Willem struggled to calm his speeding heart, feeling the high of adrenaline course hotly through his veins. The battle had ended with hundreds dead, their dust scattering in the wind to pile up in sandy dunes. Absentmindedly, he reached down and grabbed a handful of the ash, watching as it trickled out from between his fingers with the wind. So many dead. He shuddered at the thought, realizing just how quickly so many men had died.

The plains were now oddly empty of movement—at least, compared to the madness only moments before. Some forty legionaries gathered in a small crowd, their shields falling to the ground, their helmets at their sides as they gasped for air. Half of them were bowmen, archers that had kept to the rear lines in battle. Of the four hundred that entered this battle, cut down itself from the two thousand that had started this road to hell, now only a pitiful number remained.

And yet the demons looked even more pathetic by comparison. Only three had survived, bringing the total to six when including Joy, Kha, and himself. The remaining few gazed mournfully att spots of empty air, as if imagining where their brothers had previously stood. Yet none of them so much as let out a whimper in sadness, stoically standing as they waited for a further command.

There was, indeed, no time to be spared for mourning. After a brief time spent resting and organizing supplies from the fallen, the army found itself preparing for the march once more. Meshira would not wait for them to mourn, nor would it wait for the dead to rest. Yet with so little men and their horses dead, there was no way for them to easily carry supplies. In the end, the men were forced to draw lots in groups of ten to haul a single wagon with food and other necessities. They scavenged what they could from the dead, trading out armor and swords from those that no longer needed them. In the end, those surviving soldiers were left marching with piecemeal attire, their armor patchwork and borrowing plates.

In a shocking display of desperation, Willem watched as Mors commanded the men to scavenge more than just steel from the dead. Soldiers took out their knives, cutting away strips of flesh and fat from the corpses. It was necessary, he supposed. They were low on provisions, and the fat could be used in place of pitch. Still, it was a gruesome sight to behold, the pain not lessened in the slightest by the tears streaming down the men's faces as they butchered their friends. A few of them dropped with blades more than once, struggling to raise their trembling arms as their bodies were wracked with sobs.

The meat was hanged into strips, swiftly dried under the sweltering sun into jerky that the soldiers could eat on the march. The fat was stored as well, the oils kept separately. It had a multitude of uses, from lubrication to nourishment, no matter how disgusting it seemed. Some of the soldiers refused to look at the stuff, as if it would be easier to use if they ignored where it had came from.

See now what this has wrought upon you? Atal was incessant in his panderings, seeking still to try and dissuade Willem from continuing down this path. Yet if nothing else, this sight of suffering only filled him with greater fire to see the task through to the end. If they were to stop now, then these men would have died for nothing.

This is futile, the god continued. You will die, like your friends have demonstrated to you. Why struggle when the end is the same? Why suffer when you could live out your last days in peace?

“This is what you have wrought.” he hissed back at the voice in his head, and the god fell silent. “I struggle to see your face twisted in horror. I fight to see you feel what suffering you have inflicted upon others. I bleed in the hopes that I will have the chance to behold your face as you die.”

His words were sharp enough, but they were also laced with a grief at the price of it all. The weariness that Atal sought was already there, although Willem fought to push it back. He had no doubt that the other soldiers felt it as well—the urge to simply lay down and let the end come. That first rest seemed so tempting, the urge to stop struggling, but he refused to let it happen. One more step, he reminded himself. One at a time, no matter how long.

In the distance, the demons suddenly let out a howl towards the sky. Willem felt an itching in his chest to join them, to let out the wild grief that stained his heart. So many dead. So many turned to dust. Yet he pushed it back, resolved to rest instead and save his strength. He would need it.

Their single wagon was a sorry affair, one of the few still in working condition after the chaos. The skal had left little untouched in the attack during the night; even if they preferred flesh, their fangs still found their way into the wood. The wheels were stolen from another cart, the sides boarded up with scraps strewn across the ground. The ropes were made from multiple shorter lengths tied together, in the hopes that they would hold. The thing creaked like an old woman as it moved, and that was without anything in it.

Once they loaded the wagon with cloths and foodstuffs, piling it high with supplies, Willem watched nervously as the entire thing seemed to sage in the middle. The poor wheels were strained beyond belief, although they somehow managed to awkwardly turn enough to move. The planks in the middle seemed ready to split at any moment, bowing down in the center with cracks already beginning to form. Yet it would have to be enough—they had neither time nor temperament to try harder.

The men were packing up their tents now, stowing away their bedrolls and readying for the march. From a distance, perhaps, it seemed like merely another day—their motions were smooth and practiced enough that it became routine. Yet there was a despondency to their expressions, an emptiness that they all wore, that could not be mistaken. These were wounded men, not merely in body, but in spirit. These were men at their limit.

Their fingers trembled as they took care of their swords, reaching for the rags and oils. They dropped their whetstones every other stroke, unable to hold them firmly in their shaking grasp. Their faces were slick with sweat only moments after washing in the basin, their feet stiff and sore no matter how long they rested. Their eyes woke from sleep bloodshot and heavy with bags, their faces pallid and without color even after finishing a meal.

These men were at the precipice of collapse. And still they chose to march on to hell.

These are the men you would ask me to leave behind, Willem thought inwardly to the god, even though there was no response. These men would fight death, staring it straight in the eye. Who would I be if I could not at least do the same?

And so the broken band went on the march once more, their strangled steps kicking up a plume of dust behind them. The air was filled with the sound of their cadence, painfully softer than before, but still firm with resolution. Their faces were solemn, their teeth gritted, their arms straight as they pressed on.

This is the legion, some part of Willem realized as he felt them suffer and press on, as he felt himself awed by their strength that he had dismissed so easily before. He had thought each man weak, had thought their flesh softer than his own. But he came to realize the strength of their bonds, and the strength of their will. That will was like a wall in the face of adversity, immovable, indomitable. It was something no beast possessed, something that made even gods wonder. And as Willem marched along with them, feeling a strange sense of pride and determination course through his veins with each heartbeat, he realized suddenly:

I am legion.