The battlefield had become a slaughterhouse, yet the horde showed no sign of slowing. Bodies carpeted the ground like autumn leaves, but the tide of enemies continued to pour forth, tumultuous and raging. The wildermen and hobgoblins seemed to draw perverse strength from their allies' deaths, their laughter and howls rising above the din of battle as they hurled themselves at the unbreached wall of steel. Their eyes blazed with battle-madness, pupils blown wide with bloodlust—no longer thinking creatures but beasts drunk on violence, finding ecstasy even in their own destruction.

Yet even beasts can learn. In the midst of the mindless carnage, one wilderman finally checked his charge. Instead of rushing to his death, he drew back his arm and hurled his javelin with devastating force. The simple act sparked a revelation among the horde. Like a fire catching dry timber, the tactic spread—first one, then ten, then hundreds following suit. The rush of close combat transformed into a storm of thrown weapons, until the air itself seemed thick with flying steel and wood.

"Gods above," Osric breathed, his eyes widening as he watched the dark tide of javelins blot out the sky. "Captain, if those javelins hit—"

But his words died in his throat as the impossible occurred. The shields of the defending soldiers suddenly blazed with brilliant light, runes flaring to life in complex patterns. The javelins struck an invisible barrier and dropped harmlessly to the ground, as if they'd hit a wall of solid air.

"Well, it seems my concern was unnecessary." Osric let out a sharp laugh of relief, though his eyes remained hard.

"Well, don't be too sure about that," Hugo cautioned, his expression neutral though concern flickered in his battle-hardened eyes. "Throw enough steel at those runes, and eventually the formation will crack. Everything has its breaking point."

The wildermen and hobgoblins seemed to know this too, hurling javelin after javelin with renewed vigor. Each impact against the magical barrier sent ripples of light across the rune formations, like stones disturbing a pond's surface. The defending archers returned fire with deadly precision, their arrows finding marks among the enemy ranks with great accuracy. Bodies fell like harvested grain, yet for each enemy that dropped, three more emerged from the seething mass behind, arms already cocked back with fresh javelins.

The goblins' fate proved even grimmer. Caught between the defenders' steel and their larger cousins' cruelty, they faced a horrific choice that was no choice at all. The hobgoblins drove them forward with absolute fear, promising torments that would make a quick death on spears seem merciful. Terror of their allies proved stronger than fear of the defenders' weapons, and so they ran—stumbling, scrambling, sometimes crawling over their own dead—toward the spear wall.

It was a slaughter born of desperation. The goblins died in waves, impaling themselves on the forest of spears. Those few who somehow slipped past met swift ends against shields wielded like clubs or swords that struck true. Their screams carried notes of despair and the unfairness of it all.

The battlefield's tempo changed violently when the skullsnaps joined the fray. These beasts, though only the size of large foxes, moved like no other across the blood-soaked ground. Where other attackers found only death on the spear, the skullsnaps displayed an uncanny agility. They weaved between the forest of steel, their movements precise and predatory, before launching themselves at the shield wall with devastating force.

Their massive, bone-reinforced heads struck like siege hammers against the defenders' shields. The impact alone sent several soldiers staggering backward, their boots losing purchase on blood soak ground. Those who fell became prey. The beasts' oversized jaws dragged these unfortunate few. Screams of agony pierced the battlefield's din as the skullsnaps began their feast, their savagery a full display for everyone to see.

"Damn," Osric's face tightened as he watched the brutal spectacle unfold. "Those damnable hounds have torn holes in the line. If more break through—"

"The deaths are unfortunate," Hugo cut in, his voice carrying the weight of experience rather than alarm. "But don't waste your worry on them. These aren't green recruits panicking at the sight of blood. Watch."

True to Hugo's words, the veterans responded with mechanical precision born from countless battles. Where lesser soldiers might have broken ranks in panic, these warriors processed the crisis with cold resolve. Those still standing locked their shields tighter, closing gaps before they could form. Soldiers from the second rank stepped forward in perfect coordination, their movements precise despite the chaos around them. Steel flashed in disciplined arcs—no wild swings of panic, but economical strikes that found their marks with deadly accuracy.

The skullsnaps that had breached the line found their advantage short-lived. Veteran warriors, even those knocked down, fought with practiced brutality. Some used their shields as impromptu weapons, smashing the beasts' flanks while their comrades' swords sought vulnerable spots behind the armored skulls. Others sacrificed their own armor, deliberately letting the beasts latch onto reinforced gauntlets or pauldrons, creating openings for killing blows from their brothers-in-arms.

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Where gaps appeared in the line, they sealed almost instantly, like a living organism healing its wounds. Their machine-like response spoke of countless drills and experience—each warrior knowing instinctively how to support their comrades without need for orders or explanation. The skullsnaps had drawn blood, but they had failed to achieve what their masters had hoped for: panic and disorder in the defenders' ranks.

Bran stood transfixed, stunned by the discipline of the veteran soldiers before him. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Even in their final moments, the fallen warriors fought with their dying breath, their unwavering courage awakening something profound in his young heart.

"I can't believe it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Our soldiers... they're truly extraordinary."

Hugo smiled at the boy's bewildered amazement, a familiar pride swelling in his chest. Though it pained him to see his comrades fall, their deaths showcased the true might of Ironspire's military. There were worse ways to die, he thought, than fighting for what you believed in—for their family and for their land. If death came for him today, he hoped to meet it with the same valor his brothers had shown.

"You should be proud, boy," Hugo said, his weathered face bearing a fierce grin. "Ironspire's military stands among the finest in the kingdom. We may not be the richest, the largest, or even the most gifted, but we possess something far more valuable–experience and courage that cannot be bought. Take pride in us, the soldiers of Ironspire, who guard the barony at the edges of civilization, where few dare to venture."

Bran nodded solemnly, the captain's words etching themselves into his mind and heart. In that moment, watching the battle unfold before him, he understood what it truly meant to be a soldier of Ironspire.

"Look," Osric said, his voice taut with anticipation as he pointed to the battle ahead. "Aswald is joining the fight."

True to Osric's words, the elite warrior bands stationed at each flank of the column suddenly erupted into action. Unlike their disciplined brothers holding the center line, these veterans were creatures of chaos. They burst from their positions with blood-curdling war cries that sent chills through friend and foe alike.

These were not the methodical soldiers who met the horde head-on in the middle. No, these were Aswald's chosen killers—veterans, one and all, who became artists of slaughter. Each warrior wielded twin weapons with deadly grace: paired swords that sang through the air, double-headed axes that split enemies like ripe fruit, or the devastating combination of sword and mace that caved armor into ruin.

They moved like a storm of blades through the enemy ranks. Their laughter—wild and terrible—rang across the battlefield as they carved bloody channels through the surprised javelin throwers. Wildermen and hobgoblins, who had been so focused on pelting the main line with their missiles, found themselves caught in a nightmare. Their confidence crumbled as the elite warriors tore into their flanks, leaving only carnage in their wake.

The goblins and skullsnaps found themselves in confusion, their relentless attacks on the front line forgotten in the face of this new terror. Where once they had a clear target in the shield wall, now they faced a whirlwind of steel that appeared everywhere at once. Blood sprayed and bodies fell as these killers danced their deadly dance, their twin weapons never ceasing their brutal work.

Chaos reigned supreme as these elite warriors carved deeper into enemy lines. They fought not as a unified formation but as individual dealers of death, each one a tempest of destruction. Their reputation was well-earned–these were men who had made war their art and killing their meditation. The battleground became their canvas, painted in broad strokes of red as they pursued their deadly craft with almost religious fervor.

And there, amidst the carnage, stood Aswald himself. Whatever jests were made of his name, none could deny the lethal artistry of his skill. He moved through the battlefield like death incarnate, each motion a perfect combination of brutality and grace. He was an artist of death and a conductor of discord. His axe sang its deadly song, cleaving through a wilderman with alacrity before finding its mark in a hobgoblin's skull. Sometimes his blade would claim two or three lives in a single, fluid arc, as if he were conducting a symphony of lethality and despair.

Even among these hardened killers, Aswald shone with an undeniable brilliance. His reputation as a drunkard and fool vanished in battle, replaced by something far more horrifying–a master of death whose very presence made even the savage horde pause. His blade was poetry written in blood, each strike a verse of violence so precise and brutal it bordered on the surreal.

"Damn," Osric breathed, nearly losing his footing as he stared at Aswald's deadly dance. "The rumors I've heard... they didn't do him justice. This can't be the same man who passes out in taverns and tells bad jokes all the time."

Hugo let out a knowing chuckle. "Ah, you're seeing Aswald fight for the first time. The man might be useless at everything else–politics, paperwork, staying sober–but put him on a battlefield..." He paused, watching as Aswald's axe claimed another life in a whirlwind of steel. "Well, in the art of war, he's among the best. Though, I'm still better." He winked at Osric, his confident laugh cutting through the battle's tumultuous roar.

The two groups of elite warriors continued their gruesome work, turning the battlefield into a canvas of carnage. Their violence was almost beautiful in its brutality, the screams of the dying creating a haunting chorus that set every warrior's blood aflame. The verdant grass disappeared beneath a growing carpet of crimson, as if nature itself was being rewritten by their savage artistry.

Even the wildermen and hobgoblins, creatures who had never known fear, felt something new take root from within. The seed of despair had taken root in their hearts, slowly growing to bloom into dread. These human warriors fought with a savagery that made even monsters pause, their devastating impact felt across the entire battlefield.

Yet, for all their skill and fury, they were but few in a sea of enemies. Their prowess was magnificent, their killing perfect, but the horde was endless. For each foe they cut down, three more emerged from the mass of bodies surging forward. Like torrential rain, the sheer weight of numbers began to tell. Even these warriors, these masters of death, had their limit. Slowly, ever so slowly, among these elite few, some began to fall.