by A. D. Wills
Eszu looked down angrily at his deep wound, blood gushing down his scaly arm. “You must not have been that memorable then, 'cause I don't know who you are, and I'm guessing I'll soon forget you after this too.”
Eszu grabbed Sahar's spear—throwing it aside in breaking his guard, and thrust his spear to impale Sahar right through his arm, as though he were cutting through a piece of tender meat.
“Someone like you doesn't stand a chance against me,” Eszu remarked, pulling Sahar in close who winced in a great deal of debilitating pain. “Trust me, hope and being right don't mean a damn thing.”
Sahar headbutted Eszu, sending him flying back on his roc. “I'm not giving up so easily on this city—on this idea of unity. I've had enough of war and strife! We all have!” Sahar let out a shattering shout of anguish.
“Unity?” Eszu clenched his spear tight. “I've had enough of hearing these empty promises!”
Eszu threw his spear, but it missed—soaring past Sahar who watched. Sahar turned around, but to see Eszu stabbed his roc with a shortsword while he was distracted. Anchored in, Eszu flew high up into the sky with Sahar helpless to get away.
“Enjoy the gift of a quick death from your so-called unity.” Eszu yanked his sword out of Sahar's roc, spraying out a stream of blood shooting out down below.
Sahar's roc didn't even flail. It was dead in the air, plummeting down uncontrollably at fatal speeds toward the top of wall where the Dracus and his soldiers were clashing.
I'm sorry, Princess... Was all Sahar thought in the final few seconds he had before violently crashing, leaving a dust cloud without any hope of surviving. One of Lyndenwell's captains lay dead and defeated, and at the feet of their soldiers.
Both the Dracus, and the soldiers of Lyndenwell turned their sights to see who it was that fell to their death. When Eszu appeared from above, everyone's hearts along the walls sank into their bellies, while the Dracus were lifted by their Chieftain's victory.
All of Lyndenwell's archers couldn't believe it, as if every bit of their hope fizzled out. They wondered what they could even do against them. Everything they threw at the Dracus, none of it mattered now. None of it did a single thing other than delay their defeat.
“Push forward with everything you've got! Now's our chance to push through into the city,” Eszu ordered to a mighty echo, while Lyndenwell's soldiers hung their heads in stunned defeat.
Down below, Wulfsige had been watching with a close eye, and saw the Dracus beginning to cut through the defending forces up top. With Baldomir busy with the Dracus now, our one advantage is gone. We're not going to have a side of this pincer attack anymore. But the two of us will have to do.
While Baldomir and his troops clashed with Dracus, Wulfsige and the others had their own enemy to worry about. The giant doors before them cracked and bent with every thunderous thud on the other side. They heard the harrowing hungry grunts and growls seeping through the thick doors that would usually be able to stop any daring force, but these are ogres, and none were more ferociously strong than Grog.
“Here we go, time to test our bloody mettle!” Ackar roared out to everyone, ready to explode full of pent up hype.
With a few more heavy pounds against the door, it fell down—sending shattered shards flying throughout the streets that knocked down, and impaled, some of Wulfsige's forces before they could even clash.
Through the spewing wreckage, the hulking ogres of Black Bog emerged alongside Tepis and Kuxori rebels running ahead to clear the way. For many, it was the first time laying eyes on the tall beast-like ogres, and found themselves staggered for a moment.
Every one of the pale ogres stood a few feet taller than any average person, and none of them with so much as a shred of fat on their unnaturally muscular bodies. They alone might have been daunting enough, but behind them trailed Grog. He towered over every one of his ogres, abnormally large compared to all of them—standing at least twenty feet tall. For now he stayed back, as if he felt there wasn't even any need to bother with Wulfsige and others.
“Show us how you lost the war, you weak bastards!” Ackar taunted the rebels in an effort to snap his soldiers from getting too caught up in seeing ogres for the first time. He knew just how daunting they were, but they weren't going to get anywhere by staring at them and cowering.
Joining in the two-pronged counter, Wulfsige ran ahead of his troops behind him, not a bit of fear in him. He switched effortlessly between the array of weapons all over his body, slicing and hacking at rebels one after another like they were nothing to him. No matter how many there were, all they would do is clang off Wulfsige's thick armor before getting cut down in response.
“Push forward, don't give them an inch of ground!” Wulfsige rallied everyone to join in behind him, firing up all of their spirits.
Once the ogres caught up to the rest of the rebels, they joined in to surround Wulfsige, but he didn't run. He welcomed their challenge with an ax in one hand, and a greatsword fit for two hands in the other.
Wulfsige dodged and parried the brutal barehanded blows by the surrounding ogres, but it didn't last. Eventually, a few blows got through, and dented Wulfsige's thick armor, sending him sliding back a few feet out of control. Still, he didn't back down. Wulfsige rebounded right back their way, and swung down his ax—slicing deep into the arm of an ogre that would have lopped the arm off anyone else, but instead, it dangled in place as the injured ogre let out a sickening wail. Wulfsige planted his bulky leg into the ogre's chest, and went to finish the job like cutting down a thick tree trunk, cutting the arm clean off.
“They bleed just like the rest of us!” Wulfsige shouted out to his forces, witnessing him cut down one of the Ogres on his own. “They're nothing but walking stubborn trees, just keep chopping away no matter how hard it is. No matter what, keep going!”
Everyone rushed in behind Wulfsige forward, using his will to spur them on in their battle, and one by one they ganged up on the ogres. The ogres swatted them away, but Lyndenwell wouldn't relent. One after another, Lyndenwell's forces swarmed the Ogres with everything they had, chipping away at their once seemingly overwhelming forces, now being stymied for the time being.
Grog watched on behind everyone, boiling at the sight of his forces fighting to a stalemate. He had expected to stomp on Lyndenwell's forces with ease, but they proved to be more annoying and persistent than that. He saw enough, and lumbered his way to Wulfsige, the source of all this stubbornness.
Wulfsige didn't notice Grog on the move until he heard shrieks and cries out for help behind him. He whipped his head around to see Grog sweeping through everyone with terrifying ease—throwing them around like they were mere insects, and shattering nearby buildings just for the fun of it in the process.
Wulfsige went to take the fight to Grog, and swing his ax at daunting ogre's massive thigh he could just barely reach, but Grog snapped the ax like it was a twig. Wulfsige quickly unsheathed a spear from his back, tossing it down through Grog's foot, pinning it down.
Grog let out an air shattering wail, bursting everyone's eardrums nearby, and sent shivers down their bodies, freezing them all in place. Grog curled his demonic looking face, yanked the spear out, and hurled it toward a group of soldiers—skewering them all stacked together against a wall to hang there and bleed out.
Wulfsige ground down with furious widened eyes, unsheathing weapon after weapon—throwing everything he had at Grog. No matter how many times he cut at Grog, it was all superficial to his thick hide-like skin.
In one interrupting overwhelming blow from above, Grog smashed Wulfsige to the ground—nearly caving in his armor.
Wulfsige tried gathering himself, but just from that one blow alone, his head rang loud with blurred vision, and legs wobbled beneath him—barely able to stand, let alone gain firm footing.
Wulfsige's troops noticed he was in dire trouble, and they cut in front of Grog's path to try taking him out, or at least slow him down until Wulfsige recovered. One by o
ne though, they were tossed aside like nothing, without so much as even stuttering any of Grog's deliberate stomping steps.
At his short limit of patience, Grog grabbed for the nearest soldier by the leg. He barbarically swung them around by the leg, smashing them into the others until they wore out their use, and he would grab another to do the same to the sound of his sickening snarls.
“Come on ya big bastard!” Ackar interrupted, covered in blood, and hit Grog in the back of his leg with his huge wildhammer.
Joining in, Baldomir ran up, and bashed his spiked ball and chain in the same spot to soften Grog up.
Now on his feet, Wulfsige took up his sword, with enough vision restored to try landing one more blow, and bring Grog to his knees. He ran up, screaming out with all his pent up emotions, when an errant spear flew in to impale his head.
Baldomir, and Ackar watched in shock seeing Wulfsige fall so suddenly. Limp, and dead before them without any warrior's end. His eyes wide open, and head turned up on the bloodied ground.
Ackar and Baldomir turned to see who did it, and saw Ralak with other Dracus having plowed through Baldomir's troops against the walls.
“You've caused enough damage already.” Ralak spat on the ground, pulling a spear from a random dead Lyndenwell soldier's body.
Baldomir went to meet Ralak head on, when Grog picked him up like a small toy, and ripped his body in two, pouring out a shower of red down below.
Soldiers of Lyndenwell all over stared in horror, opening themselves to the slaughter of the Dracus, ogres, and rebels who didn't afford them any time to mourn or process. Even Ackar stood there horrified. Both Wulfsige, and Baldomir were unbelievably strong, and in two moments, they were brutally erased from existence.
Droves of Lyndenwell soldiers starting falling—discouraged, and dejected. Most of them couldn't so much as bring themselves to lift a weapon at the sight of three of their captains being killed so easily.
“You piece of shit...” Ackar grumbled in a rolling bubbling rage staring at Ralak who stalked down Lyndenwell's vulnerable forces.
Grog wanted Ackar for himself though, and reached out to grab him, but an outstretched blade struck through his palm out of nowhere, and retraced just as quickly. He let out a beast of a scream, recoiling his hand and waving it around while Ackar raced to Ralak.
Shyn appeared, darting in and around the crowd of Dracus and rebels, slashing at anyone within reach on his way toward Grog. I should've come earlier, but I can still help now, Shyn thought. His eyes sharpened, focused, and infuriated like he hasn't been in years.
Grog didn't relent, craving Wulfsige, and the other soldiers—reaching for anyone he could find.
Shyn held his dagger out, and extended it out to impale all the way through Grog's immense thigh. He didn't stop there, retracting his blade once again, stepped up onto Grog's bloodied leg, and launched himself up onto Grog's broad shoulders in one graceful leap.
Grog tried swatting him off, as if Shyn were nothing but a small fly to him, but he couldn't reach a shifty Shyn, and Shyn drove his dagger down into Grog's shoulder. The blade extended down, driving through Grog's body, and Shyn gave it a final twist for good measure before retracting it and hopping off.
Stumbling around in a faint daze, swaying around into buildings, Grog fell down to a knee, and at least half the ogres rushed over to block him off to tend to.
Finally, the brute was downed.
Even if we manage to take out Grog, we need to cull their numbers or we'll continue to be overrun. We can't be completely sure whether they'll retreat, or just get angered and fueled by his loss... Shyn still worried about their chances even without Grog for the time being.
Shyn examined the battlefield, darting his eyes all over to pick out where he was needed most, but everyone was drowning. Barely anyone was holding their own anymore, even with Grog down. Dracus, ogres and rebels marched past droves of soldiers, setting buildings aflame, and destroying everything in sight. It was easy for them now.
Seeing Ackar beginning to struggle with Ralak, weary and beaten, Shyn rushed over, and jumped up from behind Ackar to surprise Ralak. Shyn extended his dagger out, piercing Ralak right through his chest before he could block.
Ackar didn't waste his chance either, swinging his wildmaul around, smashing Ralak, sending him soaring into a far wall.
“Would've been nice if you showed up before,” Ackar growled out, shifting his eyes to Shyn, fighting off the approaching rebels.
“I know, I should have been here sooner,” Shyn conceded, slumping his head in guilt. “I was too worried and focused elsewhere...”
“Well you're here now, so how 'bout we take out as many of these bastards as we can? No use pissin' about here sulking. Least I'm not gonna stand here and wait to die. If you're gonna kill me, you're gonna have to work for it!”
Ackar screamed out, crashing into the wave of rebels pushing further into the city—swinging his wildhammer around in a dizzying spin that cleared the way. The troops watched Ackar still give it his all, despite the worsening odds, and regardless their dire circumstances.
Looking down at the blood-soaked streets, seeing the bodies of their fellow friends, and citizens being stomped all over in desecration by these rebels, they had enough. They didn't care anymore about their own lives, and followed Ackar's lead with one last bit of fight in them.
But their efforts were empty.
No matter how strong Shyn and Ackar might be, the two of them alone were no army. No matter how many rebels they cut down, they were still vastly outnumbered. They all tried holding out, and pushing back with everything they had, but they were only delaying the inevitable now. Soon, the city would be suffocated by the black billowing smoke from the spreading wreckage the rebels left in their wake.
As desperately as he tried to think of something—anything at all that might turn the tides, convinced it couldn't end this way, Shyn had nothing. Finally, reality began to sink in.
I'm sorry, Dreymond, I failed keeping her safe...I failed keeping them all safe...Shyn thought to himself, still giving everything he has until his dying breath, allowing all his grief to pour over, and unleash onto the ones who stole Dreymond away.
All Shyn could hear were the horrific sounds of agonizing screams, and cutting through flesh, until through the chaos, he thought he heard a faint booming horn. But no one else seemed to notice the same sound. No one reacted any differently. Before he could write it off as it being all in his head, there it was again—this time, echoing clearly above the suffocating suffering.
“We can call for help all we want, it's not coming,” Ackar said.
“That wasn't anything we have in the city...” Shyn replied, and once more, it sounded off—much louder as if it were right outside the gates.
Moments after the third blow of the horn, Shyn spotted a stretching crimson banner, with a silver tidal wave emblazoned across it poking above the madness surrounding him.
“It's Lord Aquilinus...” Shyn mentioned to Ackar in stunned amazement.
“Looks like we've finally got ourselves some reinforcements, so let's not let their help go to waste! Leave everything you've got behind here right fuckin' now!” Ackar let out a gurgled shout to let their forces know they had help, and hammered his way deeper into the enemy lines like a wild bull.
The few soldiers left charged forward with Ackar, regardless how tired and beaten they were. At this point, they already thought their lives were forfeit, but they refused to die on anyone's terms but their own—using the same spirit and will Dreymond has instilled in each of them to fight with everything they have.
Emerging from the front of the city along his company of ten warriors, Prince Clovis with his tied up prim and proper golden hair, sharp face and royal blue eyes rode majestically atop his horse with a giant halberd he held without effort with one arm.
“What happened here...A war between allies?” Clovis examined the battlefield in despair at the wreckage to Lyndenwell and its p
eople. “All of you, spread out wide throughout the city, ensure that Lyndenwell receives our full support. Prepare to lay your lives on the line if need be. No matter the cost, we will ensure victory,” Clovis instructed his company, and they quickly dispersed at the order to lend their capable aid.
Clovis whipped the reins of his bulky black warhorse, and stomped through the enemy lines from behind, catching the rebels off guard from behind, cutting them down one after another. The rebels didn't care to notice Clovis or the others, not right away at least. They were too focused and honed in on approaching Lyndenwell's keep—closing in to finally topple over the kingdom they saw to be their lifelong oppressors. And with Grog finally recovered, they saw their chance to seize the city.
Clovis looked over, gritting his teeth at the sight of Grog savagely ravaging anyone and anything in his path—even his own people just to get that much closer to the keep. “I'll just have to take down their biggest piece then.”
Clovis stood up on the back of his horse as he approached Grog from behind—plowing through the horde between them, and leaped off with his halberd in hand. Grog turned his head, but he was only in time to see Clovis already falling down, and driving his halberd deep into his neck.
Grog let out a cry of agony, and swatted away at Clovis on his back, but he couldn't reach him with his awkward blind flailing.
Clovis unhooked his halberd, and slashed Grog's throat wide open, before he jumped in front of Grog, now face to face with the reckless beast.
Grog held his bleeding throat, red seeping through his big fingers, watching Clovis' determined eyes staring right back. He couldn't even utter a growl Clovis' way now, but Clovis didn't afford him the time to even try—thrusting his halberd deep into the heart of Grog for one final blow.
