Chapter 49 - 48

Chapter 49: Chapter 48 Two days later, at nightfall. By the time the sun dipped below the trees, the howls had begun. "Awooooo!" The chilling cry echoed from all directions, rising into a chorus. Hundreds of wolves were closing in. "It’s begun," Skitz muttered, his ears twitching as the vibrations rippled through the trees. He stepped up to the left side of the wooden wall, one claw resting lightly on the hilt of his blade. Behind him stood Krivex, already notching an arrow, eyes cold and focused. Takkar cracked his knuckles, twin axes glinting under torchlight. Skarn and Vakk stood shoulder to shoulder, flanking Aren, whose spear was angled forward, grounded like a battle flag in stone. All of them stood silent—but the air around them trembled with anticipation. Across the field, on the right side of the wall, stood Lumberling. His silhouette was calm, unmoving, framed by the glow of firelight and moon. Behind him waited Gobo1 and Gobo2, swords drawn and low to the ground. Gorrak stood in the center, hammer resting on his shoulder, eyes locked forward with grim resolve. And behind every captain, lined up with discipline, stood their vice-captains, nerves on edge, hands tight around spear shafts and crossbow grips. They had known this would come. The eagle scouts had spotted the advancing horde. Preparations had been made—barricades reinforced, traps laid, weapons sharpened. Rehearsed formations. Now, the storm had arrived. The night held its breath. Then, with a rustle of leaves and the thunder of paws, the siege began. "Light the torches! Archers to the wall!" "Bows ready—wait for my signal!" The captains barked out crisp orders. They had trained for this. Anticipated it. Every soldier moved with purpose. The goblin village was protected by thick wooden walls and a reinforced gate. Too tall for wolves to leap over. Too strong to shatter in one charge. Still, the tension hung heavy. Another howl cut through the night. "Awooooo!" And then they came—hundreds of wolves charging through the dark, their glowing eyes like embers in the black. A flicker of silver eyes in the trees. The first wolf broke through the underbrush, a blur of gray muscle and snapping teeth. Then another. Then dozens. The ground itself trembled. "Hold..." Skitz growled. Arrows were nocked. Triggers were cocked. Knuckles whitened. The wind shifted. A single howl split the air—short, sharp, and commanding. The signal. "FIRE!" Skitz’s voice cracked through the din like thunder. Thwip-thwip-thwip! Twang! Thunk! A storm of arrows erupted from the walls. It was beautiful in its violence. Arrows streaked like black rain. Crossbow bolts spun midair. For a moment, the battlefield became a deadly sculpture of motion—steel glinting, firelight flickering, bodies in mid-leap. The first wave of wolves collapsed mid-charge. Some skidded in the mud, others flipped violently as bolts sank deep into their ribs or skulls. But the rest kept coming. As if the first line’s death only paved the way for the next. A storm of arrows streaked into the night sky, falling upon the charging wolves with deadly precision. Bodies tumbled. The advance slowed—briefly. Then the traps sprang. Hidden bombs made by Skitz’s Detonation Seal exploded in bursts of smoke and fire. Pits opened beneath paws, impaling wolves on sharpened stakes. But the numbers kept coming, and soon the traps were overwhelmed. The wolves reached the wall, leaping and snarling, their teeth scraping bark as they tried to climb. The defenders kept firing. "Keep them off!" "Shoot the ones climbing!" "There’s too many!" "Kill them all!" A third, deeper howl reverberated like a drumbeat from the trees. The wolves changed tactics. As the goblin soldiers pushed back the tide of snarling beasts, Skitz narrowed his eyes from atop the rampart. "Something’s wrong," he muttered. "They’re not just charging anymore." Below, the wolves weren’t mindlessly rushing the wall like before. They split into smaller groups, flanking left and right, circling the trenches with eerie precision. "They’re coordinating," Krivex shouted. "They’re testing our gaps!" From the west side, Aren barked, "Don’t break formation! That’s a feint—STAY IN POSITION!" More howls echoed—short, clipped, almost rhythmic. Orders. "...They’re stacking," one soldier whispered in horror. The beasts began climbing on top of each other, sacrificing themselves to form a living ramp. Others gnawed at the walls with relentless hunger. The chaos pulsed like a living thing. "Archers—up front! Keep the fletching tight!" "Reload the crossbows—NOW!" ..... Behind the defenses, a young goblin archer—fumbled to reload his crossbow, his fingers shaking. Lumberling caught his eye from across the wall. He didn’t say anything. He just gave the goblin a firm nod. The goblin swallowed, blinked, and steadied his grip. Lumberling turned away, the weight in his chest heavier than usual. Shouts overlapped, some rising above the roar of snarls and steel. Each captain’s voice fought to hold their squad together amid the churning battlefield. Then came the dire wolves—larger, smarter, more savage. The captains responded instantly. "Soldiers—prepare for close combat! Hold your formation!" Lumberling’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. At once, goblins and kobolds dropped their bows, drawing spears, swords, and axes with practiced hands. The shift was swift—but not a moment too soon. Wolves leapt the wooden walls, clawing their way over with terrifying agility. The first few were impaled on waiting spears, but others surged in behind them—snarling, biting, clawing. The tight formation began to buckle. "Too many! They’re flooding through!" "Reinforce the center! Hold the line!" But it was clear—they’d lost the high ground. What began as ranged defense was now a brutal melee. "Captains—focus on the Dire Wolves! Don’t let them reach the core ranks!" Lumberling barked. He tossed his bow aside and gripped his spear tightly, its familiar weight grounding him. With a running leap from the platform, he dropped into the fray. A dire wolf lunged. He met it head-on, his spear flashing—a clean thrust through the neck, twisting out in a spray of blood. Another came from the side. He pivoted, the shaft snapping across its muzzle, knocking it off balance before driving the point through its chest. There was no hesitation. No waste of motion. Just war. ..... Skitz at the other side of the wall giving commands. In an instant, blades flashing like shadows. He fought like a reaper, cutting down the biggest threats near the wall. As Skitz carved through a cluster of dire wolves, his sharp eyes caught movement deeper in the trees—a larger wolf, half-hidden in shadow, barking orders with its eyes. The leader. Watching. Commanding from safety. He glanced back at the defensive line—soldiers holding the wall, captains shouting commands, arrows flying. "Aren, Krivex," he called out. "I’m going after the Alpha. Hold the line." "Take us with you," Aren replied, gripping his spear. Skitz shook his head. "Not this time. Command the troops while I’m gone." Without another word, he vaulted over the gate and vanished into the forest shadows, racing toward the flicker of fur and fangs he’d seen. ..... Across the wall from Lumberling, the trees shivered and the earth stirred—something was coming. Two massive shapes emerged from the dark—Alpha Dire Wolves, a mated pair, each the size of a horse. Their eyes glowed crimson, and their fangs gleamed beneath the torchlight. Lumberling felt the pressure immediately. Without hesitation, he vaulted over the wall, landing with a thud outside the village. He couldn’t risk them entering the village. The aura rolling off the pair was suffocating—dense, primal, and unmistakably powerful. Knight Apprentice level, or close to it. If they reached the walls, the damage would be catastrophic. The male Alpha struck first, lunging with jaws wide. Lumberling’s spear snapped downward, catching the beast mid-leap with a resounding clang. Steel met fang—and held. Sparks flew, and the wolf twisted back, snarling. The second Alpha began to circle. Its movements were deliberate. Intelligent. Coordinated. These weren’t just oversized animals. They were Alphas—pack lords from the deep woods, honed by the kind of survival that crushed lesser beasts. Even monsters avoided their kind. ’Damn. They’re no joke.’ Lumberling kept moving, light on his feet. He weaved between claws and fangs, parrying with precise angles, slicing when an opening came—but never overcommitting. He was stalling. Waiting. ’Skitz will notice. He’ll come. Just hold on a bit longer...’ ..... The wolves had breached the walls. A thunder of paws and snarls tore through the night. But the goblin and kobold defenders were ready—and so were the riders. From the western side of the village, the rumble of hooves—or rather, boar-tusks and fury—grew louder. Skarn, atop a massive boar, he raised his curved blade and let out a guttural roar. "Boar riders! Formation Delta! Follow me—trample the flank!" The cavalry surged. Dozens of goblins gripped their mounts with strong thighs, holding short spears and axes. The boars bellowed, their tusks glinting in the firelight as they charged through a breach where dire wolves had begun to spill in. "Aim for the legs! Sweep the beasts off their paws! Ride through and circle back!" Skarn shouted mid-gallop, veering sharply to slam a dire wolf in the ribs with a shoulder-charge that sent it spinning. The cavalry didn’t aim to hold—they aimed to puncture, harass, and throw the wolves into disarray. Every pass ended with a spray of blood, a howl of pain, and the thunder of hooves pulling away before the wolves could counter. "Rider squad two—reinforce the right gate! Cut their rear! Now!" Skarn shouted, turning to face another pack that tried to flank the archers. His command was swift, effective, and merciless. He didn’t hesitate to call for fallback or flank maneuvers when riders risked being pinned. The battlefield shifted. With Skarn’s cavalry disrupting the wolves’ formation and the frontlines holding with brutal coordination, the wolves began to lose momentum. One massive wolf attempted to lunge at a cluster of retreating archers—only for Skarn to leap from his saddle, drive his blade into its neck mid-air, and crash down into the mud beside it. He rolled, teeth bared, and barked, "No one breaks our lines. Not tonight." Then, whistling sharply, his boar circled back and lowered its body for him to mount again. He climbed on, bloodied but grinning. "Round again! Riders—charge! Let the ground remember our weight!"