If she had been two heartbeats late, the cleaver of the opponent to her left would have split her skull. Instead, it bit deep into the side of her shield. Her own spearhead, however, found its mark, striking a brief moment sooner than the gnoll had anticipated, thanks to her sliding lunge. She drove it under his arm almost to the wood. First, she yanked her shield, disarming the opponent whose weapon was still stuck in it. Then, with another cry, she expertly wrenched her spear free, taking a step back. The enemy before her let out a vile bark as he fell on his face, clutching at the profusely bleeding wound. As he lay dying at her feet, the disarmed warrior beside him tried to draw a knife from his belt, but two other recruits had already run him through with quick thrusts of their spears.
In the sudden elation of her first victory in a life-or-death struggle, Gra’sha saw all the energy she had perceived before now spilling onto the ground like the blood at her feet. It was being wasted, soaking into the soil on one hand, and slowly dissipating into the air like smoke in the wind on the other. She reached for that energy, not with a request as she would in the grove, but as if it were something owed to her as the victor. In just a moment, about half of the aura that hadn’t yet scattered flowed swiftly into her, like a greedy gulp from a waterskin squeezed to speed the process. An unexpectedly potent surge of power filled her body and heart. It was dominant, ecstatic.
She turned the other way, where her companions had been less fortunate. Two already lay dead in grotesque poses, smashed by the two-handed mace of a furious gnoll, who, with foam on its muzzle and madness in its eyes, now turned its attention to the young warrior. She focused on him. Breathing steadily, she awaited his attack. For such a heavy weapon, the beast wielded it with surprising speed; it came close to shattering her leg, but she could almost feel the overseer's stick on her shoulder and pulled it back just in time, transitioning smoothly into a counterattack, this time thrusting at the neck of the male towering over her.
The spearhead tore open his throat. He dropped the mace and clamped one hand to the wound while lashing out blindly with the other, lunging forward. There was a body behind her, so she couldn't step away. She shielded herself with her buckler, but his claws tore through the already damaged structure and it split in half. He was too close for her to attack again with the spear, so she dropped it and the broken shield and tried to reach for her hatchet, struggling to keep her balance. If she’d had another moment, she would have drawn her weapon, but he was faster. He simply crashed into her and clamped his jaws on her shoulder. They both fell, and for a brief moment, the girl expected the worst. Luckily, the gambeson protected her from the fatal effects of the first wrench, leaving only a few bloody marks from the longest fangs that had pierced through to her skin, embedding themselves shallowly. A second bite never came. He had lost too much blood and went still, lying motionless on top of her, his breath growing ever shallower, his jaws still clamped down.
The stench from its maw was so strong it almost made her eyes water, but worse, its enormous body slid further down, covering her completely, so that she could barely see what was happening around her. Under such a weight, she struggled to breathe. As she gathered her strength and searched for leverage to push him off, beasts from the second rank quickly filled the gap. And though the volunteers of the first rank couldn't be denied their courage, most were now being replaced by the second rank, ceding some ground to the enemy. She realized that if she didn't get out from under this corpse now, she would soon be surrounded, and sooner or later, someone among enemies would notice she was alive. Staying silent, she allowed the body to rest freely on her for a moment, letting her bring her elbows to her sides so she could shove it off with one decisive push. It took a moment to find her footing and a place to effectively grip the now-dead gnoll. She mustered her strength and, to her equal parts amazement and relief, heaved the corpse to her right.
At almost the same instant, a warning-like yapping erupted from the right flank. Gra’sha leaped to her feet, drew the hatchet from her belt, and, catching her breath, ducked a blow from a scimitar that almost took her face. She gave her opponent no time to bring his weapon back to a proper stance and, with a sudden lunge, she cut him from the opposite side, effectively tearing open his belly and spilling his guts. She now stood in line with volunteers from the second, and even third, rank. She quickly glanced on the right side of the battlefield. The central assault was progressing well. Meanwhile, the flank to the right was closing in, so the central part of the gnoll troop would soon have to defend its front and its side. It dawned on her that the fate of the battle had been decided in their favor.
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It wasn't just obvious to her. Three short blasts from the horn she had heard earlier caused the gnolls, in a grim fury, to begin defending themselves with greater ferocity, trying to hold their position while their young began to flee toward the sound of the horn. The battle had entered its final phase, where the gnoll warriors fought to prolong the slaughter, not for victory. The girl even found a sliver of respect for their stance. They were protecting their litter, buying time, knowing they wouldn't make it out alive.
The battle fervor held her tight nonetheless, and she let no one get ahead of her. Volunteers from the first rank were mostly wounded or dead, but she remained, caught in a seemingly endless series of duels. In a brief moment to breathe, when no one was before her, she tucked the hatchet back into her belt, picked up her own spear, then grabbed the shield of an unfortunate soul who hadn't managed to protect himself in time. With a fluid motion, she raised it to shield her left side and then almost ran forward to the next opponent. She decided that she would not only survive but would earn her place in the warrior caste, and even if not today and not tomorrow, then sooner or later, she would stand among them. In this elation, she now drew instinctively upon the spiritual energy escaping her foes—much more modestly than the first time, but still enough to fuel her battle dance. With each enemy killed, it seemed to grow a little faster.
This was her first real battle; she had never tested her strength under such conditions. Her thrusts, now piercing easily through the leather and bone of her enemies, carried a force disproportionate to her stature. She pressed forward, striking at vulnerable points with practiced precision, in a cold fury, not letting other volunteers overtake her or push her back. By the time the bloody slaughter came to an end, she had suffered many superficial wounds. She even pulled a stray arrow from her shoulder, which she assumed hadn't gone deep despite piercing her gambeson, because she felt practically no pain from the wound. In return, she had a good dozen opponents whose felling could be credited to her. She had earned it.
When the dust of battle settled and the last cries of victory faded, they set about helping the wounded. Gra’sha struggled to contain the energy surging through her. She suspected she had been too greedy. In the grove or on other occasions, she had never drunk so deeply of this ambrosia as she had here, in this battle. So, she remained active. She was gladdened by the sight of Mal’gor; like her, he had survived to the end. While passing by, they clasped their right hands in silence, gave each other a nod accompanied by grunt of approval and returned to work.
Helping to gather the wounded, she quickly realized they had almost as many injured as they did dead. Now she understood why there had been so many ranks on the volunteers' flank. Only half of them remained, and it was unclear how many more would be taken by their wounds in the coming days.
Their smaller kin had arrived from the reserves. These goblin helpers first tended to the wounded, then loaded the spoils onto the wagons. They gathered the gnoll bodies into one great pile and the orcs who had not lived to see victory onto a single wagon dedicated solely to that purpose. These expendable youths from the low caste would end up in a single, collective burial mound in the forest near the stronghold.
She and the goblins were the only ones attending to the fallen. An hour later, preparing to move out, Gra’sha wondered if she could truly give them the farewell they deserved. She was the sole survivor from the front line of the volunteer wing, and while her body’s strength still held, dark thoughts began to flood her mind. Why me? What made me worthy of being spared by fate when no one else was? Without the gift, would all my training, all my effort, have been enough?
When she was sitting away from the wagon, the overseer approached and patted her on the helmet with the same gesture he had used that morning in the yard. “I knew you’d manage,” she could hear pride in his voice, but it was laced with a shadow of resignation. “Keep it up, Gra’sha.”
She didn't know what to say, so she just nodded her head respectfully. He walked away, leaving her with her thoughts. It was then she understood that he must have known, or at least suspected, how this would end. Expedition after expedition, watching volunteers confront the consequences of their own ambitions—it was an unenviable fate.
A moment later, the final order to march was given; they were returning home.
