Her breaths come ragged, through a throat sore from bellowing war cries all night. One of the villagers, wide-eyed and scared out her wits, brings her a pail of water. She necks it down, water spilling over her breastplate and dribbling down into the mud. Fire dances on the murky surface of the puddles.
They'll be back when the sun rises, she thinks, wiping her face. Her hand comes back covered in mud and blood.
Using the shaft of her spear, she heaves herself back up. The girl from the village backs away as if to accommodate for someone much larger. The villagers themselves are tucked into the shadows of their homes, peering out with glittering eyes.
Sunrise will come soon. The villagers better get back in their coffins. She'll hold off the paladins until the next dusk or until her body falters, whatever comes first.
Paddy Dobson
17th February 2022