There is that moment, just before every man would face death head on, a moment where every woe would just wash away. What others think of you, what you hate about yourself, your weaknesses and worries. What to eat and whether you felt good about your station in life. All of it, simply......gone.
No fear from anything at all.
To Knight Commander Acelina, these moments were the purest instances in her life. To be devoid of anything, from regrets of the past to the worries for the future. There was only being in the present.
Her breathe caught and bounced against sleek metal prison of her helmet. Vision skewed by the small slit in the armor, making it difficult for most bearers of such mail to see the periphery. But the Knight Commander was taught down to her bones to not just rely on her eyes at an early age. She could sense the slight easing breathe her fellow knights did to calm their nerves, the clinking of metal as her brothers and sisters in arms readjusted and adjusted the straps of their armors, a habitual quirk for good luck and other such superstitions.
By her command they charge and by her command they die. And by her command they will be victorious.
The heavens grow starker with each passing day and it was normal occurrence for thin sleets of snow to fall. The ground they tread upon had grown slushy with the melting snow and numerous treading of footfalls. Somewhere, the sound of a crying babe bounced towards where their group stood, some twenty or so odd warriors. The mother tried the best as she could to ease her babe to silence.
They paid no heed to them as most souls had vacated this part of the camp. The babe's cries were drowned out by the smashing of wood and the groans of the undead, a chaotic opera of the clashing and breaking.
They are tearing through the barricade,
thought the Knight commander. She glanced at the men clambered and hanging to the sides of the motley piece of construction that barely withheld the forces of the dead, a dozen good men with bows slung over their backs and quivers wrapped to their waists. Cold sweat glistened down their weather-beaten cheeks, not daring to peek over the mad undead pack that tried to burrow into the barricade. Wagons and carts and any piece of woodwork they found to set up this sorry excuse of defense. It buckled and groaned, as the accursed Draugrs snarled and hacked, while others started the arduous process of scaling the barrier.
With one last steadying breathe, The Knight Commander strode out. By way of a hidden passage through the base of the barrier, the martial force sallied out following the heels of their leader.
She was the first to meet their foes head on. The familiar feel of her sword in hand, almost like a limb to her. The feeling of its sleek sharp blade connecting with the first undead was one other such pure emotion she had ever felt. Before the head of the first slain could hit the ground, two more followed suit.
Five heartbeats passed as the sudden appearance of living enemies, before the two dozen draugrs descended themselves on the living newcomer. Before they could even lay a finger on The Knight Commander, a storm of sharpened steel and hardened armor clashed against the unholy fiends.
Twenty knights of the Order, in silver armor harried and hacked the ferocious manic draugrs, undead beings with the maddening fury to hack and kill all whose heart dared beat. Weapons melded right into their very flesh and bones, blurring where flesh end and steel began. Leagues more dangerous than a simple undead shambler, they are possessed by an unquenchable bloodlust and hunger for battle.
Flame tipped arrows, attached with a fragile clay vial, whooshed over their heads and burst with great heat at the back lines of the undead pack. The rear ranks of their enemy were turned to a veritable field of fire, making escape impossible.
The Knight Commander cut a swathe amongst their foes' ranks. Just as fast as it had begun, so too did it end. By the Goddess' fortune, they had not sustained casualties. But Brother Mathias had suffered several broken ribs. Brother Jericho could hardly see in one eye. And Sister Maligna was alive but grievously injured, she would have to spend the remainder of their crusade in a cot after saving two junior brothers that got separated in the shield wall. At the risk of her own life, she dragged the two but resulted in her being overwhelmed down to the mud. She was beaten to a pulp, the metal of her armor bent and broken as if she was crushed in a stampede.
The entirety of the skirmish could not have lasted ten minutes.
Ten minutes, a barely imperceptible piece of time to most. But in the heat of battle or any such times where death breathes down your neck, ten minutes was an eternity. Ten minutes afterwards and the bones would suddenly hit by a wave of fatigue and weariness. As if the world had suddenly been reminded to start spinning once more.
