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Volume 1 - Beggar Knight [right]Gazing Into the Abyss[/right]
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A cool wind blew through the sands as Duncan sat on the perimeter of the camp, cradling the rifle in his arms as he peered off into the distance. It was quiet, nothing but the shifting sands dared to make noise. Occasionally a nervous murmur would break from the lips of one of the younger men, only to be met with a short reply or none at all. Duncan looked over the small defense force that had amassed. They all looked nervous, even Omar didn't seem himself, the towering giant's jokes becoming fewer and less confident the more the night dragged on. Mehdi was as cool headed as ever, but Duncan's keen eye could see even the desert sniper's hand shaking slightly. Mehdi had explained every confrontation with the Ghul resulted in less and less of the tribe coming back alive. They had never defeated them in a fight, only managed to hold them off long enough to run away. This time there would be no running away. It was a fight to the death, and Duncan had been dead to the world long enough, he wasn't going to let it happen again.

Still though, his unwavering resolve was being tested. His fight with Omar was one thing, but it had been literally centuries since he had been involved in mass combat like this. He felt a coursing of anxiety through his veins, and looking over the camp he couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. His eyes glanced over to the entrance to a tent, where a small boy was peeking out through the doorway and caught eyes with Duncan. Suddenly he was a million miles away, his mind tracing a path of memories back to his adolescence.

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Duncan stood in line next to men twice his size, their armor clanking softly in the early morning light. The air was thick with the scent of iron, sweat and tobacco, a tangible reminder of the battle that lay ahead. He could barely keep his hands steady as the quartermaster approached, his movements practiced, almost indifferent, as he handed out gear to the soldiers.

When it was Duncan’s turn, the quartermaster frowned slightly, his eyes dropping down, taking in the boy’s slight frame before handing him a kettle helmet that seemed comically large in the boys hands. Duncan struggled to put it on, the heavy metal slipping down over his eyes. He tried to adjust it, but the weight of it made his neck ache.

“Better than nothing,” the quartermaster muttered, already moving down the line.

Duncan’s heart pounded in his chest as he looked around at the other soldiers, men who had seen countless battles, their faces hardened by experience. He could see the tension in their jaws, the way their hands gripped their weapons tightly. Despite their silence, the fear was palpable, hanging over the camp like a storm cloud.

Duncan took a deep breath, tightening his grip on the small shortsword that felt too big for his hands. The fort was bathed in golden sunlight, but it did little to warm the cold fear Duncan felt in his heart. He had left home to forge a new life for himself, one fighting for valour and for chivalry. How had he managed to end up here? Next to these men? Fighting not for his ideals, but for survival. 

The weight of the helmet and the gravity of the situation pressed down on him, making him feel every bit the child he was. The voices of the men around him faded into a dull murmur as he fought to keep his composure. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to face what was coming, but he knew he had no choice.

A voice broke through the deafening silence in Duncan's head. The leader of the mercenary band, a grizzled veteran with a voice like gravel, sitting tall on his horse. His scarred face looked over his men, glancing over at the young recruit with a mixture of pity and indifference.

"Listen up!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the air like a bird of prey. “This is it. We march now, and not all of you will come back. But if you want to survive, keep your wits about you and do as you’re told. You all know the drill by now, kill the red and blue ones, protect the green ones."

The men around Duncan shifted uneasily, some clutching their weapons tighter, others muttering prayers under their breath. Duncan swallowed hard, trying to ignore the knot of fear tightening in his stomach. The leader wheeled his horse around, and with a curt nod to the banner bearer, the march began. The clattering of armor and weapons filled the air as the mercenaries fell into step, the sound echoing in Duncan’s ears like the pounding of a drum. He was just a boy, surrounded by men who had seen more battles than he could imagine, but there was no turning back now.

The leader’s voice rang out again, calling for the formation to tighten as they approached the battlefield. Duncan adjusted his grip on the sword, feeling its unfamiliar weight in his hand. The ground beneath their feet trembled as the enemy came into view, a sea of soldiers armed and ready for blood. Duncan’s breath caught in his throat. The world around him seemed to slow, the sounds of the march fading as his focus narrowed to the line of soldiers ahead. At the front, on an almost glistening white steed sat the leader of their enemy. His red, blue and gold armour catching the boys eye as he watched the mercenary band merge next to the amassed army he was due to fight.

In that moment, Duncan felt the enormity of what he was about to face. The uncertainty, the fear, and the burden of his own past weighed heavily on him. But he had no choice but to push forward. He was no longer just a boy with dreams anymore, he was a warrior, and today he would have to prove it.

As the two forces drew closer, the leader raised his sword high, signaling the charge. Duncan braced himself, every muscle tensing as he prepared to enter the fray. The memory of his father’s betrayal flickered in the back of his mind, a reminder of the darkness that had led him to this moment.

And then, with a roar that shook the very earth, the battle began.
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"Duncan! Duncan!" Mehdi shook him by the shoulders, trying to snap him out of his daze. Duncan blinked, still lost in the daze of his memory, when suddenly [i][b]slap[/b][/i] Mehdi's hand connected with his face.

"Get it together, man! The Ghul are here!"

Duncan nodded, rising to his feet and taking in the carnage around him as he angled the rifle against his shoulder. It was so much worse than he could have imagined.

The Ghul were monstrous, twisted beings, their forms a grotesque blend of man and beast. They towered over the defenders, their pale, leathery skin stretched tight over sinewy muscle and gaunt, skeletal frames. Their faces were grotesque, a sickening fusion of skull and rotting flesh, with hollow, glowing eyes that burned with an unnatural, sickly yellow light. With claws like scimitars, they tore through the camp's defenses, their movements unnervingly swift and agile for creatures of such size.

Some wore remnants of ancient armor, rusted and broken, a testament to battles fought in forgotten times. Others carried massive, curved swords, stained with the blood of countless victims. The air was filled with their guttural snarls and the screams of the dying. They attacked with a savage ferocity, as if driven by an insatiable hunger.

Mehdi was already in action, his rifle taking down one of the Ghul with a single, precise shot to the head. Omar was near him, clashing his scimitar against the steel of one of the Ghul's own swords and thrusting a large burning torch towards the monster. But for every one that fell, it seemed two more took its place. The camp was quickly becoming a slaughter, and Duncan knew they were outnumbered and outmatched.

Duncan's heart pounded in his chest as he aimed at the nearest Ghul, pulling the trigger and watching as the bullet struck its target, tearing through the creature's shoulder. But the Ghul barely flinched, its head snapping in Duncan's direction with a snarl that chilled him to the bone. It charged, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat, and Duncan only had time to duck and roll out of the way before it was upon him.

The rifle was useless now. He tossed it aside, drawing the mace from his belt and sliding out a circular shield from its harness on his back. Just as he managed to ready himself the Ghul was on him. Leaping towards the knight and slashing its claws.  Duncan raised his shield, catching the blow, then swung his mace low, catching the creature by the ankles and sending it crashing to the ground. Without hesitation, he brought the mace down in a deadly arc, crushing the Ghul’s skull with a sickening crunch.

As the creature's lifeless body hit the sand, Duncan felt an unexpected surge of energy course through him. His heart pounded, but not just from the exertion of the fight, it was something else, something that sent a strange warmth through his limbs. He felt sharper, quicker, like his body was moving before his mind could fully register the threat. The creature had been powerful, but in those moments, Duncan had fought with a speed and strength that surprised even himself.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. The camp was in chaos, and there were more Ghul descending on them, their monstrous forms tearing through the defenders with ruthless efficiency. But Duncan wasn’t slowing down. He moved from one enemy to the next, his strikes precise and brutal, his shield deflecting blows that should have shattered bone.

"Stand your ground!" he shouted, rallying the men around him. The air was thick with the smell of blood and smoke, the firelight flickering wildly in the chaos. Duncan slammed his shield into another Ghul, the impact reverberating through his arm. Before the creature could recover, he swung his mace, the force of the blow sending it crashing to the ground.

He was moving faster than he ever had before, reacting to the Ghul's attacks as though he could sense them coming. His muscles, though tired from the day's strain, felt oddly light, as if he had untapped reserves of strength deep within. Each swing of his mace carried more weight, more force than he would have thought possible.

What's more, his eyesight felt sharper, like a hawks. Even in the midst of the chaos, Duncan’s eyes caught something in the distance, a dark pit in the sands, yawning open like a mouth. He could see the Ghul clawing their way out of it, their grotesque forms emerging from the swirling sands. That had to be it, the source of the invasion. If they were going to end this, that was where the fight needed to be taken.

"Mehdi! Omar!" Duncan called out, his voice cutting through the din of battle. The two men looked to him, their eyes following as he pointed his mace toward the pit. “I’m taking the fight to them. It’s time to give these monsters a taste of their own medicine!”

A fierce grin spread across Duncan’s face, the first sign of life in him since this nightmare had begun. Mehdi, catching sight of the pit, returned the smile with a nod, his rifle already slung over his shoulder as he made his way to the camels. Untying three of them, Mehdi mounted one and swiftly guided the others toward Duncan and Omar. They quickly mounted up, determination etched on their faces.

With a kick of their heels, the three rode hard toward the pit, dodging and weaving as Ghul leapt at them from all sides. The creatures’ claws swiped at them, but the men moved too fast, the camels carrying them swiftly through the chaos.

Within moments, they reached the edge of the sinkhole. Duncan’s eyes met Mehdi’s and Omar’s one last time before they dismounted, their boots hitting the sand. Without hesitation, they leapt into the dark abyss, ready to take the fight directly to the heart of the invasion.