Even with their combat abilities blazing like flames, even as their weapons carved bloody swaths through the enemy ranks, the elite warriors began to falter. Their auras, burning bright with deadly purpose, couldn't stem the endless tide of foes that crashed against them over and over again. Each warrior was a beacon of destruction, claiming lives with every passing moment, but their energy was steadily draining away. For the first time, their indomitable will wavered as the cruel reality of battle became impossible to ignore.
Aswald saw it happening before his eyes. These warriors, dauntless and skilled, began to fall one by one. A veteran of countless battles stumbled, his perfect form finally breaking–then another, and another. Though Aswald was impulsive, his tactical acumen often straightforward, he was still a captain of Ironspire, and that position demanded more than just skill with an axe. His pride screamed for him to fight until the bitter end, to add his corpse to the mountain of dead, but his responsibility as a leader cut through his battle-lust like a cold blade.
"Fall back!" Aswald's voice thundered across the battlefield, the command carrying all the authority of his position. He stood his ground at the front lines, his massive frame becoming a wall between the retreating elite warriors and the surging horde. "Fall back to the main line, now!"
The elite warriors hesitated for a heartbeat–retreat was almost foreign to these dealers of death. But military discipline ran deeper than any other, and their training took over. They began to disengage systematically, each warrior covering their comrades' withdrawal, their deadly skills now turned to strategic retreat. They moved like wolves backing away from prey, still dealing death with every step but never turning their backs fully to the enemy.
As the last of his warriors started to retreat, Aswald unleashed his might His aura, usually a steady blaze, now erupted into an inferno that made the very air shimmer with power. The energy coursed through his arms like liquid crimson, concentrating around his massive axe until the weapon hummed with barely contained force. His roar shook the battlefield, a primal sound that stunned the advancing horde in their tracks.
With a movement that seemed too swift for his size, Aswald swept his axe in a horizontal arc. The concentrated energy exploded outward in a crescent of pure destruction, ripping through the front ranks of the enemy force. Bodies were thrown like leaves in a storm, the power of his attack carving a temporary gulf between his retreating forces and the enemy horde. The devastation was absolute, leaving a scene that would haunt even these hardened warriors' dreams.
Bran and Osric were stunned, their breath caught in their throats at the sheer devastation wrought by Aswald's attack. Where moments before had been a surging mass of enemies, now lay a grotesque corridor of death. Bodies were strewn across a sizable portion of the battlefield like broken dolls, cleaved cleanly in two by the power of his strike. The destruction was almost beautiful in its terrible symmetry–a perfect arc of death carved through their ranks.
The surviving enemies froze in their advance, their minds struggling to comprehend how a single man could unleash such devastating power. Even the bravest among them felt their blood run cold at the sight of their allies reduced to scattered pieces by one sweep of an axe. The previous bloodlust that drove them forward now warred with a primal fear that urged them to flee.
"F*ck," Bran cursed, his young eyes wide as saucers, hands trembling slightly at his sides. "I've heard stories of what a warrior could do, but this... this is beyond anything I could have imagined."
"Yes, it's impressive," Hugo nodded, his experienced eyes measuring the devastation. "But I’m just glad that he had a sense to make his men retreat, and not let them die in some pointless death."
In that moment, Aswald proved why he held his position. He wasn't just a drunken warrior with exceptional skills–he was a leader who knew when to set aside his pride for the sake of his men, and who had the power to make good on his decisions. The display of raw power bought precious seconds for his warriors to consolidate their retreat, turning what could have been a route into an organized withdrawal.
"That's what you get, you ugly b*stards!" Aswald roared through heavy breaths, a savage grin splitting his face as he surveyed the carnage before him. His momentary satisfaction might be brief, but the sight of the devastation brought him a great deal of satisfaction.
The spear wall suddenly parted like a well-oiled machine, creating a corridor where the elite soldiers retreated to safety. Behind them, the enraged horde surged forward, their primitive minds consumed by bloodlust and the desire for blood. But their blind fury led only to death as they impaled themselves on the forest of spears, turning the pursuing mass into a wall of skewered meat.
As the last of the elites safely retreated, the spear wall closed as fresh soldiers stepped forward to fill any gaps. Their spears ready to pierce any enemies that would dare try to get through. The formation once again became an unbroken wall of steel, denying the enemy their prey.
The pause in the horde's advance proved fleeting. Like a dark tide, the masses at the rear pushed forward, caring nothing for the dead and dying at the front. The blind masses surged forward once more, their singular purpose unchanged–to reclaim Grimwatch or drown its defenders in an ocean of blood.
Aswald's triumphant smile dissolved into a sigh of resignation. "These goddamn bastards just won't stop and die," he spat, watching the endless waves of enemies flow through the corpses, indifferent. Suddenly, his voice then rose in command: "Riders!"
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From the column's flanks, the cavalry responded. They emerged like arrows, their horses' hooves thundering across the battlefield. The mounted warriors cut through the enemy ranks with devastating effect, their blades flashing in deadly arcs as they carved a path through the horde. Like farmers scything through wheat, their charges disrupting the enemy's momentum.
Under his cavalry's attack, Aswald quickly withdrew. The riders maintained their deadly charge behind him, keeping their foes at bay until their commander reached the safety of his waiting troops before they too retreated back to the flank and the safety of the infantry.
"This is what I feared from the start," Hugo growled, his weathered face darkening as he continued to watch the battle ahead. "No matter how many they kill, no matter how bravely they fight, it's like trying to empty an ocean with a bucket." He shook his head, the grim reality weighing heavily on his shoulders. "Numbers like these make even the greatest warriors nothing more than pebbles before an avalanche. We need to hurry–we're close, but time isn't on our side."
The aftermath of their heroic stand had taken its toll on Aswald and his elite warriors. These men, who normally carried themselves with the arrogance of proven killers, now slumped against whatever support they could find, their chests heaving with exhaustion. Their faces, usually masked with confident sneers, had turned ashen as the terrible reality of their situation sank in. All their skills, all their deadly prowess, meant nothing against the endless tide pouring from the depths of Grimwold.
Some of the strongest warriors, men who had never shown weakness before, collapsed to their knees, their weapons hanging limply in trembling hands. They would have only moments to rest before duty called them back to fight. Even in the face of certain doom, they would answer that call–it was all they knew, all they could do. Their pride as warriors demanded nothing less than fighting to their last breath.
The battle resumed its brutal rhythm, but now the horror of their situation became increasingly apparent. The horde crashed against the spear wall with renewed fury while their javelins continued to rain down, each impact draining precious energy from the soldiers' auras. But unlike before, the enemy's numbers had swollen to dangerous proportions. Where before they had faced a flood, now they confronted an ocean–the enemy forces had quadrupled and it only kept growing.
The sheer mass of bodies pressing forward created a terrifying momentum of its own. The horde began to flow around the edges of the column like water around a drowning man, seeking any gap, any weakness. The soldiers of Ironspire found themselves facing attacks from multiple directions as the enemy began to encircle them. The disciplined formations that had served them so well were starting to buckle under the immense pressure.
Time itself seemed to accelerate, the inevitable collapse approaching faster than anyone had predicted. The enemy's overwhelming numbers weren't just a threat anymore–they were becoming an imminent death sentence.
The soldiers could feel it in their bones – they weren't just fighting a battle anymore, they were racing against time. Soon, very soon, the horde would complete its encirclement, and when that happened, all the skill and courage in the world wouldn't save them from being crushed under the weight of sheer numbers.
Watching where the battle was going, Aswald made his decision. With sharp commands, he redirected his remaining elite warriors to reinforce the column's vulnerable flanks. Despite their exhaustion, despite muscles that screamed from the previous fighting, these veteran killers responded with defiant roars. They took up their positions with grim determination, ready to sacrifice their lives. Death might be staring them in the face, but they would stare right back until the end.
Hugo watched this development with mounting frustration, his fists clenching at his sides. "That f*cking idiot!" he snarled, the veins in his neck standing out. "Why in the abyss isn't he pulling them back? They're going to die out there for nothing!"
"The numbers, captain..." Osric's voice was barely above a whisper, his face ashen as he watched the endless stream of enemies pouring from the forest. "Even if we reinforce them now, we wouldn't be able to change anything."
"Then what would you have me do, boy?!" Hugo whirled on Osric, his voice cracking with barely contained emotion. The helplessness of watching his fellow soldiers march to their doom had finally cracked his steely demeanor. Seeing Osric flinch at his outburst, Hugo's anger deflated as quickly as it had erupted. He passed a weathered hand over his face, suddenly looking every one of his years.
"I'm sorry, lad. That was uncalled of me," he said softly. "You're just speaking the truth we all can see."
Osric nodded, accepting the apology with quiet dignity. The young soldier understood that Hugo's anger wasn't directed at him, but at their desperate situation.
Hugo turned his attention back to the battlefield, his jaw set with renewed determination. "You're right about the numbers–we can't change the tide of this battle. But by all the gods, we can still try to save as many of our people as possible." His voice hardened with purpose. "Every life we save today is one more soldier who'll live to defend Ironspire tomorrow. So let's do what we can, while we can."
The words hung in the air between them, a commander's determination to snatch whatever victory he could from the jaws of certain defeat. Around them, the sounds of battle grew ever louder, a reminder that time was running out for any action they might take.
The disaster unfolded with brutal inevitability. The elite warriors, already drained from their earlier heroics, began falling at an alarming rate. Their extraordinary skills, dulled by exhaustion, could no longer save them from the overwhelming odds. In the column's center, the formation started to splinter as more skullsnaps dragged screaming soldiers into their midst, their feasting accompanied by the sounds of breaking bones and tearing flesh. Only the left flank held firm, where the cavalry continued their deadly work, grinding down any enemy foolish enough to approach. But even their impressive defense seemed futile–like watching a dam slowly crack before a rising flood.
Aswald, his mind clouded by rage and frustration, pushed further and further from the safety of his lines. His axes became a blur of motion, each swing ending multiple lives, his movements a deadly dance of destruction. Blood and viscera painted the air around him as he carved through the enemy ranks like a demon possessed. But with each kill, with each step forward, he moved closer to his doom.
"Come and get me, you fucking mutts!" he roared, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and fury. Sweat and blood ran down his face as he continued his rampage, his legs trembling with fatigue. "I'll turn you all to bloody mince meat—"
But even the most fierce have their limits. Surrounded on all sides, Aswald had committed the warrior's ultimate folly–allowing battle-lust to overcome his senses. The horde, with their great number, recognized the isolated prey in their midst. They began to converge on him like sharks scenting blood, their attacks becoming more coordinated, more focused.