Chapter 264: Chapter 263: March Through Fire
The enemy began to notice. Fear crept into their eyes as they realized the tide wasn’t just turning, it was devouring them whole.
"Fall back!" a Sengolio officer shouted, voice breaking.
The retreat started slow, then surged like a dam breaking. Soldiers dropped their weapons, banners crumpled, and the noble crest that once flew proudly now dragged through the mud as their line collapsed.
Lumberling watched them scatter, his chest heaving from the fight. Skitz licked blood from his dagger, eyes still hungry. "Should we chase them, my Lord?"
"No." Lumberling’s spoke. "We’ve made our point. Let them run back and tell their masters what they faced."
He lowered his spear, gazing over the battlefield littered with corpses, his soldiers regrouping in tight ranks behind him. Relief flickered through their faces.
The quiet after the storm pressed heavy, broken only by the groans of the dying.
"Gather the wounded. Burn the rest," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. His gaze lingered on the horizon, already expecting the next wave.
...
The next weeks blurred into a gauntlet of blood.
One morning, the ambush came from bandits and deserters. Ragged men stumbled from the ditches with rusted blades and broken armor, desperation twisting their faces.
They screamed for coin, for vengeance, for scraps. Their charge was clumsy, but sheer numbers pressed hard. Gobo1 and Gobo2’s hunters loosed arrows from the flanks, shafts thudding into exposed throats and bellies.
The line faltered. Lumberling’s spear cracked through a rusted shield, skewering two in a single thrust, while Aren’s elites split the band in half, cutting down those who tried to flee. By dusk, the road was carpeted with corpses, and the smell of sweat and rot lingered long after the fire pits were dug.
Two nights later, the Sengolio came. Not rabble this time, but soldiers in uniform, Knights among them. They struck while the camp slept, their torches flaring against shields as steel clashed in the dark.
A Knight’s sword smashed through the barricades, scattering terrified recruits. Lumberling caught the blow on his spear shaft, Skitz slid behind the Knight, daggers flashing. The fight ended with screams swallowed in firelight, but the scars remained.
Two captains bled from deep wounds, three common soldiers never rose again, and fear spread like a sickness among the people. Mothers whispered prayers over their children, though no god seemed to answer.
Another day, it was the Vikings. Their war cries rolled across the fields like thunder before the charge hit. Axes rose high, shields slammed together, and the ground shook beneath their rush.
Painted in blood and fury, they crashed into the line with reckless abandon. Spears skewered them, but still they clawed forward, dragging men down with bare hands as their own blood spilled.
Takkar, Vakk, and Sakrn led the boar cavalry into their flank, tusks and steel ripping through the mass. Mud flew, bones cracked, and the Vikings roared even as they died, leaving the field echoing with their madness.
Lumberling’s spear flashed like lightning, striking hearts and throats, essence rushing into his core with every kill. Skitz’s daggers found the soft places in armor, dragging warriors back for him and his Lord to devour.
Aren’s elites carved through thicker knots of warriors. Hunters circled and cut down the ones who broke.
The rhythm was endless. March, clash, burn the dead. March again, clash again.
Blades dulled, armor dented, shoulders sagged under exhaustion. Relief never lasted longer than the time it took to bury the fallen.
Even the strongest shoulders sagged under the weight. Armor dented, blades dulled, eyes grew heavy with exhaustion. And still, the enemies came.
Sengolio soldiers were numerous but weaker than them and manageable. Vikings were few, but each one fought like a beast, their roars echoing even as their blood painted the ground.
One night, after yet another skirmish, Derrek dropped onto a fallen log, shoulders slumping under the weight of exhaustion. Sweat streaked his face, and his hands shook as he dragged a cloth across his blade.
"This... if this keeps up, we won’t last much longer," he muttered hoarsely. His eyes were hollow, and his voice rough. "How many more do we have to fight?"
Lumberling stood nearby, silent as he scanned the battlefield lit by torches. His captains gathered corpses, his men checked wounds. He didn’t answer at first, but when he did, his voice was calm beneath the fatigue.
"As long as we must. Every day we buy is another day closer to Liraeth’s gates."
Baron Roland looked up at him, then to the others. His recruits, boys and farmers turned soldiers, stood guard with shaking hands, eyes wide from the slaughter. They weren’t ready for this, and yet they stood, because there was no other choice.
Lumberling’s group carried the weight of killing, who carved through the heart of each enemy wave. While Roland’s soldiers shielded the people, forming lines, pushing back where they could, and the brunt of the bloodshed always fell to Lumberling and his captains.
Night after night, they endured.
The journey no longer felt like marching toward safety. It felt like walking through fire, every step forward paid in blood and breath.
.....
Days turned into weeks. For more than a month, the column pressed on, hounded by enemies. The people never had true rest; when the horns of war didn’t sound, fear itself kept them moving. Mothers carried their children half-asleep, elders leaned on makeshift staffs, and the wounded limped along with the help of others.
The soldiers bore the heavier burden. Every attack meant another bloody skirmish, and every night ended with armor stained red and blades dulled from overuse.
"Another wave of bandits and deserters. They’re multiplying by the day" Uncle Drake muttered one night as he cleaned his spear, his voice weary. His body was battered, but his eyes burned with a new strength.
He wasn’t the same man who had once been just a sturdy veteran. With Lumberling’s help, and the blood of seven Knight Pages devoured, he had stepped into the rank of Knight Apprentice. The change showed in his movements, firmer, sharper, like steel honed in fire.
Among Lumberling’s soldiers, growth showed itself in brutal ways. Eight kobolds had evolved into Kobold Berserkers, and five hobgoblins had risen to Hobgoblin Warriors, all at the level of Knight Pages.
His captains and vice-captains, though not yet evolved, pushed their limits with every clash, their aura thickening, strength increasing by the day.
Yet, progress always demanded a price.
Their casualties piled up. Twenty hobgoblins. Sixteen elite kobolds. A total of thirty-six soldiers lost their lives, burned on the same pyres as their enemies.
No songs or prayers marked their passing. There was no time for funerals, only flames, and the cold march that followed.
One evening, Skitz reported in, his tone quieter than usual. "Another six today too. They fought till their last breath."
Lumberling stood silent, staring into the crackling fire. His fists clenched, but his voice stayed calm. "Burn them. Let their sacrifices carry us forward."