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Death was never easy to stomach, however Storm had steeled himself more to the notion than most anyone in the land. He had sent men forward, knowing many would die, sacrifices in the grand chess match for the greater good. Those lives would ultimately be needed for the liberation of Radasanth, the chance to tear down the tyranny of a long-run council and elite-serving politico once and for all. Nevertheless, the lingering itch of reality pulled at him, betraying his better logic.

Do THEY think this is worth the sacrifice? Will their wives and children be happy for my grand victory?

The chattering grumble-shout of thousands of feet falling in unison reverberated across the plain as the army led by Garron closed faster and faster upon the wall of oncoming Radasanthians. High atop Attila, Storm averted his eyes at the first twanging sounds of metal clashing barely preceded the roars of death.

“Glad that big bastard is on our side.” Brackett’s deep, gruff voice whispered above the fracas before them. Seamus had sky blue eyes piercing across the field behind his tanned face, his square jaw not yielding from the horror before them.

Garron, for his shortcomings in articulation, relished in war. His bellowing voice roared across the battlefield as he swung the heavy hammer with speed, finesse, and incredible raw power. Soldiers apart from him ducked and dodged where they could, but the tornado of muscle, leather and steel terrified his enemies and rallied his own troops. With one tremendous swing, the hammer caught the underside of the jaw of one young enemy soldier, the force of the blow tearing flesh wide, the neophyte’s head flailing back, muscle torn from jaw, skull twisting and falling over his back like a knapsack as he collapsed to the ground in a heap.

Gods… Storm’s eyes were fixated upon the mountainous creature, horrified at his glory. It was only the shimmer of steely raindrops that caught his attention and redirected his terror.

Arrows were coming down from the distance upon the troops at war, as men twisted and fell in seemingly random, anguished pain. The field of arrows coming down seemed countless, as hundreds upon hundreds of them created seemingly boundaryless arrays in all directions. There was no shelter as they fell, many making thud and ping sounds glancing off armor and steel, many driving deep within flesh. Helpless from range, Storm and Seamus watched as Garron heaved his heavy shield, stopping a dozen arrows with the slab or iron. On perfect cue, an errant arrowtip dove deep beneath a rib, skewering his thickly muscled abdomen and bringing him to a knee with a groan.

“Garron... Shit. Trumpets and banners; retreat. Roll the archers for cover, giants up.” Seamus’s words were terse and intentional, and seemed to be directed at no one in particular. Of course, the battle-hardened veteran knew far better.

“Sir! Immediately!” One of the scouts, riding dutifully behind the leadership tandem, signaled to the squad leaders behind him, who ushered out their orders with corresponding barks, hand signals, and direction. Like a massive transforming monster, the legions of Storm Veritas twisted into its next direction.

A series of foot soldiers sprinted to the front line, holding their flags down in the command to retreat, gleaming metal bulbs at the base of their flagpoles. Trumpets blasted in sorrowful unison; a single long bleat followed by three quick, quacking bursts. The cavalry spread to let the archers pass, who cocked their own thousands of arrows, ready to fire upon anyone chasing the foot soldiers. Dozens of giants stepped forward, holding large boulders, cocked for their own volley.

Come on, Garron, get the hell out of there.

The massive commander barked at his men, ordering them back as they walled to protect him. He staggered with a heavy limp, barely able to move in the fray with his deep wound. He was slow, and the opponents could likely thin the numbers further by attacking as the Veritas forces retreated.

“We can fire behind them, keep the enemy back, and allow a safe retreat.” The voice of the chipper scout seemed optimistic, knowing the Corone Rangers could shoot out the sun if called upon.

The wizard said nothing, knowing the trap was well-set, if he could stomach the losses. Seeing his own men, the hundreds and thousands of soldiers that had given their lives for him fall and paint the fields with blood and viscera twisted his stomach in knots.

Don’t make them die for nothing.

“Hold. Let them follow. If they get within three hundred yards of us, shoot their fucking eyes out.”