The Battle for the Pickette [2]

"Push the right!" Osiris roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Break their line and drive them back!"

He surged forward, his black blade leading the charge. His honor guard followed, their weapons flashing as they cut a path through the Estil ranks. The enemy fought with brutal efficiency, their oval shields forming an unyielding wall. But Osiris was relentless. His blade struck with the precision of a hawk diving for its prey, finding the gaps in their defenses.

An Impaler—a warrior with a spinning corkscrew blade attached to his arm—lunged at him, the whirring weapon aimed for his chest. Osiris sidestepped, his blade darting out to slice through the man's exposed wrist. The Impaler screamed, his weapon clattering to the ground as Osiris finished him with a swift thrust to the throat.

Despite his efforts, the weight of exhaustion bore down on him. His limbs felt leaden, his vision blurred at the edges. Three sleepless nights had sapped his strength, and even adrenaline could only carry him so far. Still, he fought, his determination unyielding.

For a brief moment, it seemed they might break through. The right flank of the Estil line wavered, their ranks thinning as Astad's soldiers pushed forward. Osiris felt a flicker of hope—a fragile, fleeting thing.

Then he saw it.

The abomination, the multi-armed Gahkar, moved toward the right flank. Its grotesque form plowed through men like a living battering ram, its bone-sheathed arms crushing and tearing with inhuman strength. The Astad soldiers faltered, their momentum stolen as fear gripped them.

Osiris's heart sank. He turned to rally his men, but the weariness in their eyes told him what he already knew. They had given everything, and it wasn't enough.

Osiris stepped back, his breath ragged, his blade slick with blood. The cries of the dying filled his ears, a haunting symphony of despair. He looked to the horizon, where the crimson sun hung low, casting its bloody light over the battlefield.

"This is it," he muttered. "This is where we fall."

He thought of his wife, her laughter ringing through the halls of Wyvernmore. He thought of Alden, his son's bright eyes full of wonder as he held his first wooden sword. He thought of Ralik, whose songs had always managed to bring a smile to his face, even in the darkest times.

And then he thought of the men who had followed him here, who had trusted him to lead them. He owed them more than this, but there was nothing left to give.

Raising his blade one final time, Osiris prepared to meet his end—not as a general, not as a noble, but as a man who had given everything for those he loved.

"Men of Astad," he called, his voice strong despite the tremor in his hands. "Stand with me, one last time."

The Pickette trembled like a dying beast. Every thundering drumbeat from Estil's warbands seemed to echo inside Osiris's chest, each one a dirge for the men who still stood by him. The once-proud defenders of the land bridge now resembled hollow shells, their eyes sunken, their movements sluggish. They had held against impossible odds for days, but their strength was waning, and Osiris could see it—the inevitable collapse that loomed over them like a shadow.

The crimson sun bore down on the battlefield, painting the stone foundations of the Pickette in blood. Osiris wiped the sweat and grime from his brow, though it did little to clear his vision. His black blade felt heavier than it ever had, its edges dulled by days of relentless use. He had swung it so many times he could feel the grooves of its hilt imprinted on his palms.

The Gahkar—the so-called warlords of Estil—stalked the battlefield like gods of destruction. Each one was a legend reborn, their names whispered in fear across Lorian. Osiris had once dismissed them as myths, stories meant to frighten children. Now, he faced them in the flesh, and the realization hit him like a hammer to the chest. They were real, and they were unstoppable.

Osiris watched in grim silence as the battlefield descended into chaos. The Gahkar had brought their beasts, and they were as nightmarish as the stories described. The Relights—massive lizards with translucent blue skin and jaws that unhinged like serpents—plowed through the Astad ranks with savage efficiency. Their tails lashed out, crushing men into pulp, while their claws shredded through shields and armor.

Above them, the shadow of Wen, the Prince of Crows, passed over the battlefield. His monstrous, four-legged glider, feathers shimmering like molten gold, landed amidst the chaos. The beast's massive maw snapped shut around a cluster of Astad soldiers, silencing their screams in an instant. Wen himself perched atop the creature with an almost casual grace, his presence a stark reminder of Estil's dominance.

Osiris's men faltered, their lines breaking as panic spread like wildfire. "Hold!" Osiris roared, his voice cutting through the cacophony. "Form up! The beasts are just flesh—they can bleed!"

But even as he said it, he knew the truth. These weren't mere beasts—they were symbols of Estil's might, the living embodiment of the warlord's iron will. They weren't just fighting monsters; they were fighting legends.

Osiris spotted a gap in the enemy's lines—a weakness in their right flank. Hope, fragile and fleeting, stirred in his chest. If they could break through, they might create a path to regroup. It was a desperate gamble, but it was all they had.

"Push the right!" he bellowed, his voice raw with determination. "Break their line and scatter them!"

His men surged forward, their tired bodies moving with one final burst of energy. Osiris led the charge, his black blade cutting a path through Estil's warriors. He felt the familiar rhythm of battle return, the ebb and flow of steel meeting steel. For a brief, shining moment, it seemed as if they might succeed.

Then, the trap was sprung.

The weakness had been a feint. Estil's forces closed in on both flanks, encircling the Astad soldiers like wolves cornering their prey. The right flank crumbled as the Gahkar unleashed their fury. Kanna, drenched in blood and wielding brutal impaling weapons, tore through men like a farmer threshing wheat. Tasha, the Wyvern Slayer, appeared next, her sickle gleaming as she stalked the battlefield with predatory precision.

Osiris's hope turned to ash in his throat as he realized the scale of their failure. "Fall back!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Regroup at the center!"

But it was too late. The lines had broken. His men were no longer soldiers—they were panicked, desperate men fleeing for their lives. Estil's warriors showed no mercy, cutting them down as they ran. The land bridge became a slaughterhouse.