Leaderless and demoralized, the surviving warriors scattered, their spirits broken. Fear rippled through the remaining goblins and kobolds, who had numbered nearly 9,000 before their leaders fell. The battlefield was a chaotic mess of fleeing bodies, desperate cries, and the noise of bodies dropping. But there would be no mercy today.
Canna had no plans on letting any one of them escape. His eyes gleamed with cold determination as he surveyed the panicked masses. "No one leaves this battlefield alive," he said, his voice a low, deadly promise.
Mortem and Vorgrim, equally relentless, flanked him on either side. Mortem's dark robes billowed around him as he raised his staff, muttering incantations that summoned skeletal hands from the ground. These skeletal minions clawed and tore at the fleeing warriors, dragging them back into the fray. Vorgrim, a towering figure of death, charged forward with a roar, his weapons a blur of lethal motion.
