In Lancelot's head, the act of war must have been glorified as he rushed through this dirty battlefield where rotten blood, putrid flesh and guts were flying around, his blades tearing enemies into cloudy black paste while chasing down the Wraith Lord in the sky.
While protecting the wall was easy enough, and defending the western walls was easy.
As soon as the battle turned towards offence, everything changed drastically.
The troops were locked in a brutal and unforgiving melee where, despite crushing the undead, they would slowly amass wounds that increased with every few battles as the seemingly infinite undead assaulted them.
"Damn coward!" Lancelot's body spiralled through the sky, his body like a spinning top, with both blades tearing the necks of more than a dozen zombies as, once again, the Wraith Lord's body turned ethereal and flew away from combat.