By Mair Riley-Jones

Being teleported against your will was a strange feeling, Lorcan thought. Cold, you could see the battlefield around you but it was all blurry, disorientating, incorporeal. Not a nice feeling. His feet hit the ground again and he looked round. No one he really recognised. They were behind the enemy again.

Get back to the lines. Keep them off the baggage train. Get them all out. 

The MoonSword thrummed in his hands, the Lady’s light seemed to shine through the metal, reflecting on his armour. He swung her at the nearest zombie. The sword didn’t even need connect with the thing’s skin. Flesh tore and ripped itself apart for the blade before it even needed to make contact. 

It wasn’t a strange seeing it now as it was the first few times. 

He was back in the allied lines. Fir Cruthen, Algaia, Lions, Tuetonians, a smattering of Mercenaries. All exhausted, all screaming making all the noise they could. Keep their focus on us, get the baggage train out of here. You can shout at Ahktar for not telling you it was a trap later.

They were getting crushed. Lorcan could see the Tuetonian and the Lion war leaders being clawed at by the undead. Thin, dead arms reached round shields, gripping weapons, snarling and drooling. 

He remembered Perun’s words, his blessing. Lorcan moved forward. “Back me up, I can get them off us.” They nodded. Weapons readied as he waded into the fray. Swords and axes nipped at his armour. The MoonSword cut them down. Lorcan felt the strength of the foreign in sky god enter his veins. The strength in his legs, like his bones were made of star metal. His armour was wrent and the blades of the dead cut into his skin. Ignoring the pain for as long as he could, Lorcan brought his foot down on the ground.

It cracked open like an egg.

The zombies were thrown to the floor, so were the allies behind him. One more sharp pain in his abdomen and he looked down to see a detached arm hanging off the dagger embedded in his gut. 

His vision blurred again as he dropped to the floor with the undead. A fuzzy looking black and white tabard moved towards him. Lorcan had never been so glad to see Tuetonians. Warmth spread through his limbs as he was pulled back from the brink of death once again. Too many close calls this gathering. The vortex on Friday night, he was still here thanks to that MacCree lad. Three times on this field alone his entire life force had been pulled from his body by those awful spirit creatures.

His feet touched solid ground again. Whole body aching, he spun back to the shambling hordes. Sweaty hands gripping the Moon Sword tighter than before, his Lady’s strength imbuing his own. 

The shout went up. The baggage train was out, they’d found the exit.

Two objectives down, one to go. Get them all out.

“Go! Go get out of here!”

The allies turned, Lorcan stayed one step behind them. Stone and rubble sprayed onto the crowd like rain. How could he not have seen this coming? The city falling in on top of them. 

Maybe that earth shock wasn’t the best idea after all.

The unquiet dead were back. They were trying to wrap around him, claw him back into that ruined city. 

Get them out. Then you can go home.

Home. Lorcan thought of Manx as he swung his Lady’s blade at the hordes. The ripping of flesh and bone familiar to him now. He missed his little farmstead. Missed the first taste of coffee on his lips as he watched Lugh wake with him from the porch of his small log cabin. The smell of fresh turned earth for his vegetable garden. The sounds of the new lambs in the fields. He wondered if he’d ever see it again.

A scratch on his arm, the zombie let out a gargled laugh as he came back to himself. 

Narrowly dodging rocks and ruin he backed towards the exit. They were moving too slow.

Get them out, then you can worry about yourself.

The falling rock wall was closer now. Like the city wanted them to stay, fall asleep and stay under the earth with those who’d already fallen. No, not here. The Moon Sword had to make it off the field even if he didn’t.

He could see the exit now. The desert beyond. He hoped his family had made it, that they were sitting in the sun trying to get their breath back before they all moved on home. Kalia, Louenar, even Doctor Quagg, Lorcan hoped they’d all be waiting for him when he got out.

If he got out.

It was a feeling he never got used to, Lorcan thought as he sliced the head off a zombie that got too close. Sending people to their death. The Fir Cruthen didn’t fear death. For Nóg, paradise waits just beyond it. But he never quite got used to seeing the heads in The Grove. Heads of people he sent to die, every time he made a decision, moved troops, argued with Kalia, he sent someone else to the Morrigan’s claws. Someone else to feel the beat of her cold wings at their back.

Maybe he should stay and die with them. It was him who’d killed them really.

The pain wasn’t expected, it wasn’t unexpected, he was used to pain now, but he’d never had his chest crushed by a rock before. Should have been looking out for that. 

He felt it blossom across his chest. His armour pushed his ribs in on themselves and he heard the snap more than felt it. He fell backwards, vision blurring yet again. A hand dug into the nape of his neck as he began to loose consciousness. Uncomfortable, but he thought he heard Maddock calling him an idiot from somewhere. The feeling of being carried was comforting somehow. 

His sight failing him, glasses daubed in sweat, blood and woad. Lorcan looked back at Kol Kathrac, the unclear vision of shining armour, a Tuetonian banner on the chest, the rock hurtling towards them. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t warn them. Saw as it collided with them, snapped their spine, tore their weapon from their hand. They tried to crawl after the retreating warhost, no going back for them, the falling city was almost upon them. 

You sent him to die too.