Not a camp. An outpost. A forward operating base. The kind that the human nations maintained along the border to monitor demon activity. The outpost was called Watcher's Hill. It had been built three hundred years ago. The walls were stone. The towers were wood. The garrison was two hundred knights.
The garrison was dying.
The demons hit at dawn.
Not a patrol. Not a raiding party. An army. A horde. A wave of bodies that came out of the red sky like a flood. The first wave was the fodder. The low demons. The small ones. The ones with red skin and black eyes and teeth like needles. They came in thousands. Not organized. Not disciplined. Just a mass. A wall of flesh and teeth and claws that hit the walls of Watcher's Hill and climbed.
The knights fought.
