A deafening wall of sound slammed into the area, the collective roar of three thousand throats vibrating through the air until it rattled inside the chest. Then came the physical impact. The crunch of heavy bodies colliding as the coalition's summons washed over the War Hound lines with violence.
There was no rhythm to their march, no cold precision like the steel-clad titans of Reidar's elite summons. Instead, the battlefield choked under a sprawling, heaving riot of claws and fangs, an untamed avalanche of muscle that surged forward with a deafening, discordant roar.
Most survivors had summoned three creatures each, including mangy spectral wolves, jagged stone constructs, and flickering mana-squires, while the elite among them brought forth squads of five or even ten that swelled the ranks into a writhing sea of claws, magic, swords, and pikes.
The War Hounds, confident in their strength, found themselves drowning in sheer numbers, although even they used summoned creatures to fight.
A War Hound's armored bear swiped a spectral wolf out of existence, only to be immediately swarmed by six more until it dissolved into mist.
Elemental creatures, summoned by the hundreds, rained crude firebolts and ice shards upon the walls, turning the defensive perimeter into a blinding storm of chaotic magic.
Helga stood at the heart of a whirlwind of violence, swinging her warhammer in a wide arc to crush the skull of a War Hound summon before reversing the momentum to smash a human defender's shield.
"Push them!" she roared. "Don't give them room to breathe!"
The Ironsides fought in harmony with Helga and her own summoned creatures. Their summons formed a protective line of armored bears and stone golems that absorbed the fury of the War Hounds' counterattack.
A golem's stone fist caught a War Hound in the chest, cracking ribs and sending the man tumbling backward, coughing blood.
An armored bear swatted aside an incoming blade, but the counterstrike tore through its flank, spraying ethereal ichor across the flagstones.
They blocked strikes and took blows meant for human fighters. Axes bit deep into summoned flesh, cleaving through muscle and bone, painting the ground with viscera. They held ground while the coalition survivors regrouped behind them.
A War Hound's spear punched through a golem's throat, the stone crumbling as the creature dissolved, but not before its dying swipe tore the attacker's arm clean off at the shoulder, the limb spinning through the air in a spray of crimson.
This bought the coalition precious seconds to tighten their formation and press their advantage deeper into enemy territory.
On the right flank, Aldric and the Sun Chasers moved. His spear flashed like a beacon, guiding his troops and their summoned constructs, shambling golems of wood and stone, into the gaps in the enemy defense.
Fighting against not one but two people with a trait was impossible for anyone, especially if that anyone was a criminal like the war hounds were, and that was not because they were criminals in themselves, but because they spent most of their time doing the criminals' work rather than going hunting.
The lack of discipline was making them pay.
John held the center, his shield reinforced by earth elementals behind its lines, while Kara's archers rained death from the back lines, picking off any War Hound who poked their heads above the ramparts.
Yet, the War Hounds were not breaking. Their creatures were individually stronger, tearing through the Spriggan fodder, and besides, they were on the defensive, so they were not suffering THAT many casualties, at least not as much as Seraphine and the others hoped, and not as much as one would have assumed considering that the Spriggans, to make up for the lack of fighters, bought quite many summoning skills.
If not for Helga and Aldric, the Spriggan line would have collapsed. They reinforced the weak points; their strength compensated for the shortage of fighters on their side.
Yet the pressure remained immense; lines buckled under the strain, and survivors screamed as their friends were killed.
But Matthias was there. Standing atop a pile of rubble at the rear, the healer took care of everyone who needed it.
He didn't hoard his mana; he burned through it. Waves of light pulsed outward from him, washing over the entire allied force.
Wounds knitted shut mere seconds after they opened; flickering summons stabilized. Because of him, the wave did not break. But there were healers on the enemy side too.
High above the chaos, hidden in the remains of a guard tower, Jake watched. He gripped his daggers, his eyes scanning the area, ignoring the carnage below.
He forced himself to disconnect from the brawl below. He didn't belong in that meat grinder; he was the blade held in reserve; the breath held before the scream.
He could feel his summons lurking around, extensions of his own coiled patience, waiting for the single trigger that mattered: Aaron.
The moment the man showed his face, the ambush would spring, turning the battlefield into a slaughterhouse. If he did his job right, the rest wouldn't be a battle anymore; it would just be a cleanup operation for the Spriggans, because Aaron would die.
He pressed himself flat against the ground, needing the cold, rough texture to ground him. He forced himself to look down at the courtyard, but his mind refused to see it as a battlefield anymore. It was just meat. He stared at the grotesque heaps, unable to distinguish where the human corpses ended and the summoned monsters began.
Jake watched the carnage unfold, flinching as he saw a War Hound's wolf tear a Spriggan boar in two, only to be silenced instantly by a mana javelin.
From his vantage point, he tracked the blood pooling on the ground, watching it swirl with the oily shimmer of dissipating mana before vanishing.
He hated it. He hated the tang of blood in his throat and the stench of scorched earth. But he forced himself to swallow the revulsion.
Reidar had drilled it into him. The world wasn't gentle, and he couldn't afford to be either.
Jake's fingers twitched against the hilt of his dagger. He scanned the ramparts. Archers. A few mages hurled firebolts. But no Aaron. Not yet.
<Where is he?>
The Spriggans were losing troops; there was no time to lose. He had to help, but he couldn't lose the surprise advantage he had, or everything would be ruined.