Lord Marcus Barden blinked once, then twice, as the fog that had shrouded his vision for so long finally dissipated. Memories of his true self and the faces of his beloved ones surged to the surface, breaking free from the dam that had held them and his mind captive. They flooded his entire being, igniting a renewed sense of purpose and determination.
Something must have happened to the curse. His hand drifted to his cheek only to be denied the contact by the hard metal surface of his helmet, that floated there shrouding his expression of surprise behind a sheet to steel.
As his awareness returned, he surveyed his surroundings with growing trepidation through narrow eye slits. He found himself in an unfamiliar land, a place shrouded in an ageless dust and death. The journey had been gruelling, their army marching relentlessly ignoring any discomfort or pain, their bodies bearing the scars of the costs of the unwavering journey. Their ships had landed far to the south, deep within uncharted territories devoid of signs of civilization or food. His emaciated men, roused from their magical servitude plunged into a desert of confusion, began to feel the stirrings of fear. But now was not the time to surrender to the feeling of despair.
Two thousand warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, their forms fitted in formidable steel, every inch of their bodies clad in the impenetrable armour.
Before them stood the enemy, not human, but monstrous beasts—the swine. These creatures, once dismissed as mere vermin, charged forth, brandishing crude weapons in their disfigured hands. Their battle cries echoed through the air, fuelled by a hunger and bloodlust. The swine outnumbered Lord Marcus's forces at least tenfold, their grotesque forms towering as they charged relentlessly towards the line of steel.
Surrounded on all sides, fear and confusion tightened their grip on the men, threatening to unravel their resolve. Yet, in that critical moment, Lord Marcus's years of rigorous training took over.
"Hold!" he thundered, his commanding voice cutting through the chaos.
With no other option but to trust their leader's instincts, the soldiers rallied and held their ground, their minds sharpened by a surge of adrenaline.
"Turtle formation!" Marcus bellowed, his voice carrying the weight of authority.
Without hesitation, the men sprang into action, their movements synchronised and precise. Shields, emblazoned with the royal crest dug into the earth as the corners of their formation bent inward, forming a protective oval. The soldiers in the second line raised their shields above the first, while those in the third line followed suit. In a matter of heartbeats, the gap above them sealed shut as the shields interlocked, encasing them in an impregnable steel shell.
"Spears!" Marcus barked the command, his voice resolute.
Behind the protective barrier of the turtle formation, the men positioned themselves, peering through small gaps in the shields. With swift precision, they thrust their spears through every available opening in the shield wall. The coordinated movement allowed them to strike at the encroaching swine, aiming to repel the relentless assault.
The clash was imminent as the swine collided with the shielded barrier, their disfigured hands desperately clawing and pounding against the wall. The sheer weight of their numbers pushed against the first layer of men, causing them to stagger back slightly, but they held their ground, their determination showing on their faces.
"HOLD!" Marcus bellowed, his voice carrying a mix of command and encouragement, urging his men to stand firm.
Surrounded by the chaos of battle, Marcus stood resolute within the central position of the formation. Adrenaline surged through Marcus's veins, clearing his mind and sharpening his focus. Through the narrow slits in the shields, he could see the relentless assault of the enemy from all sides. The swine clawed and clamoured, desperate to breach the defensive line. Yet, the ferocity of their own kind became their downfall, as they pushed and trampled over one another, sacrificing their brethren in a frenzy of blood and squeals.
Within the protective shell, Marcus's men fought back with staunch resolve. Their spears and swords darted through the gaps in the formation, finding vulnerable flesh and inflicting precise strikes. The air was thick with the sickly scent of blood, mingling with the metallic taste that clung to their sweat-soaked bodies. Crimson stains on the ground threatened each step, making their footing treacherous and precarious.
Amidst the chaos, Marcus's mind raced for a solution. He knew that the turtle formation could only hold for a time under the relentless load of the enemy. And then he saw it, a glimmer of hope in the distance—high ground. It offered a better vantage point, a strategic advantage that could turn the tides in their favour.
Beside Marcus stood a hundred skilled archers, their bows taut and arrows ready.
With a commanding voice, he called out the order, "Top loose! North side!"
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In an instant, the midsection of the armoured formation opened up, creating a clear path for the archers to unleash a volley of deadly projectiles towards the north. Each arrow found its mark, cutting down a swine with lethal precision. The gap swiftly closed, protecting the formation once more.
"Press north!" Marcus bellowed, urging his men forward. Despite the occasional cries of pain as the rusted weapons of the enemy found their mark through the shield gaps, the men pressed on, driven by loyalty and a sense of duty towards their comrades. Ignoring their bleeding wounds, they fought on, advancing with determination.
With every step they took, Marcus repeated the familiar command.
"Top loose! North side!"
The men carved a bloody path across the land, their shields deflecting the relentless attacks of the swine, while their pointed spears impaled the charging beasts.
Step by step, the men gained ground, their relentless push accompanied by the screams of both beast and man. The hill approached, their goal of routing the enemy and gaining control of the battlefield within reach.
"Top loose! North side!" Marcus's voice echoed, driving them onward, their unified determination unwavering.
As the archers unleashed a hail of arrows, thinning out the ranks of the swine, the men pressed forward, stepping over the lifeless bodies of the fallen beasts. They retrieved arrows from the corpses, ensuring the conservation of their limited ammunition.
A victorious cheer reverberated through the formation as they neared the crest of the hill, their position granting them a strategic advantage to decimate the remaining vermin. The trail of blood left in their wake served as a testament to their relentless determination.
However, their elation swiftly turned to despair as their eyes beheld the sight awaiting them on the other side of the hill.
The men's hearts sank as they beheld the sight before them. Each fully grown swine stood covered in crude armour, not prepared for battle but for merciless slaughter. These creatures were no mere piddly runts, but towering beasts, surpassing the height of even the King's soldiers. Their limbs were thick and sinewy, possessing an uncanny strength capable of uprooting trees with ease. The legion of swine that stretched out before them outnumbered the previous swarm they had confronted by far, rendering their previous encounter with the vermin seem trivial.
The question echoed in Marcus's mind: How was this even possible? Despite the overwhelming odds, he refused to succumb to despair. As a few of the men broke ranks and fled in terror, Marcus's commanding voice cut through the chaos.
"Hold!" he shouted.
His mind raced, searching for a way to navigate through this dire situation. His gaze fell down the hill they had just climbed. In the distance, spanning for miles to the east, flowed the mighty Forgorn River. Its wide expanse acted as a natural barrier, separating the north from the south, with the dominating presence of the Grey Forest guarding the norther edge. It became clear that reaching the river was their only chance for survival. They must use the momentum of running down the hill.
Marcus grimaced, fully aware of the gravity of the situation. He raised his voice once more.
"Formation change!" he commanded.
Hundreds of desperate eyes turned towards him, seeking clarity in their moment of peril.
"Arrowhead formation! Head towards the river!" he shouted.
With their hearts pounding in their chests, the men swiftly rearranged their formation into an arrowhead shape, pointed towards the direction of the Forgorn River.
Marcus took the lead, his armour glistening under the sun as he charged forward, his sword held firmly in his hand. The rest of the men followed suit, their steps synchronised as they formed a formidable wedge using their shields to cut through the runt-lings.
The beasts, taken aback by the sudden change in tactics, momentarily faltered, handing the men a much-needed advantage. Spears and swords clashed against the smaller beasts, their combined efforts slowly carving a path towards their salvation.
As they fought their way forward, the ground beneath their feet became a treacherous terrain of blood-soaked mud and scattered bodies. The stench of sweat and iron filled the air, mingling with the grunts and battle cries that echoed throughout the field.
The legion of swine, though larger and more formidable, found themselves at a disadvantage against the well-coordinated force of disciplined soldiers. The men's training and their unyielding resolve fuelled their every strike, their weapons finding their mark with deadly accuracy.
Step by step, they advanced, inching closer to the river that shimmered like a beacon of hope in the distance. Marcus's eyes never wavered from their goal as he encouraged his men, his voice a steady source of motivation amidst the cries of pain and death.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they reached the river's edge. The sound of rushing water provided a momentary respite, a soothing melody that contrasted with the violent clash of steel behind them.
Far behind them, the monstrous horde of armoured swine emerged over the hill, their bloodlust apparent in their beady eyes. They surveyed the scene, sizing up their prey and deciding whether the men were within their grasp. A collective growl emanated from their throats, sending shivers down the spines of Marcus and his soldiers.
With one final push, the men stripped off their helmets and armour and plunged into the Forgorn River, the cold water embracing them like a protective Icey barrier. They waded through the waist-deep current, their fatigue momentarily forgotten in their determination to reach the other side.
As they emerged from the river, gasping for breath, a sense of relief washed over them. They had made it. The swine's menacing presence remained on the opposite bank, unable to follow them across the formidable barrier.
After a moment, the men took a minute to catch their breath and assess their surroundings. The Grey forest stood before them, its towering trees and dense foliage providing a sense of sanctuary. The air was thick with the scent of earth and moss and something unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the stench of blood and sweat that still clung to skin on their forearms.
Marcus scanned the faces of his soldiers, their weary expressions mixed with a glimmer of hope. He knew they had bought themselves a respite, a brief reprieve from the relentless onslaught of the swine horde. But they couldn't afford to linger for long.
"Take a moment to rest, brothers," Marcus commanded, his voice filled with a mix of authority and compassion. "But don't let your guard down. We must continue moving deeper into the forest."