The numbers told a harsh truth—Aswald's forces were grievously outnumbered. The hordes of Grimwold seemed endless, stretching across the valley floor like a dark tide threatening to engulf them all. Yet in the eyes of every warrior gathered on that windswept hill, there burned not despair but fierce resolve. These weren't merely soldiers who had trained together—they had shared meals over campfires, tended each other's wounds, and carried their fallen brothers from previous battles. They would not abandon their comrades now, even if victory seemed as distant as dreams.
Hugo drew his mace, his shield settling naturally against his forearm as steel rang clear in the morning air. "Well," he said, managing a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "shall we join this dance of fools?" Despite the gallows humor in his voice, there was no mistaking the iron determination beneath.
A roar went up from the assembled warriors—not the desperate cry of the condemned, but the defiant challenge of veterans who had stared death in the face before. Even Bran and Osric, the youngest among them, found their voices rising with their brothers-in-arms.
"Flying wedge!" Hugo's command cut through the war cries, sharp and precise as a blade.
What followed was nothing short of military artistry. With fluid efficiency born of countless drills and bloody experience, the soldiers flowed into formation like mercury seeking its natural shape. The wedge took form—an arrowhead of steel and determination ready to pierce whatever formation their enemy might present.
At the formation's apex, seasoned veterans locked their shields with practiced precision, creating an unbroken wall of steel. Behind them, subsequent ranks filled in with orchestrated grace, each warrior knowing their exact position by instinct. Swords cleared scabbards in perfect unison, the sound like a single breath of steel in the morning air. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation—each action was economical, refined by years of drilling until it became as natural as breathing.
Bran watched from his position in the rear, his breath catching in his throat. He had seen formations assembled before, but never like this. This wasn't the mechanical precision of parade ground practice—this was the fluid grace of true veterans at work. In their stance, in the way they held their shields, in the steady rhythm of their breathing, he could see why they were feared and had survived countless battles before. These weren't just soldiers following orders; they were warriors preparing to write another chapter in Ironspire’s history, even if it proved to be their last.
A chill wind swept across the hill, carrying with it the distant sound of Grimwold's war cry. The wedge held steady, unmoved as stone. They were ready. They were together. And if this was to be their final battle, they would make it one worthy of remembrance.
"Forward!" Hugo's command thundered across the ranks, his voice carrying the weight of authority earned through countless battles. As one entity, the formation began to move, each warrior stepping in perfect synchronization with their brothers. Their boots struck the earth in a steady rhythm that seemed to answer Grimwold's distant shouts with its own defiant heartbeat.
The ground beneath their feet thrummed with the combined weight of their disciplined march and the enemy's war cries, like the pulse of the earth itself quickening in anticipation of the clash to come.
The wedge advanced with the inexorable might of a glacier—not rushing headlong into battle like recruits, but moving with the measured patience of veterans. Shields remained locked tight, the formation maintaining its cohesion. From above, they might have appeared as a single organism—their every movement calculated and sure.
Aswald's forces crossed the waters and advanced onto the open plain. They halted several hundred meters from the moat, smoothly transforming their formation into a formidable spear wall. The line stretched across the battlefield like a steel-thorned vine, three ranks deep—each warrior with shield braced and spear leveled, creating an unbroken barrier of wood and iron that gleamed dully in the morning light.
Behind the spear wall, two lines of archers stood ready, their quivers full and bowstrings taut. These weren't common levy troops but veteran bowmen, their weathered hands steady on arrows nocked and ready to unleash death upon command.
But it was at the flanks where the formation truly became fearsome. On each end of the spear wall waited an elite cadre of warriors, their arrangement deliberately loose and predatory. Unlike their shield-bearing brothers, these soldiers carried an arsenal of deadly combinations—twin swords that caught the light like serpents' fangs, matched axes promising swift brutality, or sword and mace pairs that spoke of both precision and crushing force. Aswald himself stood among the left flank, his presence marking these warriors as something special.
The contrast was striking—the stoic discipline of the center ranks against the barely contained bloodlust of the flanks. Yet all of them, from the spearmen to these intimidating elite soldiers, shared that same stillness of a veteran as they waited for battle. They were a weapon fully drawn, waiting only for the moment to strike.
"Seems Aswald's not a total idiot after all," Hugo commented with a grim chuckle that held no mirth.
Osric studied the soldier's formation. "He's forcing them to come to them," he said, glancing at his captain. "Every step the horde takes across that plain will drain their strength. By the time they reach their spears, their charge will have lost its energy. Meeting well-rested defenders will be a disaster."
"Yes, you’re right," Hugo nodded, though his weathered features remained grave. "But against these numbers..." His voice trailed off as he watched the enemy host continue to pour forth from Grimwold's shadow like black ants from a disturbed nest. The endless stream of warriors stretched back beyond where the eye could see, each new wave making their own force seem more grave and desperate.
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What had first appeared to be merely poor odds was revealing itself to be something far worse. Ten-to-one would have been daunting enough, but as more enemy forces emerged, even that grim estimate began to seem optimistic. This wasn't just an army they faced—it was a tide of flesh and savagery, threatening to drown them through sheer weight of numbers.
Hugo ran a calloused hand across his face, the gesture betraying a weariness that went bone-deep. They were the only reinforcements coming—no other help would arrive. He could already see this as an impossible task. Yet when he looked at his soldiers, he saw the same iron resolve he felt in his own heart. They were warriors of Ironspire, sworn to its defense. If death was certain, then they would make their ending worthy of a song.
"Well," Hugo said finally, his voice carrying the weight of command that had led men through countless battles, "let's make sure we give them something to remember us by."
The pursued riders finally reached their main forces, having suffered only minimal losses during the desperate chase. They veered sharply to the left at the column's end, their lathered horses exhausted as they pulled up beside their fellow soldiers. A cheer erupted from the ranks—led by Aswald himself—and spread through the soldiers like fire, their jubilant howls echoing across the battlefield.
Hugo watched the display with disgust, his weathered face darkening like clouds. "These idiots," he spat, the words bitter as bile. "What in the world are they celebrating? Their own funeral?" He could only grit his teeth in frustration. "I knew Aswald was a poor influence on discipline, but I never imagined he'd corrupt their sense this quickly in my absence."
Despite his frustration, Hugo maintained their measured approach. Their position at the rear of the battlefield was a mixed blessing—while it meant they would arrive after the initial clash, it also provided them with safer passage for his troops. They would serve as reinforcement for the battle to come.
The enemy horde spilled across the battlefield like a nightmare given flesh. Wildermen towered over their smaller allies, their lean and muscular frames decorated with crude war paint and trophy bones. Among them the hobgoblins, their yellow eyes gleaming with cruel intelligence, alongside their more numerous but dimmer cousins, the goblins, who ran behind like excited vermin.
Weaving through the horde were the skullsnaps—beasts that haunted children's sleep. Each was the size of a large fox, but there any comparison to normal animals ended. Their oversized heads were nature's cruel joke, more skull than flesh, housing jaws that could splinter a warrior's bones through plate armor. Bristling fur covered their bodies, while rows of bony plates ridge their spines like primitive armor. Unlike the night tooths, these terrors needed no darkness to hunt—only the promise of violence drove them forward. The beasts snapped and snarled, barely controlled by their masters, as likely to turn on their handlers as the enemy.
The entire mass moved like some drunken serpent. There was no formation to speak of, no strategy beyond pure beastial momentum. Different groups surged forward at different speeds, creating waves in the horde that rippled and broke against each other. Some rushed ahead eagerly while others lagged behind, transforming what should have been an organized advance into a chaotic stampede.
"Are they truly just... charging blindly?" Bran asked, his voice caught between disbelief and hope. Even as a novice warrior, he could see the tactical folly. "They'll be walking right into our spears and arrows."
Hugo's weathered face cracked into a grim smile. "Some things never change," he said, finding a sliver of dark humor in their desperate situation. "Their numbers may have grown tenfold, but their wits haven't grown at all. Still the same savage rabble, just more of them."
"A fool's strategy is still dangerous when backed by those numbers," Osric countered, his eyes tracking the endless waves of enemies. His voice carried their grim reality. "We could kill ten each and still be overwhelmed. They'll feed their dead into our spears until we're too exhausted to lift them." He paused, letting the cruel truth settle. "Our defeat isn't a question of if, but when—and how we'll make them pay for it."
"You're right—we'll make them pay a king's ransom in blood, since our death is certain anyway." Something shifted in Hugo's mind, though the truth had always been there. Suddenly, he burst into wild laughter, the sound carrying an edge of freedom. If death was assured, then all that remained was to embrace the slaughter. "You heard that, lads! Let's drag these b*stards into the abyss with us!"
The soldiers responded with their own fierce cheers, grins replacing their earlier grim expressions. Gone was the anxious trepidation that had haunted their advance. In its place bloomed a terrible excitement—the frenzied joy of men who had made peace with their fate and chosen to meet it with steel and fury.
Ahead, the battle erupted like a storm breaking. The archers worked with mechanical precision, a deadly routine they'd practiced countless times. The first rank lost their arrows in a deadly arc, then stepped back to knock fresh shafts as the second rank advanced. Arrows sliced through the air in an endless rhythm, each volley finding flesh among the rushing horde. Bodies fell like wheat before a scythe, yet still they came.
The spear wall met the enemy charge with brutal efficiency. The first wave of attackers impaled themselves on the forest of steel, their momentum carrying them deeper into the blades. Bodies piled up before the line, creating a grotesque rampart of the dead and dying. Yet the horde pressed on, using their fallen as gruesome stepping stones, climbing over their own dead to reach the defenders.
As the enemy threatened to breach the first rank, the spear wall's true genius revealed itself. The front rank withdrew in perfect order, falling back to recover while the second rank's spears filled the gap and held their ground. When the second rank began to tire and their enemies came closer, they withdrew back as the third rank held their ground with spear in hand, fresh arms driving steel into flesh. It was a deadly clockwork of rotation—each rank cycling with slow retreat, attack, and rest, maintaining their lethal efficiency even as exhaustion began to creep in.
The wildermen and hobgoblins that managed to survive these spikes of steel met an equally brutal welcome. Shields crashed forward in perfect unison, a wave of wood and iron that sent attackers stumbling backward into their own ranks. Those who kept their feet found swords waiting in the gaps between shields, each thrust precise and economical, every stroke finding its mark.
It was a masterwork of military discipline against pure savagery—yet even as they held, even as they killed, the defenders could see the endless waves still coming. They were an island of order in a rising tide of chaos, and though they made each life dearly bought, the tide showed no sign of ebbing.