Chapter 42

With roars that promised pain and death the sons of Jormag rushed onto the scene, before having hidden themselves in the shadows of the nearby buildings, possibly to fall upon lone stranglers that had lost themselves in the chaos of the night. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on which side you were on, the sons of Jormag came upon a truly juicy prey and thus commenced their raid in gusto.

While the civilians screamed in terror and tried to run into every direction that promised them only the faintest chance at survival the mist guard, staying true to their vows, formed themselves into a shield wall to repel the enemies with their spears. Unfortunately they weren't enough in numbers to fill the whole width of the alley and so a few enemies managed to slip by at the side and rushed the mist guard from behind which resulted in them dissolving the shield wall until pure chaos reigned supreme in the small alley.

Alvar meanwhile stood there rooted in place, watching his people die and their blood beginning to soak the hard ground down below, until his befuddled mind registered another huge son of Jormag, clothed in dark grey fur and with an axe in his hand rushing into his direction, a manic expression plastered onto the man's light blue coloured face.

In the last second before the man reached his position Alvar managed to bring up his makeshift shield out of pure reflex, schooled through hours and hours on end of training with Sjorn, though once the man's axe impacted onto his wooden shield Alvar nearly collapsed under the powerful blow, bracing himself in the last second by burying his feet into the ground with grit teeth.

The man pulled his axe back once more and made to kick Alvar's shield aside that made up the only protection from certain death right at this very moment but was interrupted by another man, Alvar's grandfather as he came to realise a second later. The old man had thrown himself upon the enemy and wrestled the man to the ground where they furiously warred for the upper hand.

Suddenly, under Alvar's horrified gaze, the enemy managed to free one of his entangled arms and smashed his ironed fist into his grandfathers face, causing the old man's head to snap back under the power of the blow. Afterwards the son of Jormag grabbed his fallen war axe from the ground, his only goal apparent, to burry it in his grandfather's chest.

Before his mind managed to catch up with his body Alvar had already rushed forwards and smashed his wooden shield into the back of the enemy's head, who promptly toppled over, after which Alvar raised his blacksmith hammer up and brought it down on the man's head, again and again, each time bringing forth a new swath of blood until the man's form stilled in finality.

While Alvar still stood over the son of Jormag at his feet his grandfather, blood streaming down his face, had stood up and laid a calming hand upon Alvar's shoulder while the old man's breath was running ragged in exhaustion.

"Come Alvar, let's get out of here…" Alvar's grandfather spoke with a firm voice to which Alvar nodded in muted reply, causing both of them to turn around and leave the dead son of Jormag behind…

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Sjorn and his group of subordinates had managed to fortify the gates, the archers giving them cover from above the gates all the while, until the gates shut once again with groaning sounds accompanying the action.

"Gather around men and let's round up these fuckers once and for all!" Sjorn called onto the battlefield, receiving tired but still motivated rallying cries in reply, while more and more surviving soldiers joined their ranks, forming a battle line that rushed soon after upon the battlefield to pick up the last sons of Jormag that hadn't yet rushed into Hoelbrak to hunt down the civilians and corrupt a few.

Cleaving through their ranks with ferociousness Sjorn soon stood amongst his cheering comrades after they had taken down the last son of Jormag, the men and women raising their weapon's in the air in celebration.

Though Sjorn was not amongst those that celebrated as he knew their work hadn't ended yet while his eyes for the first time realised that the force that had attacked them had been small, very small in fact, and yet they had lost so many of their own only to repel these few enemies…!

With a frustrated grunt, shoving those demotivating thoughts to the back of his mind, Sjorn rallied his troops once more and marched swiftly into the alley's of Hoelbrak, soon catching cries of terror in the wind which signalled them where they had to go.

When the soldiers arrived at the scene they came upon the sight of the mist guard already reduced to a few members under the onslaught of the sons of Jormag and yet trying their best to keep the Havroune safe who were casting different spells into the ranks of the enemies, with varying success, often countered by the enemies own spellcasters.

Sjorn's gaze roamed over the battlefield quickly and only managed to catch a glimpse of a young lad bringing down a small hammer onto the head of a downed son of Jormag, ending the man's life in a swift blow, until Sjorn realised that he knew the lad, him being his teacher, and he was very glad at that moment that the boy had survived this horrific night.

"Form a wall and protect the survivors at all costs! The rest join me to crush these fuckers into smithereens!" Sjorn roared and while he charged with a few men at his side saw from the corner of his eyes the rest of his troops adhering to his orders to boot which made it a lot easier for the old warrior to focus on the battle at hand.

With a roar their group clashed upon the unprepared sons of Jormag and swiftly took advantage of their superior position.

Burying his one axe in the neck of one enemy Sjorn used his other still free axe to smash its head into the face of a spellcaster that was too close for Sjorn's taste at finishing a spell, abruptly ending the incantation after which Sjorn swiftly pulled his blood cover axe out of the dead man from before and with a twist of his body brought it down onto the downed enemy caster, whose eyes widened in realisation, and cleaved the man's skull in.

Not long after the scuttle had started it came to an end, with Sjorn's troops only having lost a single man in the battle but considering that they had already won the whole invasion still hurt somewhat, not to mention the man's family…

With his breath still running rather fast Sjorn checked upon the rest of his troops and after making sure they were fine ordered them to begin scouting the rest of the city so that they wouldn't miss a son of Jormag on accident.

While cleaning his trusty axes Sjorn walked over to the Havroune that were still being guarded by the remaining, ever vigilant, mist guard to check if they were alright and discuss on how they should proceed from there when he came upon his student that was taking in the scene before him with a solemn expression on his face but showed no sadness at the dead enemies at his feet, not much of a surprise considering what the lad had been through the last few weeks, even though it still saddened him somewhat that their youths had to go through such harsh lessons so early in life in the first place but knew he couldn't do anything about that and thus put those melancholic thoughts to rest with practised ease.

But no matter how hard Sjorn tried at shoving his thoughts, one particular memory remained behind at all times, and that was the low number of sons of Jormag, which left an uncomfortable tingle in his stomach.

Thus, while making his way over to the Havroune, that were already in deep discussions by the looks of it, Sjorn couldn't help but think: 'Where the hell are the rest of Jormag's troops?'