The Legion reinforcements streamed forward like a hungry tide, moving quickly to join the fight. What had previously been a dim clearing now glowed as bright as if it were midday, the sheer number of torches banishing the shadows to its very edges.
Quintus didn't let his guard down, however. Not yet. He stepped forward and attempted to make another slash at the enemy that had been plaguing him for what felt like an eternity. The woman with daggers had turned around, exposing her back for a crucial instant as she turned to flee.
He blinked as his arm refused to move. A quick glance revealed blood running down its length—more than expected. He didn't recall taking quite that many wounds.
Suddenly, hands grabbed at his armor, pulling him back into the approaching tide of men. For a moment, he struggled to resist them, but found himself unable to even do that. He stumbled backward, exhaustion crashing over him like a hammer blow.
"Primus Pilus! Primus Pilus Quintus!" A voice yelled, distantly at first, then right in his ear. He shook his head to clear the sluggishness that had overtaken him, looking around and seeing a centurion from the first cohort and another legionnaire he didn't know the name of pulling him back.
"Rest, Primus Pilus. You've done enough. Allow the men to handle this."
Quintus let his shield and sword dip toward the ground. As the fervor of his battle frenzy receded, the full extent of his injuries began to make themselves known. Countless cuts across his skin flared to life, burning with every movement. Most were superficial, but some had made it through his armor or found weak points with less protection.
He tried to twist and hissed in pain as he discovered one that just grazed his upper arm. Touching it coated his fingertips in fresh blood. Quintus quickly pulled off a strip of cloth to stanch the wound. Thankfully, neither it nor the other wounds seemed particularly life threatening. Nothing that would cause lasting damage, either. Just more scars and lots of pain.
A hand offered him a length of bandages. The centurion gave him a solemn nod. "We can handle the threat, sir."
And they did.
Quintus watched as a [Taunt] rose up from somewhere on the line of Legionnaires, trying to divert the rogue's attention as she dragged the ranger toward the far side of the encirclement. It only took her a fraction of a second to resist the effect, but two walls of shields were already closing in. Swords snaked out from between them to stab towards her. She released her grip on her companion and tried to vault over the men, but a second rank had already moved into place and pulled their shields above their heads. Their own spears jabbed forward to skewer her in midair, but she kicked off the shields before anyone could actually make contact, flipping as she landed back inside the encirclement.
With the fresh onslaught of reinforcements, there were even more men capable of controlling the pair's movement. And now that the formation was closing in, it was only a matter of time before they were completely surrounded or made a mistake. Already, blood stained the archer's green cloak, and her bow was cut in half, forcing her to rely on a battered shortsword.
The rogue swore something under her breath, throwing a glance over her shoulder to find yet another [Taunt] pulling the woman with the bow toward the opposite end of the encirclement. She abandoned her attempted assault and sprinted towards the archer, only to hesitate for another fraction of a second as another [Taunt] affected her as well.
It was enough.
"Merethe!" she screamed.
The willowy archer failed to dodge a spear thrust from the back ranks, causing her to stumble and fall to one knee. The soldiers advanced on the downed woman without hesitation. This pair was a proven threat—one that had already killed one of their men and wounded too many more. And that would not go unanswered.
Quintus's view was partially obscured as the wall advanced. He heard the sounds of gladii moving in sync as the steel repeatedly thrust into the woman. In moments, he saw a flash of green fall to the ground as she fell over backward, her knee twisted at an unnatural angle.
"NOOOOOOO!"
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The word was almost unintelligible in its raw, guttural emotion. The rogue went into a frenzy, sprinting forward and lashing out at the Legionnaires before her as they stepped over and in front of the ranger's body. Deep gouges appeared in their shields, but the wall held her back, swords glistening.
The rogue got her wits about her long enough to see that she was surrounded. The rest of the Legionnaires continued to stream around their brethren, reinforcing their lines and threatening to cut off her retreat entirely. Already they had managed to add a few ranks to the far side.
Quintus saw her face contort with rage before she turned and sprinted toward the thinnest part of the encirclement, where only a few lines stood between her and the forest beyond. They braced for impact, but before making contact the woman leaped high in the air, sailing overhead at several times a man's height before landing among the trees. She began to run.
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Quintus recovered enough of his breath to bellow an order. "Make ranks and pursue the enemy! Do not allow her to escape!"
The Legion obeyed, spreading out amongst the trees and falling into formation as well as they could manage. They'd already scored one victory. Now, it was just a matter of finishing the fight.
***
Sharath dashed through the forest, trees and branches blurring in her vision. Hot tears ran down her cheeks and worked with the darkness to keep her from seeing what was in front of her. She could feel blood seeping from more than a few superficial cuts, but she barely paid any mind to any of it.
Merethe was dead.
Not captured. Not simply in trouble. Just… dead.
Even now, her mind rebelled against the very suggestion, jumping through hoops and trying to conjure ways around what she'd seen with her own eyes. Perhaps this army had a [Cleric] or [Healer]. Maybe they could resurrect her, would resurrect her? For information?
She shook her head violently. No. The idea was absurd. You didn't stab a potential captive that many times. If they'd wanted to take her sister alive, they would have. And even if they did have a [Cleric] on hand, at Merethe's level and with that many wounds… the window was just too small.
Sharath continued sprinting forward, hardly noticing the small branches that whipped at her arms and face as she slowly pulled away from the pursuit behind her. Despite the difficult terrain, the eerie marching of the monsters was proving surprisingly effective, pushing her to run faster—and for a longer time than she was really specced for—to keep away from them.
This was supposed to be a simple job. A little risky, sure, but not this much. They had only gotten into this situation because Sharath wanted to test their combat abilities. She'd been the one to insist on it. And now…
She gritted her teeth hard enough that they might've cracked. Along with the tears came impotent rage. She wanted to turn around, to sprint back toward that wall of faceless helmets and shields, to stab and fight and tear them apart with every last ounce of strength she had. Even if she failed, she'd at least get the satisfaction of taking down some of her sister's killers.
But she didn't. Instead, she kept running, trying to lose them. Sharath knew better than anyone that she wasn't built to crash through enemy lines like a [Berserker]—even if she wanted that more than anything at this moment. No, there were too many of them, their formation too tight for her to slip between shields or find some sort of chink in the armor. Even if she did, the sheer number would surround her again, and then what? She couldn’t resist that amount of taunts forever, then she would end up just like her sister.
Sharath forced herself to keep breathing. This shouldn't have happened. None of this should have ever happened. Fighting them had already been bad enough, but something had changed after she killed that first soldier. The way it made some of the others faster, stronger, even harder to deal with than before. It was as though they were the real berserkers. Maybe they were cultists of Thrak'nar? The god of revenge was known for giving shitty deals that burned one's life force in exchange for power.
But even both of those explanations had limits—ones that shouldn't have been able to overcome a fifteen-level gap. This effect was far too extreme to be normal. Maybe [Appraisal] had lied to her. Maybe they really did have some way to deceive the skill. It was somehow less unbelievable than her sister dying to a horde of useless level ones.
Sharath kept running, her lungs burning from too-fast breaths, as thoughts whirled through her head in a disordered mess. The sound of marching was finally starting to fade into the distance. She was likely a quarter mile ahead of her pursuers at this point. Perhaps she could hide, take a rest and camouflage herself where they wouldn't see her. Sneak back to their camp once they'd given up. Find a way inside when they weren't formed up and ready for battle, weren't ready to handle a knife in the dark picking them off one by one…
A cold certainty settled over her. She could fight back. She could get revenge. It just had to be her way.
After a moment of hesitation, Sharath adjusted her route. Not yet. She would make these men pay for what they'd done, but not yet. The chances of her being able to take out a literal army by herself were slim, even if she did play to her strengths. If she wanted to get this done right, she'd need backup. Which meant telling the Baron about what had happened here.
But what would she tell him? That there was an army of level ones who were disproportionately powerful, dangerous enough that she'd barely escaped? No one would believe her. They'd just laugh. Assume she was lying or exaggerating. Call her weak, or worse—her sister.
That couldn't happen. She knew better than anyone how dangerous these men were—if they even could be called "men". Maybe they were actually something else. Some homunculi created by a wizard. Some high-level summon. Or even some secret special forces project from a foreign kingdom. Hells, maybe the elves had decided they were fed up with isolationism. Whatever they were, they clearly had something or someone else backing them up. Something that could threaten the entire kingdom.
Once she judged that she was far enough ahead, Sharath made a hard turn toward the river. No stopping for her yet. She needed to get back and convince the Baron of the danger. To come back with as much strength as they could muster and crush this threat now. It shouldn't be too hard to convince him. Especially not if she omitted or embellished a few details.
Sharath heard the telltale rushing of water ahead. She chanced a quick glance behind her. Moving at an angle had shrunk the gap between her and her pursuers, and she could see the light of their torches seeping through the trees. But they weren't that close yet. She just had to hope that they'd be unable to follow her.
She leaped, hurling herself over the water and landing in a roll on the other side. She winced slightly as the grass and dirt of the plains ground into her injuries. Without hesitation, she got to her feet and kept running. By the time they reached the riverbank and stopped, she was already well on her way, eschewing the road to run across the open fields. Their figures faded into the distance behind her.
But she would be back.