Halleck ran onward, cold sweat streaming down his back despite his exertions. (Gods above! It was true all along.) He glanced backward to verify the unbroken trail of golden powder while keeping the distant walls within sight. (The legends were genuine—those ancient tales passed among the elder races. Heavens, our enslaved ancestors truly devised such a desperate solution...) He reconsidered his phrasing, feeling it unjust. (They were driven to it; that I can understand. The wall isn't trembling anymore, so the headmaster must have realized the truth...) He listened to his own footfalls and thundering heartbeat. (I should have warned him, Idaho. Neither of us grasped the significance. Had he been a fool, or had the spell demanded greater magical resources, the Wall of Cynthia might have collapsed entirely—at minimum, its foundations would have crumbled. Beyond that point, no remedy would have sufficed...)
"One hundred!" Goblin Halleck shouted aloud, abruptly halting his sprint and inverting his sack's opening. He thrust his upper body through the earth's surface to establish his position.
A Cynthian cavalryman, thrown violently from his mount, lay directly before him, arterial blood from his severed carotid drenching Halleck as the dying man convulsed. The goblin summoned all his strength to shove the knight aside, then spat out a mouthful of viscous human blood. This was his sixth time surfacing, and he was slowly getting used to the grim jokes Death played on the battlefield, though the thunder of hooves still tormented his goblin senses. Locating Idaho proved challenging; goblins, conditioned by generations of subterranean existence, possessed inferior vision compared to humans. Fortunately, he soon spotted his brother waving frantically, surrounded by no fewer than five equine carcasses. They had established a protocol to confirm positions after every hundred paces.
He plunged back beneath the earth.
The battlefield progressively contracted as Godma pressed their advantage, leveraging their inexhaustible reinforcements to advance relentlessly. Beyond Wafflo's final defensive perimeter, the primary conflict raged across three fronts—east, south, and west. The southern battlefield, directly facing the city gates across open terrain, witnessed the confrontation between Cynthia's cavalry and Godma's mounted and infantry forces. Both armies had deployed their primary strength here, executing meticulously organized charges in successive waves. Godma's cavalry consisted predominantly of reinforcement units, with only select knights representing the vanguard forces—specifically elements from the fourth, fifth, and seventh phalanxes. Each cavalry charge was preceded by trebuchet bombardment and arrow volleys, occasionally supplemented by chariot formations, affording Godman forces relatively advantageous combat conditions. Cynthia's forces, by contrast, had only a few thousand horsemen desperately holding the front. Their infantry was spent, struggling just to lift their spears after so many clashes. Simultaneously, siege engine malfunctions proliferated and archer efficiency diminished along the walls. Under this dual pressure, the knights had gradually ceded nine hundred feet of territory. Fortuitously, Grand Pip Berlid's cavalry reinforcement had somewhat ameliorated this precarious situation.
The eastern and western battlefields presented remarkably similar scenarios: Cynthian spearmen arranged in traditional phalanx formations with unanimously outward-facing spearpoints to repel Godman cavalry incursions. These mounted opponents primarily comprised the initial Godman cavalry that had breached Wafflo's first and second defensive lines, subsequently transporting massive siege engines, securing strategic positions, and establishing encampments—these captured fortifications provided Godma considerable tactical advantages. Currently, the primary assault responsibility fell to Godma's southern forces, while their lateral cavalry units focused on harassing Cynthia's flanks, constraining defensive maneuverability. Supporting infantry wielding pole-arms followed behind the Godman knights, providing tactical reinforcement.
It was the Cynthian commander, Earl Alofenk, who first noticed something was amiss. Initially, Godman cavalry attacked in phalanx formation, mirroring their approach on the central front, but lacking heavily armored lancers, their effectiveness against spearmen formations proved minimal. Raveirmom Dear adapted swiftly, fragmenting his formations into independently maneuvering squadrons. These dispersed Godman cavalry units encircled the Cynthian spearmen's flanks, forcing simultaneous defense against attacks from three directions. However, after several engagements, the Retreating Earl observed that while the southerners' offensive had become more proactive and aggressive, their purported objective—compressing defensive space—remained largely unfulfilled. Paradoxically, each Godman assault propelled Cynthia's defensive formations forward several hundred feet rather than backward. Following heated deliberation with his adjutant Luss Reis, Baron of Giant's Keep, Alofenk concluded this represented deliberate strategy by the opposing commander—intended to gradually separate Cynthian infantry from the main battlefield, facilitating unimpeded access to the city gates for Godma's primary cavalry force. Consequently, the spearmen phalanxes guarding both sides of the gate discontinued pursuit and retreated to their original defensive positions. Lord Helmos's cavalry intervention in the eastern theater partially alleviated pressure on the infantry formations.
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Thus, with reinforcement assistance, Cynthia temporarily arrested its retreating momentum. This second military stalemate created mutually challenging combat conditions—until the golden barrier's manifestation definitively shattered this equilibrium.
Grand Pip Berlid slapped his standard-bearer's armored shoulder. "Elevate it higher! Let those mongrel sons witness the Berlid black bear in all its glory." The standard-bearer raised the battle standard higher still, causing the black bear emblem to undulate menacingly in the wind. A quarter-hour earlier, Grand Pip had led his cavalry contingent to the encampment, directing the remnants of Pafaheim's mounted forces to withdraw and reorganize—most reduced to scattered, disorganized elements. Approximately four hundred seventy Cynthian cavalry remained engaged with Godman forces along the frontline. "Can you distinguish their banners, Bort?" he inquired of his standard-bearer.
"It appears to be... a serpent," Bort replied, raising his elaborately crafted visor adorned with rose engravings. "And that secondary red standard resembles a canine—a dog's head, I believe." He reached toward his spyglass, but the earl restrained his hand. "That identification suffices, Bort. Mere feeble creatures—utterly insignificant before the black bear's ferocity." He patted his dark green breastplate—ancient mail that would soon face its greatest test, and two hundred seventy years from now, be hailed in the great hall of Halfhill Fort as none other than "The Roarer's Mail," the work of the goddess Nira herself. "Prepared for the hunt?" he bellowed toward his assembled knights. "Bears!"
The knights roared in unison, producing a sound remarkably ursine in quality. This coordinated battle cry created noticeable disturbance among the Godman forces engaged five hundred fifty yards distant. "You see that? They're shaking!" Grand Pip's voice was a roar that could rival half his men. "The southerners are afraid of us!" In reality, the retreating Pafaheim cavalry experienced greater alarm from this unexpected clamor.
Another collective bear-like roar erupted. The Godman cavalry commander maintained impassive features despite his internal turmoil. Sir Ardent mistakenly presumed he confronted primitive barbarians. "Those must represent their reinforcements. Should engagement occur, position the Friezs at the vanguard," he instructed his adjutant quietly. "Allow the dogs and bears to mutually annihilate one another."
"You worry too much, my lord," the adjutant sneered. "The Friezs would charge a dragon without thinking twice."
"Bort," Grand Pip tapped the man's shoulder armor, "you shall participate in our charge."
Bort rotated toward the earl, regarding him intently. He understood his standard-bearer designation and its implications during offensive maneuvers. Despite his minor noble status within Cynthia's provincial territories, present circumstances offered no alternative trajectory. "Certainly, my lord. I shall charge alongside you."
"The moment for sacrifice has arrived." Grand Pip Berlid unsheathed his longsword. Bort lowered his visor; his ornamental armor, though aesthetically impressive, offered questionable practical protection. He elevated the standard, internally accepting his virtually certain doom. Yet, as twilight descended, upon regaining consciousness atop a stretcher, his primary gratitude would extend toward the Goddess of Fortune—followed by acknowledgment of Goria.
Grand Pip Berlid, Earl of Halfhill, unleashed a mighty battle cry, compressed his knees against his mount, and jerked the reins decisively. The Bears poured from the gate, a tidal wave of steel and fury that swept over the land to consume everything in its path.
