Thump. Thump. Thump. The rhythmic sound of marching boots reverberated across the frozen expanse, a thunderous heartbeat of war that echoed for miles. Thousands of soldiers advanced as one, their formation a relentless tide of steel and resolve. The frosty air trembled with their collective determination, and the dim sun cast weak rays over their battle ready forms.
Their armor, forged from Frostbane's legendary alloy, was a dull, ashen gray—a stark contrast to the shining steel of lesser warriors. The purer the alloy, the darker the hue, and among the ranks marched veterans clad in nearly black plate, a testament to their ability to wield their clan's ancestral power. The armor didn’t gleam; instead, it absorbed the weak sunlight, giving the soldiers an ominous presence, like walking shadows upon the snow.
"Forward, men!" bellowed a commander, his voice cutting through the cold like a battle horn. A colossal column of warriors surged behind him, their eyes fixed on the horizon, where destiny awaited. The ground beneath them, once pristine and white, churned into a murky blend of snow and earth under the weight of 30,000 unyielding souls.
"Halt, men!" came the sharp command, and the army stopped in perfect unison, their discipline a testament to Frostbane's storied legacy. As the order rang out, the soldiers spread out in seamless lines, shields locking together like the teeth of a monstrous jaw, their swords bristling like a porcupine's quills. Shoulder to shoulder, ten thousand Frostbane warriors stood ready, their breaths visible in the freezing air, each exhale a promise of death.
On each flank,a ten-thousand-strong company maneuvered into defensive positions, their presence a fortress of steel guarding against encirclement. These warriors did not fear traps or overwhelming odds. No, they welcomed the challenge. Frostbane blood coursed through their veins, and with it came the cold fury of ancestors who had carved their name into history through sheer ferocity.
Across the field, in the outskirts of the devastated capital, stood an army of seventy thousand men. Most wore light armor, a stark contrast to the legendary heavy infantry for which the Frostbanes were renowned.
James, clad in his near-black plate of Frostbane armor, rode to the front of his warriors. The biting wind carried his voice as he spoke, his words a rallying cry that ignited the fire in every soldier's heart.
"Men! Brothers of Frostbane! Today marks the dawn of a new era—the first battle in a war that will see our clan rise from the ashes! We will reclaim not only our stolen lands but extend our banners far beyond them!
Look at them—seventy thousand strong, but do not be deceived by their numbers. What do they bring to this field? Farmers turned soldiers, men who have never truly tasted war. Their spirits are brittle, like frost beneath our boots. They may outnumber us, but they are weak! They cower behind their mages, hoping that spells will shield their frailty.
And what of their mages and mana warriors? A paltry third of their force! They think such feeble magic can stand against Frostbane steel and Frostbane fury? Fools! Their spells will shatter like glass against our blades, and their bodies will break upon the snow. They do not know war as we do. War runs through our veins! It is the blood of our ancestors, the strength of our legacy, and the frost we command that no fire can melt!
Today, we will carve a path through their ranks as if the gods themselves guide our blades! The empire’s capital will drown in their blood, and their banners will burn as symbols of our triumph! This is not just a battle—it is justice. It is vengeance. It is Frostbane’s rebirth!
Stand tall, men of Frostbane! Stand united! The cold is ours, as is this day! Together, we will write our names in the annals of history, not as an army, but as legends! Let no man here falter. Let no enemy leave this field alive. Today, the frozen air itself fights for us. This day belongs to Frostbane!"
James raised his sword high, the dark blade glinting faintly in the weak sunlight, absorbing its light like a harbinger of doom. A resounding roar erupted from the Frostbane warriors, their voices blending into a deafening battle cry that shook the frozen earth beneath their feet.
The battlemaster of each company stepped forward, their voices sharp and full of fire, rallying their men with words that matched the steel of their blades. Each speech was a testament to their unwavering loyalty to the Frostbane clan, and the warriors responded with resounding roars, their resolve solidified in the cold air. The Battlemaster’s commands were sharp and precise, ensuring that the warwardens knew their roles to the letter. With the orders given, the three companies moved into their designated positions, each one a cog in the unyielding machine of Frostbane's war effort.
On horseback rode James, flanked by Sanders and Lunic, the Battlemaster of Company 2. Lunic, a towering figure clad in dark armor, surveyed the battlefield with cold, calculating eyes.
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"Sire," Lunic began, his voice low but fierce, "While the fourth and sixth companies will support our rear against encirclement, there’s still a lot of open ground between us. Enough for cavalry to maneuver if we’re not careful."
James nodded, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his helmet. "Indeed. Which is why the men will freeze the land, creating spikes of ice. Any foolish rider who isn’t careful will impale themselves. But I don’t expect them to have a strong cavalry force here."
Sanders spoke up, his voice steady, but laced with the grim certainty of experience. "And what of their mages? Their mana warriors will likely target Company 2, where we are most vulnerable."
Lunic’s grip tightened on his reins. "We’ve trained for this. The warwardens will hold their magic at bay with our frost and shields. But I’ll keep my eyes open. If they try anything—"
"They won’t get the chance," James interjected, his voice cold with resolve. "We’ll make sure their spells don’t touch us. They’ll likely remain hidden until they have a sizable force in front of them. That will be our cue to begin a mock retreat toward Butcher Hill, waiting for Venmoth to enact his part."
With their plan set, the men felt the weight of their commanders' words. The strategy unfolded like a well-practiced dance of death. The timing would be crucial, and their discipline would decide the outcome. Every move would need to be executed flawlessly.
"Forward, march, men!" James commanded, his voice a steady force that cut through the chill wind. The ground trembled beneath the thundering sound of marching feet, a synchronized rumble that shook the very earth. The Frostbane warriors surged forward, their formation unyielding, like a tidal wave ready to crash upon their enemies.
James and his companions, Sanders and Lunic, stood atop a small hill, surveying the battlefield below where Company 2 had come to a halt, only a hundred meters away from the enemy. The wind whipped across the field, carrying the tension of the coming clash in its chill. From the back lines, the men of Company 2 began to advance.
"Glacierborne, aim your bows!" shouted the Centurions in charge of the Glacierborne Archers cohort. At their command, the archers raised their weapons. As they pulled their bows back, the already cold air seemed to grow even colder, the temperature dipping as the power within the bows swirled, drawn from the Frostborne warriors’ connection to the ice.
The arrows were more than just projectiles—they were infused with the energy of the cold, each one crackling with frost that seemed to freeze the very air around them. The archers struggled to hold their weapons steady as the cold grew more intense, their bodies fighting against the pressure of the magic they channeled. Each arrow, alive with frosty power, begged to be released, its cold hunger almost unbearable.
Then came the command: "Loose!" The Centurions shouted as one, and with it, a thousand arrows flew into the air, their heads sharp and deadly, streaking across the battlefield. The sound of the whistling arrows cut through the wind, a high-pitched chorus of death as they hurtled toward the enemy.
In response, flaming arrows arced into the air from the opposite side of the battlefield. The two forces sent their missiles flying toward one another—one ice, the other fire—answering each other’s call. "Brace yourselves, men!" came the urgent shout from the Centurions, and the Frostbane warriors raised their shields to block the incoming barrage.
James stood in the distance, watching the scene unfold. The fire-laden arrows crashed into the shield walls of his soldiers, some finding their marks, slipping through gaps in the shields and armor. When they hit flesh, the weaker of his men were set alight, their screams lost in the chaos of the battlefield. But most of the arrows bounced harmlessly off the shields, their flames sputtering out upon impact.
However, it was the Windstride clan that suffered most. Their shields faltered, and the screams of their soldiers echoed across the field, reaching even James atop the hill. The ice arrows had found their targets within the ranks of the windstride, and already their lines were beginning to break. The second volley of flaming arrows was weaker than the first, and the sight only proved what James had suspected—the Windstride clan had grown weaker with time.
"The Windstride clan has grown weak in the time of peace the Emperor provided them," Sanders remarked grimly, his voice carrying the weight of years of battle.
Lunic, his eyes sharp and cold, nodded. "Indeed. They are not the force they once were a hundred years ago. This will be over soon."
The arrows from both sides continued to rain down, but it was clear the balance was shifting. The Glacierborne archers, though fewer in number, had inflicted greater damage, their cold-infused arrows proving more effective than the flaming ones. As the Windstride forces began to waver, the Frostbane lines remained steady, their resolve unbroken.
As the Glacierborne Archers released their final volley, the sound of a thousand arrows cutting through the air faded, and they quickly withdrew behind the ranks of the Frostguard legions. Their job was done for now, and the infantry would handle the melee. Yet, the archers remained on alert, ready to enter the fray should the need arise.
"Shield wall!" bellowed the centurions, their voices cutting through the wind.
"Forward, march!" they commanded in unison.
As one, the Frostguard legionaries advanced, their shields locked together in a solid, impenetrable wall. The ground beneath them seemed to tremble with the synchronized rhythm of their march. Despite the diminishing enemy fire, arrows still rained down, though fewer now, each one hissing through the frigid air before clattering harmlessly against the shield wall. The warriors pressed on, resolute and unwavering, their formation unbroken as they closed the gap with their enemy.