But groups made bigger targets. Drew more desperate assaults from those who had nothing left to lose.
A cluster of six mercenaries held formation, backs together, weapons out, defending their position against waves of attackers. They dropped three. Five. Eight. Ten. Their coordination was impressive, their skill undeniable.
Then someone grabbed a fallen torch from the dome's edge where braziers had been placed for light. Hurled it into their midst.
Fire caught on blood-soaked clothing. Spreading faster than they could react. The formation broke as men dropped weapons to beat at flames, and that moment of distraction was all it took.
The group fell one by one, their coordination meaningless once the formation shattered.
Seven thousand became six thousand.
Marcus stirred slightly, some animal instinct pushing through the fugue that had claimed his mind. His legs shifted. His hands twitched.
