The battlefield did not pause for anyone. Even with the fall of the towering chieftain, the orcs pressed on, driven by bloodlust, pride, and the momentum of their charge. The gap he had carved into the Threian line was being patched, but not without cost. Cries of men and orcs alike echoed across the battlefield, mixing with the thud of boots, the clash of iron, and the high-pitched twang of arrows.
Sir Rhaegar Vance staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his eyes and nose. His armor was dented, streaked with mud and gore, and one gauntlet was split at the wrist. He raised his sword weakly, then tightened his grip as a new wave of orcs surged forward. Their eyes were alight with fury. Some carried axes, others crude blades jagged and uneven. Some had torches and war drums strapped to their backs, pounding a rhythm of death into the chaos.
