A moment later, Jok was back on his feet, the hope of total victory a distant memory, but a different kind of hope was born instead.
The conclusion that Jok had come to, seeing the villagers fight, after realizing that they held the power in their hands to end the battle by themselves, Beam had come to much the same one, but from a different direction.
He could feel the will of a man dancing about in their chests. There was a feeling that rivalled even fear there, somehow.
Fear was dark and murky, clinging, sticky. This other thing was like the fires that burned around them. It was hot and powerful, but weak and in need of fuel. It kept the darkness of fear within them at bay, or at least, it managed to, for the few moments that they were able to control it.
Beam hacked at a leg in front of him. He'd fallen amidst a dozen feet. He'd rolled and was ready to get up in but a single moment – so too were the Yarmdon, though. They were on him from the first moment, ready to take his hide.
He slipped through them all. The chaos was extreme by now. Their eyes weren't just on him, but looking toward their leader as well, as the man struggled back to his feet. Jok made an effort to look unphased as he righted himself, but the damage had been done, that shield of invincibility that he'd sought to make was broken instantly. They all began to come out of the woodwork from that.
The rest of the villagers were gathered in the shadows. They'd edged forward now, so that sleeves and hands could be made out, even before the whole body could. The Yarmdon men could feel those two hundred eyes on them, hungry. The dark distorted it, and it felt like there were far more. Nervousness ran through the group, and all the while, Beam was their target.
They slammed themselves into the back of those men that attempted to get in Beam's way, buying him enough time to turn on his heel, slice open the back of the man in front of him, and roll back into the shadows to catch his breath.
"Damn it..." Jok cursed again, seeing him go. The boy's breathing had been laboured as he left, the Yarmdon commander saw – and no wonder. That weakness had been the slightest crack in the armour that Jok had been offered, the slightest opportunity to bring the boy down. If they'd managed to keep him for another few seconds longer inside the square, they could have finished them.
Even as he thought such a thing, he found himself doubting it. The boy was so unknown to him. He'd changed several times through the course of their battle. All the limit testing, all the understanding that Jok usually went about performing, it had all been for nought in this battle. If anything, it worked against him.
A mindset of complete and utter wariness from start to finish was all he could employ. It was a thoroughly exhausting affair.
And now the battlefield had changed again, as though it was an alchemist he was fighting rather than a man. Someone capable of transmuting the hearts of people, as well as himself. The boy had not been their leader, Jok was sure, but now who was it that united them all?
It was done so subtly, that Beam himself likely did not even notice it, and yet it had happened. Every step of the way, it was as though Beam was riding a river that Jok was completely unaware of. As though he was doing battle against fate himself.
It was as though everything had been planned from the start, everything fit together so flawlessly, so smoothly, it was impossible to even see that anything was awry.