The hallway was hot.
Beads of sweat dripped from Gareth's face and dropped to the ground. His breathing was slow and steady. With each breath he took, he could feel his broken ribs just grazing his lungs.
The three fighters were in rough shape, some worse than others.
Mark, with the least injuries, had a wound on his shoulder, with little drops of blood dripping from it to the ground. One of the sickles had scraped against it, drawing blood.
Now, as he stood beside Gareth, his right arm was held lower than his left.
Bjorn and his shield were battered. The shield had it all—scratches, burn marks, and even pieces of metal missing.
Still, the friendly giant looked at home with his weapon.
He hurried to the two knights and stood with them, their eyes all locked on their next opponent.
Together, they all felt it.
The heat in the room disappeared as a cold chill spread.
The shadows cast by the Arrowhead all moved at once, writhing back and forth. And the shadows that surrounded the vampire grew deeper and larger.
Suddenly, its once indistinct features grew sharp. Its pale skin grew paler, his dark eyes got darker, and his dark hair stood out from the darkness.
The vampire spoke.
"Now I see how you were able to make it all the way here, vile creatures," it said. Its voice sounded so deep and bold.
"You have done well," it said, "but the floor on which you stand will be your grave, for I, Cavalo, will not let any pass."
Then the shadows surrounding the vampire, now large, exploded forward.
They shot off the wall and towards the knights.
Gareth screamed for his men to run back, the shadows pursued, some becoming tentacle-like apparitions that attacked as they retreated.
Mark and Gareth cut and slashed, while Bjorn hit away and defended the two from threatening attacks. But the shadows were not stopping. With each one they cut down, another shadow would replace it.
They could no longer run—only defend. Their already drained bodies pushed on; cold sweat ran down their faces, wounds pulsed with pain, muscles throbbed, and exhaustion levels were reaching new heights.
Gareth felt it in his heart, like a silent whisper: "We can't win." He tried to push the thought back down, into the depths of his mind, but with each slashed shadow that was replaced, the words of doubt grew louder, pounding at his already exhausted mind.
His eyes caught a glimpse of the Arrowhead. It hovered in the air, motionless but ever pointing forward as if saying to the knights, "Just there, just beyond this door, he's there."
Gareth gritted his teeth and shoved the thoughts away. A battle cry escaped his mouth. "Forward!!" he cried.
Cavalo, the vampire, chuckled.
Then, all at once, all the shadows stopped attacking and came together, forming a huge wave of darkness.
The darkness moved forward, catching them by surprise. It smashed into the party, throwing Gareth and Bjorn backward. The two landed on their backs, the wind knocked out of them.
But for Mark, a cruel fate awaited him.
The shadows had wrapped around him like ropes, attaching themselves to the wall. They pulled at his arms and legs.
They didn't stop pulling.
Gareth and Bjorn hurried to get up, but coupled with the exhaustion and having been knocked down, they were too slow. Even when they managed to get to their feet, the shadows retaliated, holding them back.
Mark held his scream, his pride as a holy knight and his disdain for the unholy creatures did not let him.
He bit his tongue just to show his resolve and give the vampire no glory. But as muscles began to stretch well beyond their limit and tendons began to snap, the scream came.
The sound of his voice bounced across the room, soon becoming a wet gargle as he began to choke on his bleeding tongue.
Snap!
The sounds of bones breaking followed, and then blood flowed like a river, falling to the ground.
Mark was dead.
The shadows retreated back to the vampire, dropping Mark's limbs and his torso to the floor.
Gareth and Bjorn stood there, confused and frozen in horror.
It was just too much—their deaths, too cruel.
First it was Michael, his skull pierced; then Daven, ripped to shreds and feasted on; and now it was Mark. The unkillable Mark.
He was dead.
Gareth's eyes lay on his mutilated corpse. His once-proud comrade now lay on the floor, in a pool of blood with his body scattered. The sight burned into his mind like a fresh wound.
He felt his head spin. It was as though the air in the room had become heavy, pressing against him from all sides. With each breath he took, he felt something press against his chest, at last suffocating him.
His knees buckled, and his armor grew heavy as stone, weighing him down.
As the knight fell, his once-firm grip on his sharp sword, which he had used to slay many undead, began to loosen.
It was over. They had failed.
A loud sound shook Gareth from his trance. He raised his head to see Bjorn charge forward, only to retreat as soon as a shadow attacked.
The shadow did not follow Bjorn all the way; instead, it stopped a few centimeters away from him and Gareth.
Bjorn marked the distance with his eyes, nodded, and repeated his actions again. After a few tries, he called to Gareth, "Get up, it seems our almighty enemy is not without a weakness."