The crack of chain lightning finally faded. In its wake, there was only the roar of the river below and the sharp, metallic stench of ozone. The heavy storm clouds began to fracture, letting the first piercing rays of morning light bleed through.
The fifth hour had arrived.
Percival Kent stood at the jagged edge of the shattered bridge. His broadsword slipped from his numb, blood-slicked fingers, clattering against the wet cobblestones. He didn't have the strength to pick it up. He simply let his knees buckle, his bare chest heaving as he dragged the crisp air into his burning lungs.
"Commander..." Krag's voice was a wet rasp.
Kent dragged himself through the mud, shoving aside a discarded iron shield. Krag was slumped against the low stone railing, his left arm hanging uselessly. Cradled against his side was Vane.
The young rookie was deathly pale beneath a mask of mud and Greenskin blood. The toxic burn of black mana had charred his shoulder, and dark, twisting veins were creeping up his neck.
"Hold on, boy," Kent said, pressing a hand to Vane's chest. The heartbeat beneath his palm was erratic. Fading.
Bootfalls crunched on shattered stone behind them. Maltida Armstrong picked her way carefully through the tangled mounds of goblin dead. The contrast was jarring. Where Kent was painted entirely in mud and gore, Maltida looked ready for a royal portrait, her silver breastplate and white cloak catching the dawn light.
Across the lightning-blasted chasm, Elara pulled his exhausted warhorse to a halt. The soot-stained soldier locked eyes with his Lord Commander across the smoking gap.
"Mages!" Elara's voice cracked with desperation. "Get to them! Purge it, now!"
Four combat mages pushed to the front. Channeling what little mana they had left, they levitated unsteadily over the chasm, dropping heavily into the mud beside the survivors.
Golden light bled from their palms as two of them pressed their hands to Vane's shoulder. The rookie's spine arched violently. The cleansing magic fought the Greenskin toxin, a brutal, searing process that left Vane gasping for air as the dark veins finally began to recede. A third mage bound Krag's arm in glowing poultices, while the lead mage pressed a flask of bitter healing draught into Kent's hands.
The liquid burned like whiskey, but the fire in Kent's muscles slowly began to dull.
Across the gap, Elara swung down from his saddle. He looked older than he had the night before. He stood tall and delivered a stiff, exhausted salute. "Lord Commander. The eastern flank is secured."
Kent pushed himself to his feet, his joints protesting. He looked at the soot on Elara's face and returned the salute. "Outstanding work, Elara. You brought your brothers through."
Maltida stepped up beside Kent. The hard lines of her face softened with quiet relief. "You're still breathing, Percival."
"Barely," Kent muttered.
He turned his back to the rising sun, looking at the macabre bunker of corpses they had used to survive the final volley. Beneath the layers of goblin iron and flesh lay the baker's boy and the other unnamed rookies who had held the line.
"Six boys followed us onto this bridge," Kent whispered. The weight of it seemed to anchor him to the mud. "None of them are walking off."
The triumph of survival evaporated, replaced by a suffocating silence.
Maltida drew her sword. She stepped forward, rested the tip of the blade on the cobblestones, and bowed her head. Across the chasm, the heavy cavalry began to dismount. It wasn't synchronized or perfect; it was just ninety exhausted men sliding from their horses, drawing their blades, and bowing their heads in the morning light.
For a long minute, the only sound was the wind.
Kent reached down, gripping Krag's good shoulder to pull him up. The mages helped Vane to his feet, the rookie leaning heavily on a staff as he stared at the makeshift graves of his friends.
"Their names will be carved in the sanctuary," Kent said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "They died as soldiers."
He stooped to pick up his chipped broadsword, sliding it into its sheath with a heavy sigh. The adrenaline was entirely gone now, leaving only bonedeep exhaustion.
"The line is held," Kent said, looking toward the horizon. "Mount up. We fall back to the border village. We rest."