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All around knights fought, some still riding others demounted and swinging their swords against the undead foe blocking their path. Trying their best to hold the flank the men at arms formed a wall with their large shields, trying to keep the beasts at bay, as the archers sent volley after volley of arrows into the midst of the giant scorpions that was assaulting the flanks.

Ferran knew they would have to finish the battle quickly; the heat was something the undead did not suffer from.

He had fought the undead before, but this was something new. It was as if they these creatures were sentient and not just mindless beasts under the control of a foul sorcerer. Even the land seemed to be on the side of the undead guardians of the ruins; he had seen more then one horse or soldier sucked down into the sand with a scream.

Off to the left could he see Maurice, still mounted, leading a lance of knights back into the enemy formations. Their lances down as they rode in wedge formation, and with some satisfaction could he see the enemy crushed beneath the hooves and lances of his dearest friends charge.
They tried their best to hit and run, move in and cause as much damage as possible, and then ride back out to come back again. At times, the charge came to a halt in the middle of the melee. Sir Lugh’s, charge over on the right side, their lances now dropped as they hacked away at the skeleton troopers around them.

Ferran was in the midst of the battle himself, and could no longer count the amount of enemies that had fallen by his blade as he strode forth towards the stairs leading up and into the ruins, the final resting place of Sir Montard and the Sword Du Lac. Grey mare, his trusted steed had died a while ago, and the killer had met his final rest by his own hand moments later. Sweat ran down along his cheeks, and his eyes stung due to sand and sweat. His armour had never felt as heavy before as he took the first step up the stairs, blocking a rusted crude blade held by a large skeleton. Mustering his strength, he brought his own sword up in an arc splintering the ribcage of the enemy, and sending him crumbling to the ground.

‘May the Lady protect me, and grant me strength.’ The phrase repeated in his mind as he ascended the scarcely protected stairs. Behind him, the sound of battle waged on, the enemy fighting in silence, but the shouts in anger and the cries of pain by his fellow countrymen tore through the desert.

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The battle between the Carroburgers and the hooded man was over before it truly had begun. Jean-Luc, having experienced hundreds of tournaments and fights, could see that the skill of the hooded knight superseded that of the Imperial Sword masters by miles. With the first of the Imperials knocked out with the uppercut, the knight turned to face the others as he lunged towards him. Once again, the knight side stepped the attack and retaliated with a blow over the sword masters back, and a knee that crashed against the Imperials cheek with a resounding metallic clang, and a teeth-shattering crunch followed a quick blow over the back. 

As fast as it had begun, it was over and the patrons of the tavern quickly lost interest in the two unconscious men. Some talked quietly, others shrugged while the hooded knight returned to his seat and untouched drink. Once he had taken his place once more, he gestured with an armour-clad hand towards Jean-Luc.  “Continue.” The hooded knight said with a perfect L’Anguille accent. Jean-Luc coughed softly, and reached over for his cup of wine as all attention once again came upon him. Yet time was running short and the bed, he had earned for his services this evening called out to him. He hefted his lute, and resumed the melody of the tale.

Wandering through the maze of old.
Our brave young knight, so incredibly bold.
Behind him friends and soldiers died.
Could it be, the Lady lied?
Slowly fading, his once strong faith.
As before him, skeletons now numbered eight.
Sword in hand and shield at ready.
The Lady shone and made his hand so steady. 

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