The pursuit was not orderly. It was not measured. It was savage, blood-mad fury loosed from a chain held too tight for too long.
Through defeat, they came achieving now victory, pouring over the mud-slicked field like a dam had broken inside each of them.
Gone was the restraint of formation, the discipline of the shield wall. Now there was only the thirst for blood they were owed. Their war-cries ripped through the air like blades, echoing in double the tongue.
They ran, spears lowered, blades bared, teeth gritted so hard some cracked. They were men no longer. They were fury made flesh.
The Duskwindai scattered before them, desperate feet slipping in the slurry of blood and churned-up earth. Some dropped their weapons, hands raised in vain surrender.
The Yarzat gave no quarter.
