Part of Ralph’s mind dimly registered the way his glaive hewed attacker after attacker like black wheat cut down by a scythe, the impossibly sharp blade cutting effortlessly through metal, leather, wood, bone and sinew; the warm, gouting life’s blood that spattered and sprayed in slashes with each stroke; the insane, undaunted frenzy of Goblins who seemed immune to fear . . .
‘Change positions!’
It took Ralph a moment to realise that the enemy had broken off the attack. Breathing heavily, he backed up with the other soldiers in his line until they were in the rear.
Harsh, brazen horns began to sound, and the enemy broke off the attack to regroup. For an instant, Ralph felt his spirits lift, until he looked around him. The lines of defenders were perceptibly thinner. On the ground, before the line of black, broken, hewn bodies, lay several Elves, many of whom struggled desperately to regain their feet, despite physical agony and the extremity of their wounds. They would not be able to hold their ground for long. He caught Gannet’s eye as the big Elf, too, surveyed the carnage.
‘Positions! Field assistants, begin collecting weapons! Leave nothing behind! After the next assault, we will prepare to withdraw!’
Ralph couldn’t believe what he was hearing! They were retreating already?