They'd tasted something that neared victory, and then they'd been forced to retreat again. Every man instinctively hated taking steps back. It was deeply rooted in their hearts.
It was hard to see their fighting as a victory when they ended up in the exact same spot that they had been in before, even after all the emotion that they'd summoned up, all that battle spirit – they were still here, back within the walls of their village, as the enemy marched closer.
"They're probably going to torture us now," one man said. Nila recognized him. He was a shepherd, and tended the southern fields with his sheep in the summer. A nervous and small man, always fearing wolves, and goblins. Nila noticed that his hands were stained with blood, just like the rest of them.
After the elation of their first kills, the high was quickly wearing off, as they began to regret what they'd done. Many of them had not expected themselves to be capable of such violence. They'd never been put in positions where they'd had to fight for their lives before.
There was a coughing sound, as a man put a hand to his throat, and gagged, before vomiting the contents of his last meal all over the snow-covered grass.
Strangely – or at least to Nila – the women in their party seemed the most unchanged. Nearly all of them had blood on their hands, but it didn't seem to bother them so much. They almost seemed comfortable with what they'd done.
As she noticed the women amongst their group, Nila also began to look for the women that they'd left behind. They'd been waiting for them in the same spot that they had left them. Some had sheepishly gone back to their houses, anxious for something to do, but now they began to crawl back out of the woodwork. The women, and the elderly that had chosen not to partake in battle.
"Do you have news?" An old woman asked. She was the old woman that ran the bakery. She looked to Beam as she spoke, but it was as though Beam didn't hear her. His eyes were half-closed as he stood there. Nila worried that he might be asleep.
"I wish you'd have let us die in peace," one old man said.
"Piss off then," Greeves said harshly, pointing his thumb towards the Yarmdon. "They're that way. Go and make your peace with your Gods, and piss off."
The old man made a distasteful sound, and turned his head pompously away from the merchant.
"Is there anyone else looking for death?" Greeves asked loudly. "The enemy is that way. If not, shut your whore mouths. As far as I'm concerned, those of you that didn't fight are less than people to me now – you have no purpose. Those without purpose can rot."
Loriel put a hand on his arm. Somewhere along the line, Greeves' attempt to rile them up had transformed into him spitting his real thoughts with venom. He tutted as he realized that, and went quiet.
"What do we do then?" A larger man spoke up, blood covered. One glance at him, and you could tell that he had been in the thick of the fighting. "Can we catch them off guard like that again..? Do we charge them from the side?"
From the speed with which he spoke, it was clear that the adrenaline was still pounding through his, fraying his nerves. He gripped a woodcutting hatchet tight in his hand, as his eyes were widened and red.
"Hoh, there's a man that actually wants to fight, and wants to live," Greeves said, his tone mocking to scorn the rest. He afforded the man the most respect that he was capable of delivering. "Since you speak of victory, I'll call you a comrade. The plan is we use these streets to our advantage, and we overturn their superior combat skill with the element of surprise."
He'd looked to Beam once more as he spoke, to see whether the boy was ready to join in yet, but Beam's eyes had hardly budged. He continued to stare at the floor, his breathing shallow, as his sword dangled from his wrist. Seeing that, Greeves filled in for him, after guessing the boy's intent behind stationing them in the village as he had. Stay connected with m-v l|e'-novelhall.net