On the other side of the muddy bank, the rookie militiamen were fighting simply to breathe. Training was a distant memory of wooden swords and controlled breathing in a sunlit courtyard. Now, there was only the slip of rain-slicked mud, the stench of wet fur, and the glowing, unnatural yellow eyes of Goblin Wolves closing in.
"Hold the line!" a rookie screamed, his voice cracking into a panicked pitch. "The Commander is holding the front! Watch his back!"
"Pick up your swords!" another begged, his blade rattling in his trembling grip. "Please, don't break!"
But the sheer mass of snarling muscle was too much. "We're dead! We're all dead!" a boy shrieked. He dropped his sword into the muck and bolted into the stormy woods. Two others fractured instantly, abandoning the line to disappear into the dark tree line.
Only nine remained. Swallowing the bile in their throats, they crashed shoulder-to-shoulder. "Threes!" the lead rookie barked. They scrambled into the triad formations they had drilled a hundred times, pushing their mana outward until their steel armor hummed with a faint, desperate vibration.
As the wolves closed the distance in a relentless wave, muscle memory took over. The three men at the front of the wedge dropped hard to one knee into the muck.
"Eyes shut!" the lead rookie roared.
Channelling everything they had into their heavy gauntlets, the kneeling soldiers released a blinding, concussive flash of light. The sudden glare bleached the stormy night stark white, stripping the charging wolves of their vision.
Seizing the split-second opening, the remaining six militiamen stepped heavy onto the armored shoulders of their kneeling comrades, using them to launch themselves upward.
Elara, the lead rookie thought, gripping his hilt until his knuckles ached. I promised her I'd come home. With a ragged, wordless scream, the airborne men brought their mana-enforced blades crashing down, using gravity to drive cold steel deep into the blinded pack.
The sickening crunch of bone offered a fleeting rush of triumph but it cost them their awareness. They had completely forgotten the flank.
"Look out!" the second rookie yelled.
It was too late. A massive shadow surged from the right. Jaws clamped around the lead rookie's thigh with the force of a bear trap. Before he could even swing his sword, the beast whipped its head, throwing him through the rain.
He slammed spine-first into the trunk of a massive oak. His mana-infused armor took the killing blow, saving his back, but the sheer force rattled his brain against his skull. He slumped into the thick roots, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
He couldn't feel his leg. Then, the fire started—a searing, tearing agony where fangs had met bone. Blood poured down his armor, pooling hot in the cold mud. Using his sword as a crutch against the rough bark, he dragged himself upright, putting his entire weight on his good leg.
"Come on then!" he roared, a mix of sheer adrenaline and absolute terror keeping him on his feet. He shunted his remaining mana down to his thigh, numbing the agony just enough to grip his sword with both hands. His friends were dying in the mud; he wasn't going to die sitting against a tree.
The wolf let out a guttural rumble. Muscles coiled tight, and it launched itself straight for his throat.
The rookie braced his feet, unable to shake the icy dread pooling in his stomach. He raised his blade.
Then, the air cracked.
A streak of brilliant gold tore through the storm. The wolf jerked violently mid-air, its snarl cut short as the glowing broadsword bored straight through the center of its skull. The momentum didn't just stop the beast; the heavy blade pinned its head instantly to the muddy earth with a sickening, wet thud. The massive body flipped over its own neck, twitching once before going still.
The rookie stared, wide-eyed, at the familiar hilt sticking out of the wolf's braincase. It belonged to Lord Commander Percival Kent.
Hooves tore through the muck as Percival hauled his warhorse to a sliding halt. He had heard the screams, seen the broken flank, and known he couldn't close the gap in time. Throwing a mana-charged broadsword like a javelin wasn't standard practice, but it had worked.
"Am I late?" Kent grunted, vaulting from the saddle.
"No, my Lord," the rookie gasped. The adrenaline instantly evaporated, and he collapsed onto his knees. "Right on time."
Percival didn't waste time on formalities. He unclipped a small glass vial from his belt and pressed it into the boy's shaking, blood-stained hands. "Drink it. All of it."
The rookie swallowed the bitter draught, coughing as it burned down his throat. "Thank you... my Lord."
"Keep your thanks," Kent muttered, though the rigid tension in his shoulders finally dropped. "You boys are my responsibility. I made a promise to your families, and I intend to keep it."
With the pack broken and the stragglers fleeing into the woods, the surviving militiamen dragged themselves toward the abandoned caravan. Just as Percival had hoped, the wagons were untouched canvas pulled tight over crates of medical supplies, magical reagents, and rations.
"Commander," one of the men asked, leaning heavily against a wooden wheel as he eyed a crate of dried meats. "Can we eat?"
The heavy silence broke as Kent let out a low, rumbling laugh. "Tear them open. Eat up, boys. A soldier with an empty stomach is just a corpse waiting to happen anyway."