Hold. No matter what, I must hold. Torell repeated that one thought over and over to himself, clung to it like a drowning man to a branch. He raised his shield, peering out through the gap to watch as the cloud of skal’va buzzed close. Letting out a low grunt, he pulled the shield back, stepping forwards in the same motion to slash outwards with his runesword. The hilt glowed with a familiar heat, a gout of flame shooting out of the tip to blaze through the air. Without bothering to even watch where the flames landed, he hurriedly stepped back, bringing to shield to bear once more and returning to the shieldwall.

His arms were sore and strained, the shield half-resting on the ground as he struggled to catch his breath. He had to fight the urge to stagger over, the men behind him helping to prop him up. His arms were laced with wounds, the skin cracked and bleeding from where the skal had managed to touch him. That black mist had proved deadly, numb enough to be ignored as it ate away at the flesh.

His motions were growing slower now, his muscles worn away by biting cold and fatigue. As he saw the skal’va nearing, he once more stepped forward only to stumble, his boot catching on the ground, and he hurriedly slammed the shield down to prevent himself from falling over. The wave of skal rattled against his shield, some flying upwards only to be roasted by the blast of flame from the ranks behind him.

Again. Get back in rank. He heard the voice of the First Sword drilled into the back of his mind, and his body obeyed. His legs were burning, his arms strained as he once more raised the shield. Again, his sword burned with heat. Again, he sent out another stream of flame that sent a small handful of skal’va tumbling to the ground, crackling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men to his right let out a hoarse scream before falling. The skal’va were swift to take advantage of the break in the shieldwall, surging forward in a swarm as they descended on the man. In moments, his throat was silenced, and his face was left little more than scraps of flesh on bone. Torell felt a spike of panic, knowing that his flank was now unprotected. Yet that fear was swiftly pushed away as a legionary from the second rank let out a torrent of flame, stepping forward to take the fallen man’s place, shield raised high.

“Burn them!” he cried out in his panic, fevered and high-pitched. The flame was quick to answer his desires, scorching away the skal’va, who fluttered away like so many fireflies, slowly burning away into ash. If only that flame would take all of the damned things; if only the sky would like up like stars in the night.

Yet as that man’s shield scraped against his own, he regained control of himself. This was a deadly dance, but it was one that he knew. It was one that he had lived through, even if his friends had not. His thoughts began to start down that path, started to turn to Myron and his fate, but he pushed himself away quickly. Time enough to think later. For now, every motion demanded his focus. Every fiber of his being was tense, his every sense firing madly.

Hold. He told himself, repeating that one mantra over and over. Hold, and they will break. Hold, no matter what. As the shadows struck his shield once more, he staggered back, feeling the strength leave his body and his vision spin for a brief moment. The man behind him leaned forward, lending his support, and Torell managed to push through the bout of delirium.

The mistake was enough to nearly cost not just him, but the men beside him as well. Yet there was no time to reflect on it, no time for guilt. Again and again, he raised his shield. Step out, strike. Draw back, hold. And repeat.

Like sanding a rod. Like rowing a boat. But he was dancing with death, and lives were written on the dance cards. Time wore on like it had been flattened by a rolling pin, every second passing by in excruciating detail as he fought his own body’s urge to collapse. Time enough for that later. His own thoughts seemed to take on a life of their own, speaking to himself in his incoherence.

His heart pounding and his ears ringing, he dragged another tired breath down his ragged throat. The shield goes high! He heard the First Sword call out once more, and he lifted that hunk of wood and metal almost unconsciously. The feet are your roots! He dug his heels into the dirt, bracing himself against the surge of shadow. The sword darts fast! He struck out with his blade, a swift tongue of fire that shot out like an extension of his own arm.

And he stumbled. And he fell.

He closed his eyes as he struck the ground, going entirely blind in the moment. His head impacted the ground, his helmet striking his skull, and his entire world seemed to ring like a bell that had just been struck. His vision flashed white with momentary pain, his sword flying out of his hand. His shield went flat underneath him, his arm twisting at a horrendous angle, and he felt a brief moment of resistance in the joint before his elbow gave, twisting underneath him with a snapping of tendons. That flare of pain was swiftly suppressed by a numb pain as he opened his eyes to see the skal’va devouring him like so many scavengers

“Burn them… all…” he rasped out weakly, coughing up a mouthful of blood. His hands scrabbled in the dirt, trying to reach for his sword. Where was the next man? They had to keep the ranks. They had to hold. He looked up with bleary eyes, trying to look through his blood-tinged vision only to see another corpse behind him.

There was no one to take his place in the ranks. The wall was broken.

Torell felt a low laugh ripple through him, wracking his chest with coughs as he struggled to breathe. With a feeble hand, he tried to brush off the skal’va, only to realize that they had gnawed through the muscle in the limb. The entire lower half of his body was gone underneath his armor, the skal’va practically a wreath around his soon-to-be corpse.

There was a shout in the distance, faint and desperate. Perhaps it was the last of the shieldwall; he did not know. Why were they taking so long to kill him? Or was the moment of his death merely slower, now that it had finally came? Odd, how badly he had fought to keep from dying, and yet now that the moment of dying had finally came, it could not come quickly enough. His thoughts turned to his family, turned to his Ma and Pa in the Heartlands that he had promised to come back to. Turned to his little brother, who would now have to inherit the farm. Turned to his baby sister, who he had never met—and would now never have the chance to.

He opened his eyes tiredly to see another soldier over him, without shield. The man’s sword was little more that a hilt, the blade broken at the tip. What a fool, Torell thought to himself blearily. The man’s rushing in to die. The sword’s runes were glowing, the blade consumed with green-white fire.

Strange, so part of him realized. Yet he was too far gone now, too tired to think on it further. It was even an effort to keep his eyelids open, and indeed he even saw a blot of black in his left eye as the skal’va began to tear into it. No pain, at the very least.

He would hate for there to have been pain when he tied. Fortunate, he laughed to himself. I’m so fortunate to have died this way. Indeed, when there was nothing else left but for him to lay there and die, he had all the time in the world to laugh.

The last thing that he saw was the soldier’s blade glow brilliantly white, bursting into a sudden inferno as it swallowed the man whole and kept expanding. The wave of heat seemed to blow the skal’va off of Torell as it reached him, seemed to scorch the ice from his skin and sear his blood into vapor.

And he watched as the skal’va burned, beautifully. Like so many fireflies, their little forms caught flame.

Like so many stars in the night.