How long he fought and how many he killed, he didn’t know. But at some point in the frenzy, he found himself nearly shoulder to shoulder with Mr Carter, who was armed with a sword in one hand and a long hammer in the other. The two weapons were in constant motion, never interfering with the other’s arc, never failing to find a target to devastating effect. Mr Carter’s shirt was torn and splayed open, showing at least one jagged gash across his midsection. There was too much blood and other dark fluids splashed across him to know how severe or numerous his injuries actually were, and he fought with such intensity that Three was sure Mr Carter didn’t know he’d been wounded at all.
Though they never directly acknowledged the other’s presence, the two fell into a coordinated rhythm and together they cut a wide swath through the surge. Soon they were joined by a third man, and then a fourth, and gradually a small knot of warriors formed in the midst of the battle, briefly staunching the flow of Weir. Even so, Three began to feel the tide turning against them. In the span of a few minutes, they were giving ground again, despite the hard posture they fought to maintain.
The man immediately to his left dropped to a knee with a cry and before Three could react, one of the Weir tore the man’s jugular. Three slashed the Weir, but he knew the man was beyond saving. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, and Three expected to see fear and desperation. Instead, there was only grim determination, as the man surged upward one final time, and impaled a Weir before collapsing together with it and becoming still.
In that instant, Three became suddenly aware of a voice, cutting clear and high above the combat. A woman singing. Her words were lost in the chaos, but the melody carried unmistakably on the air, and ignited his heart with strange passion. The same voice he’d heard the night they’d saved him. Lil’s voice.
He risked a glance over his shoulder, and was startled by how close they were to the central building. She was there, standing at the top of its steps. And he saw then enough to know there was battle raging across the courtyard as well. A coordinated attack. The brunt had come from the eastern wall, but another contingent had joined from another direction. The Weir were pushing towards that building. Towards the building with Lil. And Wren.
Without thinking, Three leapt forward into the Weir, drove them back with sheer will and fury unleashed. A hoarse cry sounded behind him, and suddenly Mr Carter was by his side. They fought together again then, each renewed by the other’s strength. Those men that had fallen back surged forward yet again, and though they suffered many wounds, they once again rejoined Mr Carter and Three.
And suddenly, something within the Weir broke. There was no fear, no panic, no obvious signal of retreat or defeat. The attack simply dissolved and fell away. The Weir nearest Three backed away, and then turned and fled back over the eastern wall and into the night. As they went, Three realized there were far fewer of them remaining than he’d thought only moments before.
He and Mr Carter and the few men with them stood in stunned silence before they came to their senses and realized that others were still fighting near the western side of the central building. Three led the way, and they raced to lend aid. But by the time they reached it, there was only a handful of Weir left. They stood in a semi-circle, facing a single figure, around whom many slain were arrayed.
Chapel. He held a long-bladed sword with both hands, but its tip drifted off so far to one side it was nearly behind him, and hovered just above the ground. Clearly exhausted from the battle, Chapel waited in utter stillness, as if already resigned to his fate. Three stepped forward to help him, but felt Mr Carter’s heavy hand on his shoulder. Three stopped. Watched.
Four Weir remained, though Three knew from painful experience that they could essentially act as one. They hesitated, however, and he wondered if it was due to Chapel’s broadcasting, wondered how they saw him now. Whether the face of a great avenging angel, or perhaps some ravaging demon.
It came in an instant, the swift collapse of the four Weir upon Chapel, and Three knew it was over. The Weir were just too fast, striking from too many angles. But in the span of two forward steps and a half-turn, only Chapel remained standing, watching as the Weir fell to the ground. The whole scene had unfolded like a choreographed dance, the way Chapel escaped the crowd with unhurried strokes of his blade sweeping up, out, and down again. It was several seconds before Three realized Mr Carter was no longer restraining him.
Three and the others moved forward to regroup with Chapel. As they approached, Chapel whipped his blade quickly to one side to clear the ichor, and then smoothly sheathed the sword. Lil had stopped singing, though Three couldn’t remember when. He saw now that most, if not all, of the citizens of the compound were huddled in that centermost building. Or rather the women, children, and elderly. He couldn’t help but wonder how many men they’d lost that night.
Wren came charging down the stairs, and Three didn’t hesitate to pick the boy up. For a long while, no one spoke. There were just no words. And for a long while, Three just shut his eyes and held tightly to Wren, unsure whether he was offering comfort or receiving it.
When morning came, the damage was somewhat less severe than had been feared. Three learned there had in fact been three attacks: two simultaneously from the north and the east, and a third coming from the southwest after most of the men had already engaged. Chapel alone had defended the central building from that attack, though he was quick to downplay the numbers that he had faced and to give credit to the valor of the other men.
All told, they counted over sixty dead Weir, though Three knew the number slain could easily have been more than twice that. The Weir rarely left their dead behind, though no one knew why. Most stories suggested they ate their own. Three had never met anyone who had any evidence for that explanation. For their part, the compound had seven dead, and twelve wounded.
Had it been a legend, the story would have read as a heroic victory, for so few to stand against so many. In reality, it was a heavy blow for such a small community to bear. Seven husbands, seven fathers, seven guardians, all lowered into the ground. Even Three had shed tears during the simple ceremony they’d held. He himself had dug the grave for the man who had fallen by his side just hours before. Kirin had been his name, though Three hadn’t learned it until he’d heard the man’s wife crying out.
And all the while, while he’d carried the wounded, and dug the grave, and done what he could to help, Three couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow it had all been his fault.
“Strange that they would choose now,” Chapel said, late that afternoon, as they ate together. “We’ve been attacked before, of course, but never by so many. Never like this.”
Three hadn’t told anyone of Dagon’s appearance, wasn’t sure if there was a reason to do so. There couldn’t be any connection between Dagon and the Weir, of course, but there was no doubt that whatever had happened, they couldn’t stay. He and Wren had to leave.
“Chapel, I don’t really know how to say this,” he started.
“You’re leaving.”
Three nodded.
“I understand,” Chapel said.
“No. You don’t,” Three answered. He stared down at the food in front of him, knowing he needed the nourishment, but having no appetite for it. “But I made a promise. And I’ve brought far too much trouble on you here.”
“Nonsense. You’ve been a great help to us.”
“It was selfish to stay. You and your people paid for it.”
“By all accounts, we would’ve paid much more without you. Everyone agrees it was your actions that prevented complete tragedy. Even Mr Carter.”