The element of surprise had been lost long ago. That single instant in which Beam had slain Kursak. He'd felt something buckle then – he was sure that was the changing of the tides of battle, the opening of the floodgates. His sword had felt it too. He killed ten Yarmdon men in a matter of moments, as though his blade had been spurred on by the wind.
But now, that very same steel that had been so fast earlier now slowed, as though a spider was shooting webs at it, trying to bury it in place.
It was the flow of battle, Beam realized, that was what he felt. It was the same thing he'd felt in the mountains, just before the Titan had arisen. There was an odd force, a momentum, a current and a strength that governed every move in the lead-up to victory. That amplified the strong, and undermined the weak.
Beam knew no more of it than its existence. He'd tried to control it in the past, to flow with it, and he'd been successful upon occasion, but on those occasions, he'd fought alone. Now his fate was bound up in the fate of the group. Their loss was his loss. Their weakness became his weakness, and slowed his movements.
And now there were hundreds of men to deal with. With the flow of hundreds against them, it was suffocating and tangible, like someone had doubled or even tripled the gravity.
As he fought, out of the corner of his eye, he saw yet another soldier fall.
He could feel it on the other side of the battlefield too. Another great wave was about to come crashing in.
At most, he could feel they only had forty men left. The Yarmdon assault was relentless. Their stream of arrows seemed infinite.
In the end, the footsteps had merely faded, as the man ran further away. They never were able to figure out who they belonged to. But it did not matter – the fear of all in that large tent was at a fever pitch.
Both Loriel and Greeves had given way to anger, whilst the other fifteen or so girls found themselves clinging to each other with nervous fingers, their faces pale, and tears never far from their eyes.
"I TOLD YOU! SIT DOWN!" The soldier roared. They'd been wearing at him with their arguments for a while now, and the man had fully given up any pretence of remaining composed. His grip on his spear was nervous. He was a relatively new recruit, and had only fought under Lombard for a year. The youth of his face betrayed that.
By now, Greeves' own anger had taken over. The thought of the class difference between them was the furthest thing from his mind. It was life and death now, as his pounding heart reminded him, and a rage that far eclipsed any he'd had before began to take over. He was continuously pawing at the dagger on his belt, mere moments away from stabbing the man.
"I WON'T SIT DOWN! IT'S EITHER YOU KILL ME, OR THE LOT OF US GET SLAUGHTERED LIKE DOGS HERE ANYWAY, WHAT'S THE DAMNED BIT OF DIFFERENCE?" Greeves dared to take a step towards the man. The soldier lowered his spear, aiming the point at his chest.
"I'M WARNING YOU, MERCHANT, ANOTHER STEP, AND I WILL KILL THE LOT OF YOU! THIS IS A BATTLEFIELD! IF YOU ENDANGER THE LIVES OF OUR COMRADES WITH YOUR ACTIONS, YOU WILL BE EXECUTED!"
"YOUR LIVES ABOVE OURS, IS IT? DAMN YOU!" Greeves cursed. "WE'RE HELD HERE ON FALSE ACCUSATIONS!"
Out of the corner of Greeves' eye, he saw Loriel move, as quiet as a phantom, as emotionless as an icicle, she delicately slid up behind the soldier. Not even her skirts rustled. The soldier didn't notice her.