The Herculeians died screaming.
Steel rang, flesh split, and bones broke under the terrible weight of Yarzat halberds. What began as battle had become butchery.
"Don't run now!" barked a footman, his voice hoarse from the fight as he drove his boot into the chest of a soldier. The Herculeian fell backward with a grunt, scrambling on blood-slick grass. A moment later, the heavy blade of the halberd came down like judgment, cleaving through spine and ribcage with a sickening crack.
All across the left, the Black Stripes were in their element, fighting not with honor, but with hunger.
They fought in silence, for the most part, save for when they chose to speak, which most of the time was during a pursuit.
They were men after all, even though after half an hour of fighting they didn't look like it, so they had to take pleasure in their own way.
