Way of The Pride

23| The Conclusion

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Battleground
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Narrator's Voice

The path had been cleared and everyone was heading towards the same direction, strange alliances, former warriors, friends and brothers and the warriors of Isimir. They all had the same goal in mind.

To defend the Kingdom to their last breath.

The scene was set in what can only be described as a living nightmare. Darkened skies, the angry roar of thunder and lightning echoing its anger and the winds of fury descending upon the bloodied land.

Standing in the far distance with their watchful gaze on the battle were four Spirit Lords who have come for their vengeance. The ancestors of Ismir were the ones who sealed them in the abyss, damning them to a fate worse than death. Now that they were free, it was time for Isimir to feel their wrath.

The air stank of death and sweat. Sounds of swords clanging accompanied by the grunting of warriors lost to the throes of battle, filled the battlefield. Mystics poured from every corner — their numbers, countless — overwhelming the force of the warriors holding down the border.

It was clearly a battle of endurance as they tried to buy time for the rest of the reinforcements to arrive. Already, some of the Mystics have escaped into their territory. In that they have failed. They can not afford to fail once more.

Archers and spearmen fought alongside each other helping to quell the Mystics that were escaping. The warriors were on the frontline fighting through their exhaustion as they took down the fanged enemies. With their combined efforts they soon managed to defeat the wave of Mystics until not a single wretched creature was left breathing.

Was it over?

The question was on all their minds as they looked around the battlefield. Blood and dismembered limbs were scattered over the ground. Wherever they looked they were met with faces of death — of theirs and the enemies. They too had lost good men.

Barely had they begun to catch a breath when the ground suddenly shook with a force so great it felt like the ground would split open. There, approaching fast in the horizon were Mystics, several hundreds of them. More than the warriors could take on in their exhausted state.

Most of them were in no state to fight, their forces have been reduced to more than half and the rest of them were barely holding on through sheer force of will. In the depths of their despair and hopelessness, the moment when they felt all was lost a dead spark was lit.

Hope.

The chanting of war songs reached the ears of those on the verge of giving up. Like a soothing balm it washed away the fear with the feeling of trust and courage. Defeated shoulders raised with pride, grieving faces turned hopeful, those on their knees stood up in excitement.

It was more than just a song for the weary warriors, it was the message of the people of Isimir.

We have arrived.

The appearance of the reinforcements bolstered fallen spirits especially seeing the former Commander in their ranks. Amuobi, Master Orji, the sons of the Elders and Aniweta stepped out from their ranks as they made their way towards the brave warriors.

Orlu, a fellow warrior welcomed Amuobi with a hug, the relief evident on his bloodstained face. Everyone cheered at their arrival and the ones who could stand welcomed their comrades.

"You all fought well but I will have to ask you all to lend me your strength if we are to defeat that." Amuobi pointed at the approaching horde marching from the horizon.