He surveyed the carnage before him, impressed by what a small stick could do. Behind him, thrall kept coming. It seemed that the Hive wanted either him or his friends very badly. Using his stick, he fought back, taking ground inch by inch, slaughtering every thrall that came within his reach. Within hours he had retaken the pass that had taken two days to lose. Behind him, hundreds of thrall littered the ground, destroyed almost beyond recognition. Yet more still kept coming. He was mildly impressed by their determination, even if it was misplaced. He continued his slaughter, killing every thrall within reach. But he was tiring. Every stroke took more effort, and every thrall came a little bit closer. Soon, his clothes were little more than rags, and he was torn and bleeding everywhere. Then all of a sudden, the thrall backed off. Puzzled, he studied them as they stood outside of his reach, like wolves on a chain. Suddenly, he felt something approaching behind him. The last thing he saw was the evil grin of the knight before everything went black.