Two soldiers sat on overturned crates near the edge of a sprawling refugee camp. The air was heavy with the mingling slls of unwashed bodies and ager cooking fires. Their armor was dented, their boots caked with mud. One leaned on his spear, muttering under his breath.
"Portions've been gettin' smaller by the day," the first soldier grumbled not only about his , casting a glance toward a group of refugees huddled around a cookpot, but of everybody . "Folk are gettin' restless. Saw a couple of 'em shovin' each other on the line for supper, which soo' tuned into fistin'."
His companion scratched the back of his neck, his face drawn in a frown. "Aye, I heard. And I'll tell ya sothin' worse—there's talk the carts bringin' food were ambushed. Bandits took the lot."
The first soldier straightened, turning sharply. "Bandits? You havin' on?" His voice rose slightly, incredulous.''Where ya heard that horseshit?''
"Wish It was," the second replied, spitting on the ground. "I believe it's why the supplies ain't shown up like they oughta. Couple o' blokes say the roads to the city ain't safe no more."
The first soldier cursed under his breath, glancing toward the watchtower where a handful of other guards were posted. "So what, we'e just gonna sit here?They really now going to let these folk starve 'cause so rat-faced brigands got greedy?"
"Don't ask ," the second muttered with a shrug. "All I know is if them' carts don't co soon, we'e gonna have more trouble tha' just bandits.''
The first soldier spat on the ground, his face twisting in anger. "Damn Yarzats," he growled, gripping his spear tighter. "They burnt down every bloody village between here and the border. Torched all the food stores, left nothin' but ash. All this—" he gestured toward the camp, where refugees wandered listlessly, "—is on them."
The second soldier nodded grimly. "Aye. And now look, we're the ones dealin' with their bloody ss. If it ain't the bandits, it's the beggars, scrappin' over crumbs. Hell of a ti to be a soldier, eh?"
The first soldier sneered, his voice dropping low and venomous. "And that bitch. She's to bla for this, her and that husband of hers. High and mighty in their castle while we clean up their shi-''
The conversation was interrupted however by the distant sound of shouting—a low, angry murmur that quickly grew into a chaotic uproar. The two soldiers turned their heads sharply, their expressions taut with alarm. From within the sprawling refugee camp, tents swayed as if buffeted by a storm, the ruckus growing louder by the second.
"What's that racket?" the first soldier muttered, already rising to his feet.
Before the second could respond, a cry split the air: "They're revolting!"
The shout sent a ripple of tension through the soldiers nearby. n began moving swiftly toward the source of the noise, their hands instinctively reaching for weapons. From their vantage, the two soldiers could see a mass of people—hundreds, no, nearly a thousand refugees—pressing forward in a tide of fury. The handful of soldiers at the forefront stood no chance, their cries of pain and terror cut short as the mob descended upon them, tearing them apart with desperate hands and whatever weapons they could muster.
"Shit, they're tearing through!" the second soldier cursed, scrambling to grab his spear.
The first soldier spat another curse, his face pale but resolute. "Bloody hell, they've gone mad! Get yer arse up, we're gonna need every man!"
The two rushed to join the gathering lines of their comrades, the camp now a maelstrom of chaos sa apparently the story about the bandits was not a load of horseshit.
The mob surged forward, a chaotic wave bodies. Amid the turmoil, sothing swung wildly in the air, catching the soldiers' attention. From a distance, it looked like a piece of wood—a crude weapon, perhaps, wielded by one of the desperate refugees.
But as the mob drew closer, a sickening realization dawned. It wasn't wood. It was a child, limp and emaciated. The figures swung the body overhead like a banner, their hoarse screams lost in the roar of the advancing crowd.
"Gods above," one soldier whispered, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on his spear. "They've lost their bloody minds.They gonna kill us!"
"Shut it!" barked another, the fear in his voice thinly veiled with anger. "Hold the line!They are starve' and w' got the weapon"
The soldiers braced themselves, shields locked tightly together in a wall of iron and determination. The mob slamd into them with a roar, a ss of hands, makeshift weapons, and raw desperation. The line buckled but held firm, the soldiers digging their heels into the dirt as they pushed back against the human tide.
The air was filled with a cacophony of screams, curses, and the thud of bodies colliding against shields. Bloodied faces pressed against the soldiers' defenses, and trembling hands reached out in frenzied attempts to grab at their armor or pull them down.
"Push! Push them back!" ca the command, and the soldiers heaved forward as one, forcing the mob to stumble back a step. But the refugees, driven by hunger and despair, threw themselves at the shields again and again, each assault more feral than the last.
A soldier at the front gritted his teeth, his shield trembling under the force of the mob's assault. With a fierce shove, he drove the refugee in front of him backward, sending the man stumbling into the crowd. In one swift motion, he thrust his spear forward, the sharp tip plunging into another attacker's chest, one of the many . Blood sprayed, and the refugee crumpled to the ground with a guttural cry, blood oozing out of his stomach along his guts.
But before the soldier could recover retract the spear and get back into formation , hands clamped around his arm—two sets of them. Desperate fingers dug into the chainmail and the leather straps beneath, wrenching him forward with unnatural strength born of sheer madness. He staggered, his balance lost, and was dragged over the line of shields.
"Help! Pull back!" he shouted reaching his hand too far from his comrades . But it was too late. The mob engulfed him, dragging him down into the thrashing, screaming sea of bodies. His comrades could do nothing but watch in horror as the man was torn apart with bare hands—fingers clawing at his armor, prying off pieces of protection, teeth sinking into exposed flesh mimicking what weapon would.
Further down the line, another soldier cried out as a refugee swung a jagged piece of wood, shattering the shield he held. The soldier retaliated with a quick, brutal slash of his sword, cutting down the attacker. Yet as one fell, two more took their place, lunging forward with rocks and fists. He barely had ti to react as one caught him off guard, smashing his helm with a heavy stone. He stumbled, dazed, and the mob surged forward, swallowing him whole.
More skirmishes erupted along the line. Soldiers pushed and thrust their spears, driving back the relentless tide of rage and hunger, only to lose ground as others fell to the ferocity of the mob. Refugees clawed and bit like wild beasts, their eyes wide with desperation, their movents uncoordinated but overwhelming in sheer numbers.
Shouts of command mingled with screams of agony and the wet thud of flesh and bone eting steel
The soldiers ford a thin, desperate line at the camp's entrance, their shields locked tightly together in a fragile wall of steel and determination. Only a hundred n stood between the raging mob and total chaos, their ranks stretched precariously thin. Behind them, the camp's narrow entrance funneled the assault into one point, the only thing preventing the thousand-strong horde from swarming them entirely.
Each push from the mob sent ripples through the shield wall, the soldiers grunting and straining as they held their ground. The refugees, maddened by hunger and despair, hurled themselves against the line with reckless abandon. Bodies slamd into shields, the impact reverberating through the ranks as feet slid against the churned mud beneath them.
"Hold the line!" the only sergeant present there bellowed,suddendly cursing his luck at being the head in charge of this shit-show, his voice hoarse from repeated commands. His spear jabbed forward, driving back a man wielding a makeshift club. The blow staggered the attacker, but another imdiately took his place, forcing the sergeant to brace himself once more.
"Stand back, ya' bastards!'' A soldier shouted as he desperately held on to his shield, the only thing protecting him from the thousand pair of hands of hungry n and won out for their blood.
The wall buckled as more refugees surged forward, their weight and numbers threatening to break the soldiers' formation. The defenders pushed back with all their might, the sound of shields groaning under pressure mixing with screams of fury and pain.
A soldier near the center cried out as a refugee's hands grabbed the edge of his shield, pulling it downward. A jagged rock ca swinging toward his head, and he barely ducked in ti, the rock glancing off his helm with a sharp clang. He shoved forward, driving his shield into the attacker's chest, but the force of the push sent him stumbling backward.
"Brace up, damn it!" another soldier shouted, his voice panicked as the line wavered, the hope of making it out alive becoming smaller and smaller, as the pression only grew stronger and stronger, as the gods themselves appeared to have made their choice.
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