James III stared in horror. The slimy creatures had stopped gnawing at his legs, their hunger momentarily sated. The battlefield raged on, but all he could hear was his own wailing.
Only a few troglodytes stood their ground as if nothing changed. Spears in claw, keeping a steady rhythm of death in their wake
Half eaten thigh bones protruded from what was left of his legs. Tendons loosely hung, like string, off half exposed muscles.
He prayed for salvation, that he knew would never come.
His yells fell silent as his vision blurred over the sight of the other pious men that shared in his nightmare– heavens silence.
A few dozen soldiers littered the ground surrounding the campfires, the ones who joined their comrades during their late night vigil. Those that were fortunate continued to sleep through the night, not knowing they would never wake up again. Lord Haart's camp held the majority of the casualties as all of them would sleep right after evening prayers.
The trogs were losing their momentum as a majority scurried around without any agency like they displayed moments ago. Some ran with missing limbs, a few with swords pierced through their chest, while others chewed on arrow shafts that reached their target. Their vitality, as robust as when they arrived.
A wall of skeletons stood between the troops and Cuthbert's cell—silent, unmoving. Their bones rattled with every shift of the wind, hollow sockets tracking any motion. They did not strike. Not yet.
They only attacked if approached.
This made it easier for the Sol Soldiers to focus on each individual trog instead of being outnumbered by them.
The lone horseman laid motionless before it raised its cold body and sat in the stiff night air, pulling out the sword left in his chest. He rose without effort. Every wound was gone.
Only the torn fabric above each of Christians strikes remained as the only evidence that he saw battle.
The rune on his neck pulsed dimly just under the pale skin of the undead rider. He spent longer than he expected capturing the heretic. What's worse is he couldn't finish the binding he started on Cuthbert before he got away.
"Poor mortal," the death knight proclaimed to himself. Two hundred years of living accustomed the knight to always speak his thoughts out loud as the men scurried like insects in a burning field in front of him.
"To be stuck with Ap' Ollyon all night. Even the strongest lose themselves to the Second Order by morning." A black mare galloped up towards the Unholy Knight, barely visible in the shadows cast over the hill. The mare's nostrils flared but made no sound as the Death Knight slithered onto the saddle, his weight no heavier than smoke.
His glowing green eyes glided through the fields like a pair of fireflies in the night.