"It's working, keep the pressure," Ludwig ordered as the small battalion was raining down boulders and arrows, slowing the enemy down as much as possible.
His voice came out harsher than he intended, scraped raw by smoke and exertion, but it carried. It had to.
The slope had turned into a grinding machine, stone rolling, bodies tumbling, thorns dragging at ankles, and anything that wasn't shouted with conviction got swallowed by the noise.
Above them, trolls heaved and launched more boulders with brutal rhythm, their muscles bunching like cables as they treated the hillside like a siege wall.
Between impacts, goblin darts and scavenged arrows hissed down into the red mass, not enough to stop it, but enough to keep it uneven, enough to keep it angry instead of organized.
They needed to get one thing done, slow the enemy and make them bleed. Once the mountain fully wakes up, then the whole fight will change.
