Dialectical Journal Short Story

The western horizon blackened as the Nagun horde massed out of bow-shot. Guardsmen cast nervous glances at each other.
“How many would you say there are?” Brecc queried, his hand fitfully stroking his beard.
“Several thousand,” Gall replied without emotion.
Dathon stared at him with narrow eyes. “They seem determined to fight.”
Gall calmly shrugged, “The Nagun fight when cornered, or if they believe they are going to win.”
Suddenly high-pitched shrieks and howls pierced the air, as the enemy surged toward them. “Make ready!” Piers shouted. Archers drew their bowstrings taut, waiting for the order. “NOW!”
An arched wave of projectiles issued forth, staggering the leading ranks of the approaching horde. Oncoming Nagun leaped and bounded over the bodies of their companions, driven by some unseen madness towards Gall and his men. More arrows sailed into the tribesmen, slowing but not stopping their irresistible rush. At the base of the

“You ought to keep your weapon at the ready if you intend to use it.” Red-faced, the King drew his blade, trembling with embarrassment as much as anger.
For almost an hour, the reckless, unorganized attack continued, till the ground and bulwark lay covered with the dead and slippery with blood. After several blasts on goat horns, the Nagun slipped away, leaving the land behind them crawling with their pitiless wounded. Out of bowshot, they milled about restlessly. “What are they doing?” Dathon asked.
“Gathering up what’s left of their courage,” Gall replied. “They will need prodding to continue.”
A familiar cold wave of helplessness crept over them. Somewhere, a Mordblade had been unsheathed. “Oh no, not again,” whispered the Magus.
Gall instinctively let his hand drop to his black handled sword. Bloody Faline. How many Shatain did she have on this side of the pass? It felt like only one, but even so, even one meant the odds against them grew