“Pigs to the front,” commanded the one-eyed battle mage, his frayed gray hair snapping in the wind, the shredded remains of a black cape flaring behind him. He drove his staff into the cracked earth. The ground shuddered, rippling outward in shockwaves that sent tremors through the pagan ranks.


    At first, it was a numbness—a dulling of the senses, like sinking into a fever dream. Then, the agitation took hold. Muscles coiled, aggression seethed to the surface. Veins swelled, breaths turning to guttural snarls as magical endorphins flooded their blood, igniting a feral, uncontrollable rage.


    Even Cestmir felt its pull. The command in his voice turned sharp and savage, more bark than speech as he fought to keep his forces in line.


    “Soldiers of the Last, on me!” he roared.


    “You heard him! Pigs to the front!” bellowed the barbarian at his back, gesturing with massive hands for the Vaserian turncoats to form up behind Cestmir.


    To the rear, factional bickering had already given way to bloodied noses and drawn blades. Disputes over battlement alignments rekindled old tribal feuds, turning allies into enemies—until an elite cadre of wizards intervened, driving the feuding warriors to the fringes and claiming the center alignment for themselves.


    Within the fortified pagan encampment, the dark sorcerer Verivix sat motionless. A thin haze of miasma curled around him, feeding the thicket of blackened vines that coiled up to his neck. His smoke-veiled eyes remained locked in his wizard state, holding the encroaching vines at bay as they strained to consume him whole. Above him, the air spiraled upward, forming whirlpools of dark energy around the black light pillars rising to summon his beast from the underworld.


    Nearby, circles of shirtless, tattooed wizards chanted beneath the dark purple sky, channeling their magic into a pulsing white orb. Pierced Norsemen shoved and struck one another, stoking their rage until their bodies twisted and swelled, merging into a grotesque ten-foot giant—with a disproportionately small head wedged between mountainous shoulders.


    Into a barrel of water, one of the giants plunged its hand. The wood groaned, swelled, then shattered, sending splinters flying as the liquid flash-froze around its grasp, hardening into a jagged, ice-forged war hammer.


    “Are we sure we’re on the right side?” a nervous ex-Vaserian guard muttered, glancing toward the distant escape routes.


    Cestmir’s grip tightened around the tether of his cross, the cold metal biting into his palm. He turned and seized the soldier by the scruff of his collar.


    “The time to reconsider ended when we arrived,” Cestmir growled. “Right or wrong, we’re here. We made our choice. There is no retreat.” He shoved the guard back, his fingers lingering on the cross before he loosed it and drew his sword.


    His gaze snapped to the one-eyed battle mage. “What about those conjured beasts? Why aren’t they on the front line?”


    No answer came—only the low rumble of a giant beside him, sniffing a handful of crusted earth. “Oh, we have plans for them.”


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    His eyes ignited with a smoky yellow glow. Overhead, thunder churned. He raised his hands and clapped. Lightning split the sky. Bolts crashed into the no-man’s-land, hammering the earth, reducing it to smoldering craters.


    Across the front lines, aging wizards muttered low, discordant curses. Between their raised hands, orange spheres of mist coiled and spun, devouring dust from the ground and moisture from the air. The mist thickened, spreading across the battlefield, its eerie glow twisting the shadows of men and monsters alike.


    In the prayer circles, the heavily tattooed wizards grew pale as ink bled from their skin, seeping into their veins. Their bodies pulsed with a blinding white light, rending the very fabric of reality around them. From their cold, anemic forms, they unleashed burning phosphorus, which arced into the sky and hurtled toward Keesh’s walls.


    Above the battlefield, a mighty giant loomed, his bullhorn voice shaking the earth as he parted the mist below his bare collarbone.


    “For those who spent cold nights dreaming of endless summers filled with feasts and splendor—you know what they took from you. For those who buried loved ones beneath villages of ash, whose children were twisted against their own blood—you know what they took from you. For those who look across this field and see the wealth of our people stolen, while behind you lies the barren desert of our future—you know what they took from you. The same thing they have stolen from all of us.”


    <hr>


    Behind the formidable walls of Keesh, Bishop Arcadius’s blind monks knelt atop the keep, their fingers threading through prayer beads as they chanted in forgotten tongues. Their wooden crosses splintered under the force of their grip.


    Beyond the walls, the orange mist thickened, crackling with lightning as it churned toward the city. Another blast of white magic struck the barrier, the impact reverberating like the clash of titans. The defenders cheered as the arcane shield held, their voices rising with the sizzling heat of another projectile slamming against it.


    From the parapet, Davos raised his arms, his voice cutting through the chaos.


    “Fear. The fear you feel is the legacy of our past.”


    A hush rippled through the crowd.


    “It is the living memory of our ancestors, crucified along the roads to Rowan. Their bodies defiled by pagan masters who sought to erase us. But here we stand! This is our reckoning—the day truth overcomes lies, where light drives back darkness, where the oppressed rise to vanquish their persecutors. For this is God’s army… AND WE SHALL NOT YIELD!”


    The defenders erupted in a deafening roar, their battle cries mingling with the crackle of magic and the pounding of war.


    <hr>


    Beyond the river bridge, at the northern outpost, the garrison stood spellbound, their eyes locked on the distant battlefield. Lightning flared, and magical bursts rippled across the sky, painting the horizon in eerie flashes. Awe held them captive—unaware of the rustling shadows creeping through the nearby forest.


    The outer garrison barely managed a few startled squeaks before the air split with the concussive thud of something massive. Limbs twisted. Armor buckled. Airborne monstrosities crashed into their ranks, their stinging bites unable to pierce chainmail but more than enough to send guards stumbling, grappling at unseen horrors.


    Then came the larger beasts.


    They were nightmarish—black-skinned, gorilla-like demons, their grotesquely overgrown back muscles serving as launchpads for the smaller crawlers clinging to them. With battering-ram-sized fists, they scaled the walls, swatting away spear thrusts as if brushing off flies.


    Then, chaos.


    The first gorilla dropped onto the ramparts, hammer fists crushing a soldier’s skull before he could scream. More followed, their shrill, piercing squeals slicing through the night. They tore into the defenders with savage glee, fists shattering bodies, walls, and weapons alike. Their blind rage spared no one—friend or foe—as they trampled all underfoot in their berserker frenzy.


    The outpost never stood a chance.


    Within moments, the guardhouse stood indefensible against the overwhelming swarm. Its occupants laid butchered, their final cries a fleeting melody—lost beneath the grand symphony of war, where lightning drummed, steel sang, and the damned roared in chorus.