A blow bounced from his shield, and the axe head slapped down into the dirt. Brulk smacked the hilt of his sword across his foes face, and sent him down with the axe. Jabbing his sword through the man's back before he could react. Still alive, he told himself. Cursing the fates once more, almost wishing the dirt would hurry up and take him so he could rest. Khelem stood a few feet from him, swirling an axe with youthful agility and a veteran's skill. Blow deflected from his shield, and Brulk saw the axe slay each attacker as they realised their mistake. Each blow the same, almost boring, and ending with the same result. Brulk reckoned it was how a craftsman must feel, a bricklayer piling one brick atop another while Khelem Dur lay corpse upon corpse. Those were the times.
The moment his eyes spotted them, his heart filled with hope. His limbs filled with energy, and a smile almost crept up across his face. But as they grew closer, his hope turned to dread. Lumbering, not charging. Groaning and writhing in pain, not shouting war crys. Temair's little plan, her little piece of fun. By the dirt, what had she done to corrupt Dunlang into sending dead men to fight the living?
A hand settled across Brulk's chest, pulling him backwards. Khelem was behind him, whose eyes had seen many a foe and lived to tell the tale, and for the first time Brulk saw fear in the veteran's eyes. Fear not of their foe, or their task, but of the means to which they'd succeed. By the dead, Brulk cursed his fates. Over and over. The stench filled his lungs, and the acrid closeness of the bogs faded away into that of plain old death.
Brulk's vision settled on Dunlang, whose furious calling to the battlefield dulled by the mere sight of his troops. Undead men, striding forth to die once more. Perhaps he'd realised his mistake atleast, and once this was over called for Temairs head to be brought to him. By the dirt, Brulk wished that to be true. More'n likely, he reckoned, the result of the battle would just add to the numbers of his new army.
"Come on, lad." urged Khelem, his grip firm across Brulk's chest. "Not our fight anymore.." the old warrior's voice sounded hollow, and his face pale. By the dead, perhaps his fates truly had become cursed.
