After two long days of relentless marching, the horizon finally yielded to the colossal silhouette of the Great Dividing Wall. The combined force—ten thousand wildland horsen, five thousand hardened ground warriors, five thousand battle-worn rcenaries, and a thousand elite Mormont soldiers under Kohath’s personal command—had arrived.
Campfires soon dotted the plains like stars scattered across the earth. rcenaries lounged in circles, chewing dried at and swapping stories while sharpening their blades. The wildland warriors, with their fur cloaks and painted faces, kept mostly to themselves, tending to their steeds and murmuring in low, guttural tones.
The afternoon carried the dull clatter of armor, the neighing of horses, and the thrum of anticipation.
Near the edge of camp, away from the revelry, two figures sat astride their mounts beneath a darkening sky—Kohath and Cain, flanked by their most trusted bodyguards.
Cain’s cold eyes scanned the towering structure in the distance. The Great Dividing Wall rose like a mountain of stone and purpose, well over thirty ters tall and impossibly long, vanishing into the distant haze on either side. It was not rely a fortification—it was a statent. A Dukedom’s pride made manifest.
"How in the world were they able to build such a wall?" one rcenary asked another, seated on his horse . "It must stretch for dozens of leagues."
"They say it was built as a demarcation between their land and others. We included." the other replied with a grin. "Yet we stand at its gates."
But Cain’s focus was sharper, colder. His gaze narrowed on the distant ramparts, catching faint glimrs of crimson steel beneath the setting sun.
He raised a hand and pointed. "What is that?" His voice was low, edged with suspicion. "Those crimson glints on the ramparts."
Kohath followed his line of sight. His smile was faint but amused. "Full plate. High-quality by the looks of it. Likely left behind to frighten off scavengers and would-be heroes."
"You said the wall was abandoned." Cain’s tone sharpened. "That Duke Asher marched all his elite northward."
"He did. Or near enough." Kohath shrugged. "He’s no fool. Left maybe a hundred n to put on a show. A flicker of fla is enough to scare those who’ve never seen fire."
Cain frowned. "That may be—but Ashbourne soldiers have never worn red plate."
Kohath scoffed. "Superstition? Are you afraid of painted armor now?"
Cain’s gaze turned to him, unflinching. "If you had stood on the battlefield that day—when the Count bled out on trampled soil while Duke Asher carved through a hundred n as if they were wheat—you wouldn’t mock fear. You’d carry it like a scar."
For a mont, silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
Then Kohath exhaled through his nose, his eyes gleaming with sothing darker. "Fear or not, it’s ti. We strike at nightfall. The wall must fall."
He turned to Cain. "The rcenaries will sleep easier knowing your n are beside them. How many will you send?"
Cain didn’t hesitate. "Two thousand ground warriors. Hardened n. They’ll do."
"Good," Kohath said with a nod. "Let them test the teeth of the wall. By dawn, it will be ours—or blood will christen the stones."
They stared into the looming wall in the distance, ambition and purpose burning in their hearts.
Finally, night fell—and with it, the cold.
Under the waning light of a pale moon, seven thousand n surged forward across the plain: five thousand rcenaries and two thousand barbarian warriors, thundering toward the Great Dividing Wall like an avalanche of flesh and fury. The sound of their boots pounding the earth echoed like the tremors of an earthquake, growing louder with each stride.
Shields raised, they braced for the inevitable storm of arrows. But none ca.
Instead, a low, bone-deep creak broke through the silence as the massive iron gate of the wall yawned open. From the darkness within erged a single, towering figure—ten feet tall, its silhouette holding a flaming torch. Each step the giant took caused the earth to quiver.
The light of the torch glinted off his crimson armour—full plate forged thick and broad, weighing over a ton. His eyes were hidden beneath a massive great helm, a visor slit barely wide enough to contain what seed more like fire than sight. He ca to a halt just past the threshold of the gate, his torch illuminating the battlefield with a dull orange glow.
And then, the gates groaned fully open.
A thousand more followed.
Each one a monster in steel—giants clad in blood-red plate, all bearing warhamrs with cruel spikes designed to rupture armour and pulp bone in a single blow. Massive crossbows were slung over their backs. In perfect unison, they stepped forward, and the impact of their boots hitting the ground sounded like boulders falling from the sky.
The sight was overwhelming.
Torches in so of their hands cast flickering light over the waves of crimson, and their armour, seemingly drenched in coagulated blood, shimred like molten iron. Panic whispered through the rcenaries. The barbarians, for all their wildness, began to hesitate. Feet slowed. Fingers clenched.
A breath of silence—and then ca the order.
"Crossbows!" bellowed a voice—deep and commanding. Omar, their commander.
In an instant, the Scarlett Templars unslung their crossbows—massive, custom-forged siege weapons requiring inhuman strength to draw. Each warrior loosed three bolts in swift succession. The projectiles howled through the air, thick as spears and fast as death.
They tore into the charging mass, slicing through shields, bodies, and bone. Dozens crumpled, caught mid-sprint. So scread. Others dropped in silence, trampled by those behind them.
Yet the charge did not break.
Fueled by rage and desperation, the remaining warriors roared and pressed on. Their numbers gave them courage—until the gap closed to just a hundred paces.
And that was when they truly saw them.
Not rely armoured n.
Not n at all.
The Scarlett Templars stood a full head and a half taller than the tallest barbarian. Their armour groaned as they moved, thick like fortress walls, seamless like the hide of ancient beasts. Their grips on their hamrs were steady—calm, almost lazy—as though seven thousand screaming warriors ant nothing to them.
The rcenaries faltered.
The barbarians slowed.
And for the first ti that night, doubt surged through the ranks like a sickness.
Unfortunately, it was too late.
Ti seed to flow differently for those back at the camp. Cain and Kohath remained mounted on a low ridge, eyes fixed on the battlefield, the muffled sounds of distant war echoing like whispers in the dark.
"They must have broken through by now—" Cain began, but his voice caught in his throat.
Out of the blackness, figures erged—not as a victorious wave, but a scattered, panicked swarm.
They were running.
Weaponless.
Eyes wide with terror.
They weren’t retreating. They were fleeing.
Screams pierced the night—raw, primal, broken. Cain squinted into the gloom, but the battlefield at the distance was shrouded in darkness. He couldn’t make out much with the lights the Templars held. He couldn’t make out what was chasing them.
But whatever had turned thousands of warriors into stampeding prey, he had no desire to face.
"I’m leaving."
"What?!" Kohath wheeled on him, his eyes blazing. "Are you mad?"
Cain didn’t answer. He yanked the reins. His horse reared, then bolted toward the camp. His heart thundered as fast as the hooves beneath him.
Then ca the sound—a low thrum, like the pull of a great string.
Thwick.
Thwick.
Thwick.
From the wall, bolts scread across the sky like falling stars—huge, thick things, flying over a kilotre through the cold night air.
One slamd through a Mormont guard behind Kohath, lifting him clean off the ground.
Another punched through two more.
Kohath’s horse staggered under the sudden chaos as n cried out and scattered.
Cain never looked back.
____
A/N: I would like to use this opportunity to advertise my second project. It’s a story with an apocalypse setting and a unique twist to necromancy.
Na: My Job? Weaving Armour for Undead In the Apocalypse.
You can check it out.
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