The Red Gathering

The Battle for the Dreadnought

*** *** ***

The moon was a mere piece away from being full and the shieldbearers were still locked in their new labor. Even some magic users were pressed in the matter, levitating or maintaining the stability of the ships heavier pieces. I watched from the ground along with Kormacc and his band. There were no words, only breaths. We knew what was coming.

A sound erupted from the beach as if thunder had cracked under the water. Bjorn shouted to the scattering Returned to form up again. After a few tries they eventually did, but it was nothing but a line of rogues and berserkers that would probably break the moment an enemy would show.

They were not footmen. They were a collection of every fairytale hero you might have already read, each one with their own weapon, their own gimmick, and their own desire for glory. It might sound inspiring, but it is the last thing an army should be.

"Undead!" a runner from the beach shouted before receiving a crooked javelin through his chest.

Figures emerged behind the poor man's body. Rows and rows of bloated men and women that dripped of black seawater and damp clumps of seaweed. They carried weapons with them, rusted and old, but enough to cut through enough flesh for at least one fight. They hissed, they groaned, and with every unearthly sound that poured from their decayed mouths, my neck trembled in fear.

Other figures then emerged from the ranks, their eyes glowing green with a misty light. These had fresher bodies. No scars, no decay. I recognized one of them - the young dock worker from earlier in the tavern. The battle had also turned into a rescue mission.

"Watch the dock workers!" shouted a Returned. "Bring them to the healers by the triage!"

As she said this, the army of undead began to sprint through the sand, causing a large storm of dust to engulf the Returned's own charge.

*** *** ***

The undead were smarter than we thought. For the first half hour the skirmishers maintained their formation and dropped dozens of undead as well as rescuing every dock worker that was in sight. Confidence then urged some of the Returned to push deeper into the beach, where they were met by a tidal wave of ethereal water and even more of the wights. More undead had also spawned from the other side of the Dreadnought, causing our forces to split. Soon there were more Returned being dragged to the healers than dock workers.

I had to carry a wounded Cestral to the triage where Doc, Saben, Niccolo, and a dozen others healed the piling bodies. Blood was splattered everywhere, save for Niccolo, and there was the occasional glow of a channeler's magic in each corner.

"Here," I handed the Cestral over to Saben. "Get him well."

"Wait!" the Gael woman took my shoulder. "What about you, Merry?"

"I'm fine," I tried to break free from strong her grasp.

"No you're not," she examined the blood that was running down my arm. "You need help."

"THEY need help," I pointed my spear outside. "We're running out of men out there."

"Then make sure they don't lose anymore!"

Niccolo then intervened, presenting a small round vial of a glowing blue substance. "Drink this. It will fix you very quickly."

I sighed, realizing that my arm did feel numb and that I'd only burden more people if I came back as a body. I took the priest's potion and downed it in an instant. I immediately felt invigorated.

Saben seemed pleased at the sight of me. "Good, now get out. You're blocking the entrance for everyone."

*** *** ***

At the beginning of the battle it was easy for me to describe where the fights were in relative to the Dreadnought, but once I had left the triage, the fighting was everywhere. Around the docks, on the road leading to the town, and even a few feet from our camps. I didn't know who was Returned, dock worker, or undead. Everyone were silhouettes, hacking and slashing other silhouettes. I could only hope those winning were my friends.

"I need your help," a man ran to me. "I need your help!"

I instinctively gave out my hand to him, only to be slashed across my palm by a dagger. He then swung several more times at me, but I managed to dodge every single one.

"HELP PLEASE!" he begged. I then noticed the green light glowing from his eyes. Another dock worker.

I flipped my spear by its pommel and struck the man's wrist, disarming the blade away. I had thought that would stop him, but I quickly received a solid punch across my jaw. He swung at me some more, begging for help as he did. I then aimed my spear at his shin and stabbed the leg with full force. The man screamed in agony and fell on the dusty road, gripping his wound.

"She made me do it," he uttered. "She made us all do it. She made us do it. She made us all do it-"

Before I could question him further, a patrol of town guards saw the man writhing and carried him to the triage.

A sudden sting then spiked from my hand. It was bleeding, but not profusely. I've had worse, but I could never get used to the idea of my skin being split open. I closed my eyes and tightly gripped it, applying an almost unnecessary amount of pressure.

"The Pain-Gate Theory," I could hear Quinn's voice bouncing from some Decimal book. "It's when you keep the sensors on your skin busy enough that they overpower the ones by a wound.

I chuckled and then opened my eyes to the night sky. The moon was full and white as bone. It could have been one of the more beautiful moons I've seen, if it were not for the fighting that still continued around me.

"Why did you leave?" I heard Quinn's voice again, though it was a tone I had never heard her use. "Why did you leave me all alone in here?"

I quickly scanned my surroundings. No Quinn.

"You should have stayed," her gentle voice suddenly grew hard, authoritative. Father. "You should have continued your studies like a Trevel should!"

A darkness then outlined from the moon. A noose. It was hanging from a tree above me.

"Oi!" shouted that damned townsfolk. "There's one of em! Hang that tight-eyed fool!"

I looked around me and found that mob. The same one from the border town that lynched me. Pitchforks, torches, ropes. The same faces, the same smells... but now I had my spear. Now I could fight.

I roared at them and swung my weapon through their bodies like butter. They fought back, throwing stones and fists at me, but I managed to do away with all of it. I was stronger now. More dangerous. The world was better off without people like them.

A light flashed from the back of my head and then for a second, the mob was gone. I instead found a whole field of Returned fighting...other Returned. I looked behind me and found a Colish skirmisher raising a club dripping with blood. My blood. I raised my spear at him and received a heavy strike to the head.