Two hundred riders, their steeds restless and snorting in the cool air, descended the hill in a wave of dimly glowing embers. The descent was asured at first, the rhythmic clatter of hooves muffled by the damp soil,as after all there was no use into forcing one's horse to go all out since the start.
As they closed the distance, the golden glow of the torches reflected in the eyes of the riders, illuminating faces hardened by past battles for so , with for the others still green there was onlu the presence of the thrill of their first charge, the rustle of their movent blending with the whisper of the wind.
The camp below was oblivious to the storm approaching it. Each light of each torchlight, making the riders looks like embers or stars
Egil rode at the forefront, his torch held high, a beacon that led his n closer to their quarry. The sll of the burning pitch mixed with the earthy scent of the fields they passed. Each step of their advance brought the camp's crude outlines into clearer sights of campfires sparingly burning ,and the faint silhouettes of n who slumbered unaware of the fate bearing down on them.
What little peace the rebels clung to would be shattered before the next dawn.
The thunderous roar erupted as Egil's riders let loose their war cry as soon as they deed the camp close enough, a chorus of defiance that shattered the stillness of the night.
"Either victory or we all die!"
The words echoed across the hills, raw and primal, a declaration of intent that carried the weight of lives willingly staked on the charge ahead. It wasn't just a battle cry—it was a belief forged in the during the Herculeian campaign, when Egil had first uttered those words to his n as they prepared to ambush a relief army that outnumbered them three to one.
Back then, Egil had never imagined that his actions would have such standing among his troops, nor that they would significantly bolster his reputation in Yarzat. Alpheo, had in fact spared no expense in ensuring that word of the triumph spread far and wide. After all, a victory—no matter how unconventional—was still a victory, which would have helped bolster his image as a warrior-prince.
The minds of many nobles soon painted Egil as a shrewd and ruthless warrior.An image that was only reinforced by Egil's origins as a mounted nomad, which made him look like an alien in a feudalistic society
Most surprisingly however, that rallying cry had taken root in the soldier's hearts, becoming an unofficial motto that they all shouted before a charge.
Egil couldn't help but grin at their ferocity, the flas of their torches reflected in his eyes as he glanced back at the charging lines. These n—this army—had beco a mirror of the life he once thought lost forever. Their reckless courage, their stubborn refusal to bow, as he tasted during their clash against the Herculeian knights at the battle of the Bleeding Plains, reminded him of his tribe before the Empire's iron hand crushed it.
He thought of his hotribe often, recognizing sadly it was now gone, its remnants scattered across the Empire like ash after a great fire. His kin were either enslaved, resettled in distant lands, or slain outright. Egil himself had been spared from that destiny, by the appearance of a seemingly uncospicious young boy.
But here, with this band of riders, he had found sothing akin to what he had lost. Not freedom, not entirely, but a purpose—a brotherhood that echoed the wild, untad spirit of his people.
"Either victory or we all die" he shouted back his tongue rolling around his mouth
As the cry reverberated across the hills, Egil straightened in his saddle, his chest swelling with pride. He raised his torch higher, its fla licking at the night air, and spurred his horse onward. If this was to be the life he led, a life built on the embers of his past, then so be it.
The first stirrings of confusion soon rippled through the sleeping camp as the distant war cries reached a few scattered ears. Drowsy figures stirred within the campfires , their movents slow and clumsy as they tried to make sense of the chaos unfolding around them.
One man stumbled out of his dreaming waking up , rubbing his eyes and muttering groggily, only to freeze as the faint glow of torches reflected off steel and chainmail bearing down upon him. His confusion turned to wide-eyed terror as the riders—faceless under their helms—descended like an unstoppable wave.
"What—?" was all he managed to utter before the leading horseman's blade arced downward, cleaving through the air and cutting through his throat . The sharp cry of confusion beca a scream of pain, silenced almost instantly.
Elsewhere, others stumbled to their feet, clutching crude weapons or empty-handed, their reactions too slow for the speed of the charging riders. One young man, barely more than a boy, stood petrified as a rider's lance found its mark, a sickening thud followed by the boy's scream piercing the night.
Shouts of fear and confusion beca a chaotic cacophony, mingling with the dull thud of hooves and the clamor of steel. The camp, once a scattered collection of sleeping forms, was now alive with terror, lit by the flickering glow of torches and the ominous shadows of riders striking down anything in their path.
No attempt at resistance arose within the camp. The rebels, once defiant, for the last week moved like shadows of their forr selves. The fighting spirit that had driven them weeks ago had been extinguished by the crushing weight of starvation, endless desertions, and the humiliating defeat they had suffered at the hands of the Herculeian army.
Those who once held weapons with conviction now cowered in the face of the descending riders, their will broken and their minds consud by despair. Days without proper food had sapped their strength; weeks of disarray had fractured their unity. The rebel band was no longer an ard force but a scattered collection of desperate souls waiting for the inevitable, that was coming to them right now.
As the chainmail-clad riders tore through the camp, striking with brutal efficiency, there were no counterattacks, no rallying cries. So tried to flee, only to stumble on weakened legs, their efforts futile against the speed of the horses bearing down upon them. Others simply stood frozen, too weak or resigned to move, their fates sealed by the crushing hopelessness of the mont.
This end was foretold not by their enemies, but by the circumstances that had dood them long before Egil's riders appeared on the hill.
The massacre unfolded with that sa rciless efficiency,that Egil's rider beca known among their comrades for.
n, won, and even children were caught in the chaos, their cries of terror drowned by the thunderous gallop of horses and the sharp clash of steel. The rebels, those who once dread of freedom, scattered like leaves before a storm while being cut down.
Javelins soared through the cold night air, whistling death as they found their targets. Fleeing figures crumpled mid-stride, struck down by precise throws. The riders, their chainmail glinting faintly in the torchlight, laughed and shouted as they tore through the camp. For them, this was no battle—it was sport.
One rider leaned low in his saddle, his blade arcing down to strike a man struggling to run. The laughter that followed resembled that of an animal rather than man.
Another rider grabbed a fleeing woman by her hair, dragging her kicking and screaming toward his saddle. Her desperate struggles were t with jeers and mocking cheers from nearby riders.
Elsewhere, a group of riders encircled a small cluster of terrified civilians—n shielding their families with trembling hands. One rider spurred his horse forward, striking a man with his sword's edge, sending him sprawling with a missing jaw.
They all had to die
The camp, once filled with the weary and downtrodden, beca a blood-soaked ruin. Fires smoldered where tents had been overturned or trampled. The cries of the dying and the pleading of the captured echoed into the dark sky, mingling with the triumphant shouts and laughter of the riders.
It was not war, nor justice—it was a massacre, display of power and ruthlessness.
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Inor stood motionless at first, his breath caught in his throat as he witnessed the nightmare unravel before him. The chaos of the camp—the screams of the dying, the laughter of their killers, the crackle of fires consuming tents—overwheld his senses. Around him, people he had fought beside fell like stalks of wheat to a scythe.
Just when he had thought that he had managed to lead his people to survival everything ca rolling down.
A young boy, no older than twelve, tried to flee past him, his face streaked with dirt and tears. A javelin struck the boy in the back, his body crumpling to the ground re feet from Inor. His lips moved silently as blood pooled beneath him. Inor's gaze turned, unwilling yet unable to look away, as a woman, was dragged screaming from a tent by two riders. Her cries for rcy pierced his ears, but no one ca to her aid.
The light from a nearby fire danced on Inor's face, painting it in hues of flickering orange and deep shadow. He didn't run. He didn't fight. His legs gave out beneath him, and he sank to his knees in the dirt.
The light illuminated his face, revealing eyes that had lost all hope. His hands rested limply on his thighs, trembling faintly as he stared at the ground. Inor's shoulders sagged, his body slack as though the weight of his failures had finally crushed him.
He muttered to himself, too low for anyone to hear, as his gaze slowly lifted to watch a group of riders laughing cruelly while driving their weapons into another cluster of fleeing rebels. His chest heaved with shallow breaths, but no tears ca.
He was no stranger to this sight. Countless tis, he had stood amidst the flas of another's ruin, his sword wet with blood and his hands stained with the spoils of their raiding spree. Back then, it had felt almost natural, a grim necessity of their rebellion—a way to strike fear, to take what was needed, to survive.
But now, as he knelt amidst the chaos, the roles reversed, the weight of it all crushed down on him with unbearable clarity. Watching his own people suffer the very horrors he had inflicted upon others, he began to see those actions in a new light.
A bitter thought churned in his mind as he watched the riders laugh while cutting down those who had no chance to fight back. He had always known n were capable of such monstrosities; he had been part of it. But to be on the receiving end, to feel the helplessness, the despair—
For the first ti, he truly understood the depths of human cruelty, not as a perpetrator but as a victim. And that realization twisted in his gut like a blade, sharper than any weapon wielded against his people that night.
So he did nothing ,for what could he do?He just knelt there, surrounded by the chaos, a man who had once inspired hundreds now reduced to silent despair. The world burned around him, but he remained still, his spirit already consud and walking toward the end of the road.
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