Then came another volley of arrows. The focus of Jok's men once again proved to be their downfall. Whoever it was in those shadows, they knew how to detect the attention of their prey, they knew how to make it to an enemy's blindspot. Once again, three men fell, without even knowing what had hit them.
"Troublesome..." Jok complained. But there was nought he could do to deal with as of yet. There were no group orders he could give that could make their opportunism useless. It was down to his own men to react in time.
And now they were. He could see it on their faces, they'd perked up slightly. They were forcing their attention all around them. They held their shields loosely, so that they could raise it at a moment's notice.
When the next wave of arrows came, they found only wood.
That party of four hovered nervously as the earlier gap began to close up, as Jok's men rolled the bodies out of the way, and filled the gaps with shields.
But by now more groups were gathering. From the rear this time, from the path of flames that the Yarmdon men had left in their wake. Somehow, this group had managed to circle around them completely, and come back down the same road that they'd been down.
There were only four of them there, but from the way they swaggered confidently with their walk, Jok could sense that there were more of them in the shadows. The look of them reminded Jok of Gorebeasts. Of scavengers, and criminals. He wasn't far off.
The men wandered, knives brandished, until they were within twenty steps of the encirclement, and then they merely began to scoop up snow from the side of the road, making snowballs – sneaking the occasional rock into them – before blasting them against the enemy.
They hooted with delight as each one landed, an unsettling childishness to their actions, despite the dire circumstances.
One group charged straight at the shield wall, led by a particularly spirited old man. He wielded a pitchfork as though it was a spear, gave a particularly valiant battle cry... And then he flung himself at the feet of the Yarmdon in his way, stabbing them through with his spear.
The wall opened up instantly at his insane manoeuvre, and the group of five that came after he flooded into the gap.
The old man was killed instantly. A single stomp of a hard boot crushed his skull. But the man had aimed for that from the start, he'd sought to sacrifice his life merely to secure an advantage.
Again, this lot, Jok could feel it in their eyes – they were all aiming for him. Pitchforks, axes, knives. Men and women, they gave a mighty roar, like starved animals. There was an old woman amongst them and she seemed just as suicidal as the man. She jumped at a shield like a monkey, merely to weigh it down. In response, she was delivered an axe in her skull.
But for her sacrifice, a knife went flying through, managing to snag the man's throat by the most impossible bit of luck. Jok could hardly believe it. It was like they were throwing coins, and by some random chance, they were all landing on heads.
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The arrows went flying again, and another group charged. This lot slammed into Jok's spear wall, and were repelled as effortlessly as the snowballs that were being tossed. It was as though their bodies had no weight. The Yarmdon allowed them to hit their shoulders against their shields, and then they took a step outwards to stun them.
Axes and swords reigned down a second later, killing them all easily, almost instantly.
Jok narrowed his eyes. Again, there was no rhyme or reason.
More groups came out, four this time. They slammed into the shields again. A whole group was repelled once more. Then arrows came for the rest.