The men looking down from atop the hill were frozen in place, the expressions upon their faces a mixture of horror and confusion. In a single strike they had dealt a mortal blow to the Myrmiese force, the columns of armed men having been reduced to a meaty paste. The more than two hundred lives, in a span of a few short hours had been reduced to barely a single Ile, around twenty-five men and even among those many survivors were in multiple stages of shock. Now it was the defending force that held the cards, they had suffered minimal losses at most maybe a dozen fighters, resulting in them outnumbering the now decimated attacking force.

“WAKE UP! PICK UP YOUR WEAPONS AND TARGET THE ENEMY IN FRONT OF YOU!” Unlike the rest of his unit, Apollonius did not appear fazed by the wholesale slaughter. He stepped forward, yelling towards those at his side, urging them to pick up the javelins lying at their feet, to target the confused and shaken survivors.

The arena champion and the former slave soldiers were the first to shake themselves from their stupor, they had long slept alongside death in their daily life, understanding that the next could possibly be their last. These men who had pursued them, who had marched up this hill, were those who would have no issue slapping them once again in irons. After tasting freedom these men would not return to servitude, although short friendships had been formed amongst the camp members. For that reason and many others, these men would not hesitate, they steeled their jaws in grim determination and took aim at the isolated and scattered enemy before them.

One by one the others followed the example of the former slaves, reaching down and retrieving a javelin from the pile laid before them. Their position at the top of the hill at the lip of the plateau provided them with an ideal firing position, the higher elevation allowing the javelins to soar further and impact harder.

“RELEASE JAVELINS!” Apollonius bellowed out the order, the men under command complied and their projectiles soared through the sun-filled skies. If the enemy turned toward the distant voices, they would find themselves blinded by the midday sun, momentarily impaired as the spear like missiles penetrated their chest.

The few who were able to raise their shields in time were spared their lives, but the bronze head of the javelin easily impaled their large wicker shields. These men were then forced to abandon their shields, the length of the shaft impairing their maneuverability. Five went down with the first volley, with another seven-losing use of their shields, and the second volley would have taken down many more if a giant of a man did not step forward, his long slab like cleaver easily chopping down half the incoming javelins. Only three more went down with the second volley, with every remaining soldier showing a drastic change in their body language. These fifteen men took up a dense formation, remaining shields to the front, those without in the rear, adopting a wedge-like formation similar to cavalry before charging forward at full speed, the giant at their helm.

“QUICK, HIT THEM AGAIN!” Apollonius’s words were no longer necessary, it was clear to all present what was needed. Their pile of javelins had dwindled, now there was only enough for all fifteen members to release two more volleys, with some only able to use one.

There was no scramble as the men and women of the front-line squad took up their javelins and unleashed them upon the enemy charging up the hill. With each step the enemy got closer, and the javelins became more accurate, taking three more down and reducing the enemy number to twelve in total. Up to this point the giant had avoided being struck, his efforts having been instrumental in keeping the small enemy force’s losses minimal. Now this suicidal group was almost within striking distance, only one volley remained before it devolved into a bloody melee.

“All units focus on the Giant, he must die… try not to die.” The sincerity in Apollonius’s words were clear, although their time together was short many of these men and women had bonded over their shared work. Not once were they treated as lesser, the officers and even the Lord himself working alongside the men and women. These actions, the connections that were made, and the safety of those important to them helped to strengthen their spines, to put themselves in danger to buy the time for the main force to reinforce the camp.

“LOOSE!” Each member stepped forward, putting strength into their arm and threw with all their might. They watched as each projectile sliced the air and rushed towards their target, unsheathed their spears, and raised their shields to meet the coming charge, shields layered one over the other, spears poking forward like a porcupine extending its quills. Yet throughout the whole process their eyes never deviated, locked on the giant, observing the javelins enter his range.

In that moment that the javelins entered his sphere of operation, the giant Menos, the light within his eyes changed. Neither the men following him, nor those ahead could see his pupils dilate, then glow with a crimson light, the veins beneath his skin turning dark almost black in color. The creases of smile appeared upon sides of his face, barely noticeable under the bone white mask. In that instant his arms moved at inhumane speeds, like a fish in water, all the while his weapon following the fluctuation of his body and the rotation of his arms. Only a single javelin struck him, penetrating his shoulder, barely puncturing his flesh, stopped by a dense wall of muscle. The remains of the other fourteen javelins scattered at his feet, shattered, smashed, and sliced to bits, unable to cause any damage at all.

“Shit-” The former merchant escort barely managed to get a single word out before his skull exploded in a shower of blood and gore. In the instant that the defender’s attention was drawn to the aftermath of their volley, the giant had disappeared. Moving rapidly out of their field of vision, where their shields obscured their view, throwing his cleaver like one would a spear. The slab of metal had flown towards his head the very second that he had lowered his shield slightly, that small gap was enough for the cleaver to slam into his helmet, smashing the thin bronze like a hammer to a clay cup.

A critical gap had opened within the formation, gone was the aura of invincibility, the expectation of assured victory. Some of the men and women wavered, a single step back, barely a movement, but for the giant it was an invitation and he accepted. In the instant the first defender was killed Menos witnessed the far-right edge of the formation, observed their momentary weakness, and noticed how the one’s closest to him did not waver, holding steady in the face of danger. Apollonius, the arena champion, and the former slaves were no strangers to death, they understood what would happen should they show any vulnerabilities. So, it was only natural that the giant chose to strike at the weaker links.

With a mighty leap Menos closed the distance between himself and the right flank of the defenders, his men surging forward to engage the seven on the left. Although the gap between both sides was barely a foot or two, it was in that moment an enormous chasm, and the surge of Myrmiese troops forced Apollonius and those closest to him to reform into a half-circle formation as they surged over them like a rock against the tide. Viriato led the former slaves, with Spurius and Paulus on his left and right respectively. Apollonius stood shoulder to shoulder with the champion and together they struck as one. Apollonius would thrust his shield forward, bashing the man in front and opening a slight gap in his defenses, a gap that the younger boy immediately exploited, his spear snaking through the gap impaling the opponent’s gut, groin, or thigh.

For their part the former slaves had switched from their longer spears to the shorter xiphos, the short bronze swords exceptionally good at piercing unarmored flesh. Whereas Viriato opted for a single-handed axe, a traditional weapon for those tribal groups’ native to the mountains and forests.

While the other two former arena fighters held the enemy at the flanks, Viriato wielded his axe with an animalistic ferocity, shattering shields and splitting skulls. Both Spurius and Paulus moved in low, striking up with their blades, skewering the enemy from their blind spot and halting their attacks mid-stride. Most of the shielded enemies has been dispatched in the initial exchange, with the remaining soldiers clad in linen tunics, lacking both armor and shields. There was no time or opportunity for them to reach down and retrieve a shield from the deceased, the second they did so a spear would penetrate their skull without fail. Within the span of a minute and a half the twelve enemy soldiers were either killed or incapacitated by the seven-member group. Yet, the reality was that the battle was far from over, they turned as one towards the right flank only to witness the final moments of the last remaining defender. The woman tried to plead but the man standing above her snapped her neck with the ease of a man folding a twig, effortlessly.

The giant had not come out unscathed, the bottom half of his mask was cracked, illuminating a demonic grin, his lips caked in blood, strands of flesh hanging off his lips. A handful of cuts oozed a thick dark red liquid, having the color of clotted blood, but the consistency of tree sap. None of these wounds appeared as if the spears penetrated deep, the cuts only skin deep, thick strands of muscles acting as armor.

“How… Disappointing… thought… they would… last… longer.” The man spoke in raspy whispers, long harsh wheezes between words as if something was caught in his throat. As for his words, it was difficult to tell whether he was speaking of the defenders he had violently slaughtered, or his own men who failed to hold out long enough before he had finished. Either statement would ring true, the right flank was thoroughly decimated, the trauma on the bodies showing that he had torn them apart with his bare hands.

Even as the giant hungrily eyed the group of warriors opposite him, not once did he move to retrieve his weapon. Instead opting to crack his knuckles and lower his body, any man who had been present for the Kratokian games three years earlier in Merlabria would recognize the stance. Similar to that of the warriors of Pankration, considered the most violent and deadly of the games. It was clear the man held no fear, his insistence spoke volumes regarding his confidence to emerge victorious, whether that would prove to be true was yet to be seen.