The Last Watch: Holding the Flanks

The sight that met her atop the walls was nothing short of crushing. The army of shades stretching out before Tarlmere was so vast that no matter how far she cast her eyes to either side, their flanks reached beyond sight. The forest itself seemed swallowed, lost beneath the endless black tide – more shades now than trees.

It was a grotesque host, uneven in form: armored warriors beside half-clad wretches, hulking beasts that recalled the thing Anang had become, most of them upright and man-shaped, though some bore too many limbs. Yet despite their twisted shapes, they moved in ranks, disciplined, ordered – something no one would have believed possible of shades.

The war cries and horns rolled over the stones in a ceaseless din, the kind of sound that bent even the stoutest heart.

From a small tower turret, one guard scrambled down the steps, intent on fleeing.

“We’re all dead anyway, Baldwin!” Red’s voice cut across the rampart, hard enough to halt him mid-stride. Her face was strange, her voice almost unrecognizable. “But if we leave– ” she thrust a hand toward the stream of fleeing townsfolk below the Turning Tower “–they won’t stand a chance.”
A single tear streaked down her cheek.

Baldwin lowered his head into his hands and sank where he stood, frozen in the weight of it.

At the ballistae, the crews held their fire, waiting for the enemy host to draw nearer. For now, they loosed only when the dragon swept close overhead. Even then, the beast had already set much of the town aflame. Thick smoke stung their eyes and clawed at their throats, every breath a struggle, every plate of armor running with sweat under the heat.

“We’ve got to deal with that dragon!” shouted Bertram at Red’s side. “If we don’t bring it down, not a single soul of Tarlmere will escape!”

Red heard him clearly, but her gaze swept wider. The greater peril loomed not in the skies, but in the host below: a force so broad it dwarfed the town itself. Though the ranks at the front held back, waiting, their flanks kept pressing forward, wrapping ever closer around Tarlmere like a noose – until there would be nowhere left to run.

Red pointed toward the right, where the enemy line pressed closer to the upper gate.
“They won’t manage to escape anyway!”

“What are we to do?” Bertram muttered, his voice half-broken.

“Keep your strength for now, lads!” she shouted to the guards. Then, more grimly, “And when the end comes, don’t hold back – use your imagination to its fullest!”
She breathed once, sharply. “We’re goners anyway…” Then she took off, sprinting madly along the wall toward the flank she had shown Bertram moments earlier.

Some stretches of the battlements were already aflame, but she leapt over them as though the fire were nothing. The dragon noticed – of course it did. It swooped low, fire spewing in pursuit. The roar of its wings rattled the burning roofs beneath. The flames snapped just behind her until the wall bent outward. For a heartbeat the angle forced her off her line, and the dragon pulled up, banking hard for another dive.

At the end of the wall – where it turned uphill toward the Turning Tower – the beast came screaming down again, jaws wide. Red vaulted over the crenellation and clung to the outer side of the wall, pressed flat against the wood. The dragon swept past with a furious bellow, forced to wheel wide before it could descend again.

She let go. Gravity tore her down into the steep slope of soil beyond the walls. She landed hard, rolled, and came up spattered with dirt. Ahead of her, the enemy flank had already covered terrifying ground, nearly encircling towards the Turning Tower.

Red did not think twice. She lowered her shoulder and charged at the farthest edge of the enemy’s flank she could reach. Her breath rasped in her throat, her heartbeat pounding like a drum inside her chest. From all around, the enemy’s horns blared, their guttural war cries rising and falling in waves that rattled the stones beneath her boots. The sound pressed down like a storm-wind, a thousand voices baying for blood.
At first the shades gave her no heed – she was only one woman. But when they saw she was charging, hammer raised, they broke their march to encircle her. Their armor hissed as they moved, silk and metal rasping as one.

“Come on!” she roared, smashing the first shade into the air. “Hyah!” Another followed, then another, each blow ringing like thunder on their armor. More pressed forward, trying to smother her in sheer numbers. Red spun her hammer in a deadly arc, the head of it whirling around her body. She looked almost like she was dancing – every strike a step, every sweep a turn.

The shades were swift, clad in armor that seemed woven of steel and silk, bearing long, single-edged swords. Disciplined. Lethal. But for now – they could not match her fury.

♦♦♦

Back at the gate, Bertram stood frozen. The enemy army loomed before them in tight formation, yet still had not struck. To the right, Red’s lone charge had broken their march; to the left, though, the encirclement continued, tightening like a noose. All the while, the soundscape of doom pressed in: horns blaring without pause, drums pounding in grim rhythm, and the chant of the shades rolling like thunder from flank to flank.

“There are enough of them to surround all five cities of the Common Ground – let alone Tarlmere!” he gasped.

And the dragon –curse it– still circled overhead, their greatest threat. Bertram scanned the battlements. No more than a dozen guards remained.

“Beatrix!” he shouted to the woman on the nearest tower. “We must do as Red – halt their march on the left side of town!”

“I’ll take four men with me!” she snapped before he could say more. Her tone was flat, empty, as though this were no more than another drill. It was easier to act as though they weren’t doomed – to pretend routine where death waited. She abandoned her post and ran for the left flank, dragging most of her side’s defenders with her.

“Oswald!” Bertram called.

“Yes!” The man had already come close, troubled to see so many abandon the walls.

“Hold the gate as long as you can.” Bertram gripped his shoulder. “I leave you… six men, I think.”

“What will you do?”

Bertram looked up at the sky where firelight licked the smoke. “We have to bring down that dragon – before we die.” He beckoned Baldwin to follow.

♦♦♦

On the other side of Tarlmere, Roric had long since opened the gates beneath the Turning Tower, leading townsfolk into the forest path around Mount Stenvar. Three guards had gone ahead as vanguard; six more still remained with him. Now the last of the Tarlmerefolk were stumbling through the gate.

Suddenly a warning bell tolled atop the tower, ringing of its own accord: danger at hand. And indeed, the enemy flank was already surging toward them, that endless tide of shades threatening to overrun the gate itself. From their vantage they could see nearly the entire left side walls of Tarlmere. What they could not see was Red.

“Well, men,” Roric said grimly, dismounting. He slapped his horse and let it run on with the others. “Seems we’re not going anywhere. We stand for the people of Tarlmere.” He drew his sword and faced the advancing tide. “The further away we meet them from here, the better. Charge!”

♦♦♦

Once the last of them leapt down from the wall, they drew their weapons. Steel, wood, and resolve bound them together – a knot of defiance. As one, they raised their arms, blades and spears meeting at the center, gleaming in the firelight.

“For Tarlmerfolk!” Beatrix cried.

“For our folk!” another echoed.

And without another word, Beatrix screamed, “Attack!” and they hurled themselves forward to meet the flank head-on.

Just before the two forces collided, they saw more shapes rushing to their side – seven figures, Roric among them, charging to join the desperate stand.