It is so dark, ears see better than eyes. I trip and stumble into the men in front of me. They help me up. No one speaks.
There is a place we have to find. We have to get there because something is coming. Fear prickles my skin and dries my tongue.
We trudge up a long slope and at the peak of this mound make our meager defenses from the whispered commands of the centurions.
They are coming. We cannot see them, but through our feet, we feel their dread approach. Small stones shake themselves loose and roll down the hill, eager to leave the place of this, our final stand. Soon they are upon us, monsters riding monsters, their teeth impossibly long. After a time, we think their thirst for our blood has been slaked, for they withdraw and lumber off. Suddenly we are alone.
Above the moaning of the wounded, there comes a rushing of air, but there is no wind. A rain of arrows begins to fall.