Alain could see nothing. The visor of his helm, a dented "iron chapel" inherited from his father, was too narrow. He saw only a horizontal strip of the world: the tails of the horses in front of him, the grey mud of Mousillon, and the lances vibrating like reeds in the wind.
Alain was sixteen years old. He was the third squire of Sir Guy de Bastonne. The first two had died of dysentery during the march. He hoped to die of old age, but in that moment, as the ground shook under the charge of three thousand horses, he realized that hope was a coin that held no value here.
"Keep your shield up, boy!" yelled Sir Guy, his voice distorted by his helm. "And don't stop! If you stop, our own men will trample you!"
The moment of the clash was not heroic. It was not like in the minstrels' songs. There was no music. There was a sound Alain would never forget: the sound of wet meat striking iron at full gallop. CRUNCH.
Alain, running on foot behind the second line of cavalry along with the other sergeants, was hit by the shockwave. A horse in front of him, struck by a skeletal spear, collapsed. Alain tripped over the screaming animal, rolling in mud mixed with blood. He tried to get up, but a hand stepped on his face. Another sergeant, mad with terror, ran over him.
When Alain managed to get to his knees, the world had become a slaughterhouse. The fog had mixed with bone dust and the steam of hot blood, creating a pink haze that choked the lungs.
A Skeleton Warrior emerged from the smoke. It had no jaw. It wore bronze armor dating back a thousand years. Alain raised his wooden shield just in time. The skeleton's rusty sword came down with inhuman force. The wood splintered. Alain screamed and drove his short sword into the monster's sternum. The blade scraped against empty ribs. The skeleton did not scream. It did not bleed. It simply kept pushing. Alain pushed back, slipping on the entrails of a fallen man. He managed to kick the skeleton's knee, snapping it. The monster fell, and Alain smashed its skull with the hilt of his sword, striking again and again until only dust remained.
He looked around, panting, sweat stinging his eyes. Everywhere he looked, there was horror. He saw a knight of Quenelles get unhorsed. Before he could touch the ground, three Ghouls were on him. Alain saw an armored arm fly off, torn from the socket, while the knight screamed until his throat became a red fountain.
He saw Sir Guy. His lord was fighting bravely against two Wights. "To me, squire! To me!" shouted the knight. Alain made to run, but a wall of Zombies blocked his path. They were peasants, recently dead. Some still had farm tools stuck in their flesh. Alain cut. Parried. Cut again. He felt his sword bite dead flesh, smelled the sickly-sweet scent of decay filling his mouth. When he managed to break through, Sir Guy was gone. There was only his gutted horse and an empty helm rolling in the mud.
The battle became a confused eternity. Alain's arms weighed like lead. His sword, now blunt, was just an iron bar he swung desperately. He was thirsty. A thirst so strong he would have drunk from the bloody mud if he could.
A man beside him, a crossbowman from Aquitaine, was hit by a black arrow. The arrow entered his eye. The man fell onto Alain, dead instantly. Alain pushed him off, crying without realizing it. "I want to go home," he sobbed. "I want the vineyards. I don't want to be here."
But "here" was everywhere. A cold hand grabbed his ankle. Alain looked down. A human torso, cut in half at the waist, was dragging itself toward him. It still had the strength to grip. Alain screamed and hit the arm until the fingers detached.
Then, the shadow fell over him. It wasn't a cloud. It was a Flesh Construct. An abomination three meters tall, stitched together with parts of orcs and men, brandishing an iron pole. Alain froze. He was small. He was tired. He was just a sixteen-year-old boy with a dull sword.
The monster raised the pole. Alain raised his shield, a useless, instinctive gesture. The blow came from the side. He felt no pain at first. He felt only a dull impact, as if he had been hit by a tree trunk. He flew. He heard the ribs on his right side collapse all at once, a sound of dry twigs breaking. He landed in the mud, five meters away.
He tried to breathe, but there was no air. Only blood. A lung was punctured. He couldn't move his legs. The world began to turn grey at the edges. The sounds of battle—the screams, the clangor, the neighing—seemed to come from underwater.
He turned his head, cheek pressed into the cold mud. Through the slit of his now-crooked visor, he saw something in the distance.
He saw a black figure, a metal giant moving with impossible speed. A sword glowing with white light cut the darkness, opening gaps in the enemy ranks like a scythe in wheat.
Sir Gilles. The hero.
Alain reached out a trembling hand toward that light. Save me, he thought. You are so strong. Save me.
But the giant was far away. Too far to see a small, dying squire in the mud. The Flesh Construct was approaching to finish the job, its heavy steps making the earth shake near Alain's ear.
Alain closed his eyes. He felt cold. A cold that didn't come from the swamp, but from within. He thought of the ripe grapes of Quenelles. He thought of his mother's smile. Then, the monster's shadow covered the last ray of sun. And Alain stopped being afraid, because he stopped being.