Grand Pip Berlid seized the incoming warhammer with both hands mere inches from his face, catching the bloodthirsty Friez utterly unprepared. With a thunderous roar, Grand Pip drove the weapon back into Luda's chest with crushing force. The impact sent Luda Friez staggering, his grip failing as the weapon clattered to the churned earth. As he stooped to retrieve it, searing pain erupted in his abdomen—Grand Pip's armored fist buried deep in his gut. A heartbeat later, a devastating left hook connected with his cheek, blood spraying in a crimson arc. Luda stumbled backward, assuming an awkward boxer's stance—hands floating before his face like wisps of cotton. Grand Pip unleashed another bear's roar, stepped forward with his right leg planted firmly, and launched a straight punch meant to pulverize bone. Luda ducked beneath the lethal strike; those seemingly ineffectual hands suddenly transformed, hardening as an uppercut crashed into Grand Pip's jaw with surprising force. Afterward, Luda flexed his fingers in agony, certain they would never properly close again.

  Spitting out a mouthful of blood and a fractured tooth, Grand Pip Berlid unleashed a relentless barrage. Bewilderment crossed Luda's face—not from the devastating power behind each blow, nor from the earl's formidable resilience, but from his inexhaustible endurance. The Earl of Halfhill, after delivering strikes powerful enough to fell a dire wolf or mountain lynx, showed no hint of fatigue, no labored breathing—a feat that even Luda Friez, hardened by countless battles in the arena, found impossible to match. He could only turtle behind his arms, weathering a storm of blows. But a man can only weather such a storm for so long; his guard finally shattered, and Grand Pip's right hook caved in the side of his dog-helm, likely fracturing the skull beneath, judging by the state of the earl's shattered knuckles. The iron-clad giant collapsed, his hands spasming against the blood-soaked ground as he struggled to rise. The "Black Bear" dropped to one knee, captured Luda Friez's distinctive helmet in his left arm, and with a single powerful wrench, rotated the man's head a full hundred and eighty degrees. And so it ended. Pip Berlid, the Earl of Halfhill, had fulfilled his oath. He had paid his father's blood debt, half a century old, and reclaimed the honor of his House.

  Baron Lazette of Stone Castle continued his unrestrained wailing. Standard-bearer Bort, consciousness returning at the sound of those cries, crawled painfully to his side. "Enough noise," he muttered, attempting futilely to lift the horse's carcass before gripping Lazette's shoulders and dragging him from beneath the crushing weight. "Quiet yourself, my lord." He pulled the baron beside a grisly heap of corpses, then collapsed in exhaustion. "I believe we've contributed all we can, Baron. Henceforth, we must surrender to fate's whims—perhaps feign death, if you understand my meaning?"

  "To hell with this 'baron' nonsense!" Lazette sobbed, voice unmodulated by caution. "I was never truly a baron—merely a wine steward!" He violently discarded his helmet—Bort found himself startled by the unexpected beauty the armor had concealed. "I never should have been on this gods damned battlefield!" he finally shrieked, the tears unstoppable. "It was because Earl Matel was too afraid to fight, so he sent me here to die for him!" He bestowed a title upon me with less consideration than discarding a favored catamite. I acquired my banner and heraldry mere days ago—hastily assembled from nothing! That contemptible earl, to satisfy his perverse inclinations, sentenced a pretty wine-pourer to wholesale slaughter! Consider the malevolence of such an act! It constitutes murder—cold-blooded murder!"

  Bort clamped his hand firmly across the baron's mouth, stifling further outbursts. "But my leg is broken!" Lazette pried away the restraining hand, continuing his tirade. "I sought only to withdraw from combat! Why, in all the hells, did reinforcements materialize?!" Bort's grip slackened, overtaken by unexpected sympathy. "Now I've sacrificed everything below my waist—my existence is utterly ruined!"

  "You retain your life," Bort observed, fighting through the lingering consequences of his earlier impact. "Regarding your leg, it likely represents a simple fracture—amenable to treatment. However, should you persist with these vocalizations, we shall indeed spend eternity among these cadavers." Hearing this sobering assessment, Lazette sniffled quietly, dragged an arrow-pierced Cynthian knight's corpse atop himself for concealment, and gradually subsided into relative silence.

  The Earl of Halfhill, Grand Pip Berlid, retrieved his legendary blade "Bonecrusher," only to notice several Friezs advancing cautiously toward his position. "Seeking vengeance for your fallen beast?" he challenged loudly in common tongue, receiving only snarling grimaces in response. "Merely four combatants?" The earl laughed derisively. "A paltry four." The quartet of Friezs launched themselves with uncanny synchronization, movements almost perfectly coordinated. Grand Pip elevated his greatsword with both hands, advanced his right foot, and with a diagonal stroke, cleaved away half the shoulder of the first attacker. However, the sweeping motion exposed a vulnerability beneath his left arm; the second Friez instantly exploited this opening, driving his blade deep into unprotected flesh. Grand Pip let out a roar of such agony it might have woken the dead. Abandoning his left-handed grip, he endured the excruciating pain of shattered finger bones while executing an upward strike with his right—Friez Number Two's head separated cleanly from his shoulders. The same tactical weakness, the same target location. The third Friez circled behind, burying his sword into the earl's right posterior shoulder. Grand Pip collapsed to one knee, his agonized cry reverberating across the battlefield. Despite both shoulders rendered nearly useless by grievous wounds, the Earl of Halfhill maintained his grip on his massive blade, twisted his body forward with tremendous effort, and impaled the third Friez through his lightly armored waist. He lurched forward several steps, nearly hoisting the impaled enemy off the ground entirely. Only when the man's intestines spilled forth in glistening coils did the earl shake him free from the blade. The final Friez, contestant number four, stared in horrified disbelief before steeling himself to deliver the coup de grace. Grand Pip knelt in an expanding pool of his own blood, seemingly defenseless as a sacrificial offering. Yet something in his unflinching gaze caused Friez Number Four to falter momentarily. But the battlefield loves a surprise. Just then, a thrown rock caught the Friez on the temple—Bort proving he would have made a better slinger than a standard-bearer. As Friez Number Four clutched his helmet in sudden disorientation, Bort charged forward, short sword extended, colliding with and toppling his target before driving his blade repeatedly through the exposed throat.

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  Withdrawing his bloodied weapon from thoroughly mangled flesh, the standard-bearer—hands trembling violently—hurried toward his fallen lord. After merely two steps, he found himself sprawling once more—though this time, the earth itself convulsed beneath him. Stones defied gravity, rising into the air; fissures materialized across the ground while golden radiance suffused the atmosphere. The remaining Friezs finally experienced genuine terror, partially from witnessing Luda Friez's inconceivable defeat, partially from the supernatural earthquake. Godman commander Sir Ardent, observing his elite berserkers' unprecedented loss of fighting spirit, found himself compelled to order withdrawal to their original assembly position—the waiting infantry, spears poised for combat, regarded the retreating Friezs with profound confusion. Several questioned Ardent directly; he offered neither explanation nor disciplinary response, merely a solemn headshake. When they beheld the indestructible Wall of Gold shortly thereafter, however, they would recognize the commander's prescience with immense gratitude.

  Standard-bearer Bort expended his remaining strength attempting to extract the unconscious Grand Pip from the expanding, luminous chasm. "I should have pursued ecclesiastical service, transporting wounded or retrieving fallen comrades," he muttered self-deprecatingly. "I implore you, my lord—assist me with even slight movement." Grand Pip's substantial weight forced Bort to pause for labored breathing after every minimal progress. "To be honest," he mumbled to himself, "I'm just the standard-bearer. My job is to hold the damn flag in the middle of the battle, not charge at the front. So you see, Baron, I'm just as cursed as you are."

  The most catastrophic scenario suddenly materialized before his eyes. Cynthian forces, perceiving the Godman withdrawal, began organizing massive pursuit operations—a tactical decision with potentially devastating consequences, as the imminent magical barrier would sever their retreat route, isolating them in hostile territory without support. "I must intervene somehow." Despite understanding the barrier strategy and Duke Pafaheim's broader tactical framework, Bort now found himself virtually powerless to influence battlefield developments. "Abandon pursuit!" he shouted desperately. "Terminate pursuit operations immediately!" He harbored little hope that his voice would penetrate the chaotic din.

  His assessment proved incorrect, as another, more fundamental sound responded to his plea. Lazette, Baron of Stone Castle, thrust aside the concealing corpse, pressed the urine-scented bugle to his lips, and with his remaining vitality, produced the most mournfully poignant melody of his existence. House Berlid's bugle corps responded instantaneously, retreat signals rising and falling in harmonious succession. "Magnificent contribution, Baron," Bort's lips curved appreciatively while continuing to extricate his lord from the widening abyss—Grand Pip's lower extremities were already partially engulfed by the fissure. The bugle's tone wavered perceptibly. Lazette maintained his performance while retreating atop the mound of fallen warriors as a Godman knight advanced methodically toward him, blood-spattered faceplate with its distinctive perforations completely obscuring any emotional reaction. Lazette's entire frame quivered uncontrollably, warm liquid once again saturating his lower garments, yet he persisted in his musical signal. In earlier times, he had encountered legends claiming that bugles and horns extracted life-force from their players; each note represented literal vitality expenditure. (So the stories were true.) Trapped in a pile of the dead, with nowhere to run. (And now... I am part of one.)

  Despite his cowardice, sycophantic nature, and complete absence of knightly virtue, subsequent generations would indeed incorporate him into legendary narratives. Bort impulsively seized a nearby stone and hurled it toward the approaching Godman knight—striking Baron Lazette squarely in the face instead. The bugle call terminated abruptly as the baron lost consciousness, but his initial signal had ignited sufficient response for other buglers to maintain the message. The Godman knight hesitated momentarily, then redirected his attention toward Bort, whose lower extremities suddenly weakened considerably. Fortuitously, Lazette's newly appointed adjutant arrived at the critical moment, driving his sword through the Southerner's neck from behind with lethal precision.

  Grand Pip Berlid, hovering at consciousness's threshold, perceived someone dragging his massive form. Battlefield clamor diminished progressively; his knights abandoned pursuit operations in favor of establishing defensive positions. Shortly thereafter, additional assistance arrived to extract him from the expanding crevasse—dust, stone fragments, soil, and golden particulate matter levitated skyward, gradually coalescing into a semi-transparent, undulating golden wave. In the next instant, the golden barrier erupted from the earth. It rose with such impossible speed that a Berlid knight, trying to leap back across the chasm, was sliced clean in two, from groin to crown. The translucent magical construct towered above even Cynthia's legendary wall, interspersed with barely contained golden lightning discharges. The Goldbrick Wall successfully contained Godma's seemingly invincible military juggernaut for an extraordinary six-hour duration.