The Hall of Wisdom

Part Five

The Seraph and his XO walked slowly, the dozen odd men around them watching the shadows warrily. Some of them held torches, yet the shadows of the Everdark had been so thick, it was hard to see more than ten feet in either direction of the scouting party.

As they moved closer to the figures, it became more clear as to what they had been. It was now unmistakable that they were human, or at least in the form of men. The Seraph could make out their silhouettes, frozen like marionettes just on the edge of the pyre’s light. They still hadn’t moved a single inch, from what the Seraph could determine, yet it was still hard to tell from where they were at.

Just before reaching the pyre, the Seraph gave a silent single to his men to extinguish their torches. In the darkness, he motioned for them to huddle around. Xavier, the Seraph’s XO, cleared his throat before revealing the plan of engagement.

“Three on either flank, remove your leggings before heading out. I don’t want to hear a sound from you lot’, got it?”

The assembled Templar and Legionnaires nodded, hurriedly removing their plate leggings. When the six had finished re-arranging their armors, they were left in nothing but breastplates and shoddy clothings.

One of the Templars had passed around a bag of cannon soot to his brethren, each of them rubbing black ash over their exposed arms and faces. Some of them discarded their halberds and polearms for small weapons, such as dirks and shortswords.

One ambitious young Legionnaire had even produced what had appeared to be a crossbow, yet bore a long metal barrel and a stock of oak. It was an odd contraption, one many of them had thought to be a useless conglomeration of metal and wood, fused into a quite awkward array that was held in two hands and aimed akin to a crossbow.

Even the Seraph eyed the odd rod with a furrowed brow. The Legionnaire’s response was even more confusing than the contraption he held.

“It’s called a shoot-gahn. Somtin’ like a cannon, but you hold it in your hands. Gearheads in Teram made it, asked me to field test it out here on the border. Seems like they’re working on mass producing them soon. I like to keep it handy for close encounters.”

He smiled, his white teeth contrasting against his blackened face. The XO offered a snort, then pointed to the far sides of the mountain valley.

“Up the left and right flank, and quiet. Be ready to take them out if things go to shit. Me and the Seraph will take the rest of you up the Galehorn, and meet them face to face. And for fucks sake, keep out of the pyre light?

The six soldiers nodded, and three of them each headed off to the far left and right flanks as ordered. The remaining six soldiers, along with the Serpah and XO, stood back up, some re-igniting their torches.

“Sergeant, make sure your men are ready for anything. I have a bad feeling about this.”

The legionnaire nodded, glancing back to the soldiers behind him, and the entire lot headed farther west. Soon, they were basked in the light of the burning pyre to their right hand side.

They continued westwardly, passing the pyre and moving further into the darkness. They were now a mere thirty yards away from the two figures, the silhouettes still motionless.

“Get ready for anything.”

They moved closer, at a slow pace. In darkness, the six other soldiers moved closer as well. Twenty yards now, and the XO whispers…

“Looks like our men, Francis. Is that armor they’re wearing?”

Ten yards. The figures now clearly appear to be donning armor of some sort. Still, they do not move. The soldiers continue forward.

Seven yards. The illumination of the torches glint off of yellow armor. It is unmistakable now; they don the armor of the Legion. The Seraph speaks, his voice low but brave.

“Identify yourself, soldiers.”

The figures still make no move. Closer the Seraph moves now, five yards away from his targets, if not less. The two suspected legionnaires stand silently, their heads tilted back to the sky.

“Get ready.”

They are now upon them, and the horror of the situation sets in. Before them stand two Legionnaires, donned in full armors, impaled upon two sharpened posts through the anus and exiting the mouth, situated in such a way they are standing upright. Their pallid faces that stare up into the blackened sky are swollen and bruised, painted crimson with their own blood.

Adrenaline flows through the veins of the XO, and undoubtedly his men as well. He barely is able to utter his last words, however, before his throat his ripped to literal shreds.

“AMBUSH! TAKE COV-”

A flurry of activity erupts, night turning to day as torches are discarded and weapons are readied. From the darkness, the soldiers are set upon by men of the shadow, leaping from the darkness like predators seizing their pray. The Seraph stands his ground, blindly sweeping his claymore into the shadows. His strike is true, and he downs one of his assailants.

For a split second, his eyes set upon his kill as a torch rolls next to his foot. The realization of what he is looking upon takes a few moments to set in, for his mind cannot conceive what is happening. He looks upon a man, ordained in clothing that a simple farmer or laborer would be found in, his face contorted in bitter agony. And that face, that horrible face, is covered in crusted blood, and his teeth…

He cannot spare another moment. He shouts an order to his men, the remaining troops organizing themselves in square formation. They stab blindly into the darkness around them, some of their blows striking true as more of their attackers are downed. One of the Templars falls to the ground, and in an instant, is pulled into the darkness by unseen hands. He emits a cry of sheer terror. There are now four left.

From the flanks, a warcry erupts, the six soldiers bid to the shadows now engaging the enemy forces from the sides. The battle rages on for another couple of seconds before an explosion nearly deafens all of them, night turning to day for a moment. Shrill cries of anger are heard as the attackers retreat, the soldiers returning to the side of the Seraph.

“By Decus, what in the fuck were those things!?” the sergeant gasps. From the darkness, the legionnaire donning the crude hand cannon emerges, covered in blood not his own.

“I don’t know, but they sure as hell didn’t like this thing.”

The men recollect themselves for a mere second, then begin sprinting back to the palisades. Their hearts race, and for a moment, the sounds of their own heartbeats drown out the footfalls of their assailants behind them.

As they near the pyre, they begin screaming, their eyes transfixed upon their brothers upon the palisade ramparts, whom are already scrambling about as a result of the gunshot.

“VOLLEY! FIRE EVERYTHING!”

The Seraph shouts as loud as he can, and for a moment he believes his order goes on deaf ears. Then, the first cannon fires, its deafening roar echoing in the valley like thunder. Nearly a dozen more of them begin to belch fire and death in tandem, balls of iron shot flying over the retreating soldier’s heads. It takes but another moment for the longbowmen to join the fray, volleys of flaming arrows sailing far above the Seraph and his retreating men.

The Seraph dares to glance behind him. A stray shot from one of the cannons lands directly into the burning pyre, straying burning logs and sticks across the valley, illuminating it brilliantly. He can now clearly see dozens of figures giving chase, running like animals after the retreating soldiers. Farther west, a few figures walk slowly behind the mass of men, swords and shields in hand, clothed in armor dark as the night. Horns begin to blow across the camp, and as they reach the gates of the palisade, dozens of armored men greet them. The Seraph barely makes it through the line of soldiers before they are locked in battle with the attackers, the sounds of battle erupting.

He quickly grabs the nearest soldier in a frenzied haste, barking his orders out like a madman. The legionnaire’s face is frozen in fear as his commander spits out his words.

“Send runners to the other camps, and to Teram herself. We’re under attack.”

The legionnaire nods, and begins to take off west towards the stable. He pauses in mid stride, turning to the Seraph, shouting his inquiry.

“What do I tell them, sir? Tormented?”

The Seraph tries to catch his breath, his hands on his knees, coughing loudly. He stands, readying his sword, looking to the legionnaire with a helpless gaze.

“No. Something else.”