died for it.

He'd killed Fat Edd.

Hicks hadn't seen him among the other dead bodies. Hadn't known that the man was still alive, or even present. All he'd seen was a target to strike. A chance to earn his way back into the fold.

That was as it should be—This was his weight to carry. His sin to commit. His mistake to fix. This was his choice.

Why?

His shoulders burned. His vision blurred, and his throat felt tight, almost like he was being choked. His heart was beating too fast, too loud. He had to focus. Everywhere Hicks looked, Men and aberrants lay strewn across the ground, some moaning weakly, others motionless. They surrounded him, a great sea of corpses. Two lone ships remained, stranded on that vast, dark ocean, battered and broken, their masts snapped and sails shredded. Survivors, against all odds. He would end it all here. And he would end it now.

Hicks could feel that gaze upon him, boring into his back.

Why?

His legs felt strangely stiff, like he'd run for miles. His knee threatened to give out. Somehow, he brought himself upright.

"Ansel..." Slowly, shakily, Hicks turned his head and looked over his shoulder. "Why are you—"

Countless bones cracked and shattered at once, his mouth filling and spilling over with hot, thick blood. Ansel had thrown his entire weight into the punch, slamming so hard against Hicks' jaw that it felt as though his head had been torn away from his body. The two of them went down, world spinning end over end, before hitting the ground and rolling.

Hicks' dagger was knocked loose. His mouth was opened in a soundless scream. The corners of his vision were dark and dim, but he could see well enough. And he could taste. The iron tang of his own blood was overwhelming. The blood and saliva spilled from his ruined lips.

He was lying on the ground, the world upside-down. The sky above was a sea of black and grey, almost strangling out the dawning sun. And yet, through it all, Hicks could see him clearly.

Ansel loomed over him, sucking in hard, ragged breaths. He was wounded, badly. Covered in blood and ash and cuts, his body bent, damn near broken. He looked as though he were one breath away from the grave. And yet, he still shambled closer with slow, ponderous steps.

The timid boy soldier Hicks had met on the march to Halem was gone. The naive knight was gone. The desperate warrior who'd created miracles was gone. And so was the comrade—The brother—Hicks had been so determined to slay.

Some terrible, monstrous thing gleamed in Ansel's eye, burning clearly even through the gloom.

Ansel just kept staggering closer and closer, each footfall heavier than the last, his lips curling back into a snarl. He didn't demand answers, nor issue threats and curses, nor even raise his voice. All he said, hissing through his bared teeth, was:

"I'll kill you."