Chapter 217: Armored Great Wall
"Crackle!" The campfire cast a gentle glow, warming the tents scattered around it. Many of the dwarven sentries shivered in the cold, their noses running uncontrollably. Every now and then, someone would raise a flask from their belt and take a deep swig. Everyone was on high alert, their eyes wide open, scanning the darkness—after all, those terrifying troll spear-throwers could easily send an unprepared heavy-armored unit straight to the Eternal Lands. The great King Rynar had almost proven this with his own life.
"Will they come?" Ory wiped his nose and turned to Oyin.
"Who knows? But seeing how serious King Rynar's subordinates are about this, it doesn't seem like empty paranoia." Floyd chimed in, uncorking his flask and pouring warm dwarven fire whiskey into his mouth.
...
"By the Dragon God! Are they really drinking like this?" A few Lordaeron rangers stationed atop the trees for lookout wrinkled their noses as the scent of alcohol drifted through the camp.
"Who knows? I just hope they won't be too drunk to swing their axes later…" One of the rangers rubbed his reddened nose.
"Alright, enough chatter! Stay alert! We're not here to gossip! Keep your eyes on the surroundings. It's already past midnight—those trolls should be making their move soon!" The ranger captain ordered sternly.
Immediately, the previously chatty group fell silent. They were the outermost defense line of the camp and, arguably, the most important.
...
"My lord, why aren't you resting?" Caslow, noticing Rynar still awake in the dead of night, poked the embers in the fire pit and asked.
"Damn it! If you got hit by those bastards, you'd know why! Do you think I want to stay up? It hurts like hell!" Rynar cursed under his breath.
"Ah, what a shame. I have yet to experience such a thing myself…" Caslow muttered, looking genuinely puzzled.
"I—what the—" Rynar was momentarily speechless. Caslow's words seemed innocent enough, but why did they sound so insulting? Was that a hidden jab?
"Swish!" The tent flap was lifted, and Omsk stepped in, steadying his sword.
"Hey! Brave lad, come warm yourself by the fire. So? Have our guests arrived yet?" Rynar teased. The nighttime chill had already coated Omsk's armor with a thin layer of frost.
"Your Highness, you jest… But no, the blackskins are still quiet." Omsk shook his head and sat by the fire.
"Keep our men on alert, but make sure they stay warm. It's freezing out tonight," Rynar said, eyeing Omsk's armor.
"Rest assured, Your Highness. I've already passed the word along," Omsk nodded.
"The second half of the night is almost over, and still no sign of them? Could it be that they're not coming?" Caslow scratched his head and yawned.
"Hah, I hope they come soon. The sooner we fight, the sooner we can rest easy. Otherwise, we'll have to spend the entire journey on edge," Omsk frowned. Compared to an all-out troll assault, he was more worried about guerrilla harassment. If that happened, he'd have to seriously consider persuading Prince Rynar to retreat—Zaltarion Kingdom simply didn't have enough manpower to throw into this endless pit.
"Indeed. A spear you can see is far less dangerous than an arrow in the dark," Rynar nodded in agreement.
"We wait. One way or another, we'll have our answer soon," Caslow murmured as he tucked himself into his blanket by the fire.
...
"Rustle~" The shifting foliage in the forest caught the attention of a Lordaeron ranger perched on a tree branch.
"What's that?" He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the shape. Unconsciously, his hand tightened around his bowstring.
"Creak—" The sound of a bow being drawn was sharp and distinct in the quiet night.
"Thud!" The bowstring trembled as a steel arrow whistled into the depths of the forest.
"Aaargh!" A deep, agonized howl followed. The arrow had clearly struck something.
"Enemy attack! Damn it, they're here! Prepare for battle!" The sentry ranger bellowed at the top of his lungs before swiftly leaping from the tree.
"Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!" A series of wooden spears embedded themselves into the tree trunk. If the ranger had lingered even a second longer, he would have been skewered like a pinned insect. (Seriously, does anyone still believe a ranger's leather and chain armor can stop a troll's spear throw?)
"Damn it! They're here! Fight back! Kill them!" The Lordaeron ranger captain stepped forward, rallying his comrades to desperately hold back the charging trolls. But their numbers were too few—they could only slow the tide.
"The camp must've heard the alarm by now! Our job is done! Fall back, men!" The ranger captain shouted, signaling retreat as a tidal wave of trolls swarmed forward.
...
"Oh, for the love of— I just closed my eyes! What the hell is happening?!" Rynar found himself abruptly lifted—yes, lifted—by someone. As he groggily tried to open his eyes, he felt people frantically strapping something onto him. Based on the sensation, it was armor.
"Your Highness! The trolls are attacking! The Lordaeron rangers are holding them at the perimeter, but they won't last long. Omsk and I need to organize the defenses. Take care of yourself, Your Highness!" Caslow burst into the tent, letting in a blast of freezing air. Rynar shivered as his senses fully returned.
"Trolls are here?! Dragon God above! Hurry! Armor me up!" Rynar snapped awake, snatching up his plate armor and strapping it on at a speed that left his attendants gaping in astonishment.
"Oh my! Look! Behold! The great King of Zaltarion! His armor-donning speed rivals that of a Violet Thunder Dragon! Are you really that afraid to die?" The blue drake lounging in the corner lazily lifted its head and mocked.
"Screw off! I don't have dragon scales, you overgrown lizard!" Rynar kicked the blue drake out of the way, grabbed the divine shield Elyar and his dragon-slaying sword, and charged out of the tent.
"Tch! Trolls? Those insects hold no real threat. Just look at how panicked you all are…" The arrogant blue drake huffed, fluttering back onto Rynar's hammock and shutting its dragon eyes once more.
...
"What's the situation?" Rynar asked, his face slightly pale as he arrived at the front lines.
"King Rynar, I must trouble you once more," Balin sighed.
"It's fine! We had to deal with these things sooner or later anyway," Rynar shook his head.
"The situation is this: alarms have gone up all around us. It looks like they plan to encircle us! I've ordered all troops to take up defensive positions. The royal guards will hold the front gates of the camp. The Dunwenian Heavy Swordsmen and city guards will defend the rear—their thick armor will shrug off wooden spears, and the city guards will make the enemy pay in bolts and javelins. The left and right flanks are covered by dwarves and the retreating rangers. I trust they'll hold the line," Omsk quickly explained.
"Lord Balin! Any objections?" Rynar turned.
"None at all. Your men are well placed," Balin affirmed.
"Then it's settled! We stand and fight here!" Rynar declared, looking at the steel-clad warriors forming a living fortress before him. Trolls? Just some overgrown mutts!
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