Fallout:Blood and the Bull

The following morning, we discovered that the goblins were not as naive as we had hoped. They were prepared. From the crumbling walls of the castle, we could see the little bastards in full activity, with archers occupying elevated positions and armed groups ready for defense. Even goblins mounted on wolves patrolled the area, alert to any movement. This wouldn't be a simple raid—it was going to be a real battle.

Despite everything, we had the upper hand. Our scouts had worked through the night to identify the cracks and weak points in the castle's defenses. We knew the routes we could take to avoid directly engaging the main concentration of their forces, and that knowledge would be crucial in minimizing unnecessary losses.

The southern noble, in his usual theatrical manner, had arranged his men in disciplined ranks. His soldiers, well-equipped and trained, looked imposing in the dawn's light. In contrast, our family's forces, led by Alaric, formed the left flank. They were less ostentatious but just as effective. My own men, though more modest in number and equipment, took up strategic positions, ready to exploit any opportunities that might arise during the battle.

The southern troops began their march toward the castle with near-ceremonial precision, while we advanced along our designated flank. From the ruined walls, a massive swarm of goblins gathered, screeching and preparing to defend their territory. It was chaotic, but expected. However, just as we began to maneuver toward one of the many breaches in the walls, something completely unexpected happened.

At the heart of the southern noble's formation, an enormous fireball began to take shape, its orange light reflecting off the soldiers' armor. At first, I thought it was some kind of distraction or an unfamiliar tactic, but within seconds, the blazing orb flew with terrifying speed toward the castle walls. Everything happened too quickly to process.

The impact was devastating. The fireball exploded against one of the most heavily populated sections of the wall, engulfing it in flames. The sound was deafening, a roar that seemed to shake the very air. Dozens, if not hundreds, of goblins screamed in desperation, scattering in all directions as they futilely tried to extinguish the flames consuming them. Some collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony, while others disappeared into the chaos.

The fire not only decimated the goblin defenders in that section but also unleashed a panic that spread like a plague throughout the rest of the castle. Goblins on the adjacent walls began to retreat, stumbling as they tried to regroup in the face of an attack they clearly hadn't anticipated.

I turned toward the southern noble's formation, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Among his ranks, I spotted a man cloaked in dark robes, holding an ornate staff—the clear source of the spell. "A mage," I murmured to myself, barely conscious of the words. It was rare to see magic of this magnitude in a battle like this, let alone from someone serving a hunter noble.

As the fire continued to consume the wall and panic gripped the goblins, I knew this was our chance. I turned to my men and pointed toward the breaches in the walls, raising my voice to give the order: "Now! Use the chaos and move in!"

We moved swiftly, knowing every second was critical. While the goblins were distracted by the flames and the accompanying hysteria, we slipped through one of the larger breaches, ready to face whatever awaited inside. The battle had changed in an instant, and although the use of such magic was surprising, I couldn't afford to dwell on it. All that mattered was pressing forward.

Within the castle walls, the battle became even more chaotic. Alaric's troops quickly spread out, moving through corridors and courtyards in an attempt to secure key positions. Their aggressive and undisciplined style allowed them to cover ground quickly, but it also exposed them to ambushes and traps. Meanwhile, the southerners, with their more disciplined formation, directly engaged the bulk of the goblin forces. The presence of taller goblins—likely leaders or even champions—kept the rest of the horde fighting with unusual bravery. Despite their losses, the goblins continued to charge with a ferocity that was uncommon for their kind.

My men and I, however, advanced carefully. We maintained a tight formation at all times, moving as a compact unit through narrow corridors and open areas alike. We used our shields to block arrows and eliminated disorganized goblins that tried to attack us. Whenever one of them lunged at us, we skewered it with long spears, leveraging our superior reach and coordination.

"Three against one! Hold the line!" I shouted as a goblin tried to pounce on one of the men in the front row. My soldiers repelled it easily, their spears working in perfect unison to bring it down before it could raise its weapon. This type of combat was our strength: we countered their chaos with order, their numbers with discipline.

With each step we took, we left a trail of fallen goblins, unable to break through our tight line. Their lack of organization made them vulnerable, and although they continued to hurl themselves at us, it was clear they were beginning to retreat. Their arrows, fired from hidden positions, were a constant threat, but our careful advance and use of shields minimized the damage.

The noise of battle filled the air, mingling with the goblins' screams and the echo of our commands. Though the fighting was fierce, we didn't stop. Maintaining pressure was crucial, both to secure our position and to demoralize the remaining goblins.

While Alaric's troops and the southerners fought in other parts of the castle, we advanced methodically, clearing corridors and securing critical areas. Our tight formation not only kept us safe but also turned each engagement into an exercise in precision. The goblins, despite their numbers, could do little against a well-organized unit.

"Keep moving! Take out the rest of them!" I ordered, my voice clear and firm, keeping my men focused on the objective. As we continued, I could feel that we were gaining ground, one step closer to breaking the goblin resistance and claiming this castle for our forces.

The battle was over.

We left the hallways littered with goblin corpses as we pushed forward, each step marked by the echo of their dying screams and the metallic clatter of our boots against the rubble-strewn floors. The resistance in the castle's corridors and passageways had diminished, though it hadn't disappeared entirely. The goblins, despite their numbers, were becoming more desperate than organized.

As we ventured deeper, an unusual stench began to fill the air. It was acrid, heavy, unmistakable: burning flesh. The smell triggered an instinctive reaction in all of us, a visceral reminder of what we had witnessed outside. There was no need to confirm its meaning—the southern mage had struck again.

The goblins' screams echoed from ahead, frantic and mingled with the roaring of fire and the crackling of wood and flesh being consumed. This latest magical assault had once again sown panic among the goblin defenders, but it also underscored a harsh truth: there was no mercy in this war. As we advanced, my men exchanged silent glances, fully aware that this mage made no distinction between targeting the enemy and scorching everything in their path.

"The fire will disorganize them, but it will also make them fight more fiercely," I said, my voice low but steady. Panic might lead them to mistakes, but it could also transform them into cornered beasts, dangerous in their desperation.

My men nodded, keeping their formation tight. Every move was methodical, ensuring we didn't fall into ambushes or break our ranks. Burned and mutilated goblin corpses began to appear in the halls we traversed, grim evidence of the mage's destructive power. But even amidst the flames and debris, resistance persisted. Goblins armed with crude spears and bows tried to hold us back from elevated positions, though their shots lacked precision.

"Formation! Shields up!" I ordered as arrows whistled through the shadows. We moved as one, our spears pointing forward and shields raised.

Our counterattacks were relentless. Spears and arrows pierced the goblins who dared resist. Step by step, we pushed them back, finally breaking their morale. Seeing our relentless advance, the goblins began to flee, abandoning their weapons in desperation to save their lives. Their retreat cleared the path to the castle's inner sanctum, where the true battle was reaching its climax.

We moved quickly, joining other forces who had progressed faster. The southern noble's troops and Alaric's men had already secured key positions, clearing corridors and locking down access to the upper levels. My men maintained formation as we headed toward the keep, the castle's heart.

When we arrived, we were met with a chaotic and surreal scene. At the center of the battle, the southern mage and the goblin shaman were locked in a fierce duel, trading mana-fueled attacks that lit the surroundings with bursts of energy. Fireballs and arcs of dark force tore through the air, crashing into walls and debris. The ground trembled slightly with each impact, and the echo of their spells reverberated through the tower like the roar of a storm.

Around them, goblins and soldiers fought desperately, each side trying to protect their leaders. Taller goblins, likely the shaman's elite guards, led the resistance with renewed ferocity. Armed with bronze swords and spears, they charged fearlessly, trying to keep the humans away from the tower. The southern soldiers, better trained and equipped, fought back just as fiercely, forming improvised lines to repel the assault.

The duel between the mage and the shaman intensified. The mage hurled fireballs and arcs of lightning that illuminated the battlefield, while the shaman responded with dark energy that seemed to consume light itself, distorting the space around him. Both were clearly at their limits, and the air was charged with a nearly tangible tension.

Spotting an opening, we moved swiftly and precisely toward the goblin shaman. From our position, we had a clear line to him, though the chaos around us left little time to plan every step. The shaman, fully absorbed in his battle with the mage, seemed oblivious to the wider conflict. Each spell he cast shook the air, and the wolf pelt draped over his shoulders glowed with a sinister energy, its eyes shining with an ominous light that intensified his dark aura.

It wasn't long before the goblin guards noticed us. Their alarmed cries rose above the din of battle, and several of them charged at us with desperate ferocity. These were no ordinary goblins; they were larger, more robust, and entirely willing to die to protect their leader.

"Hold formation! Shields up!" I shouted as the goblins slammed into us. Our spears moved as one, skewering the first wave that got too close. Despite our resistance, the intensity of their assault slowed us down, forcing us to advance step by step.

Their leader, a particularly fierce goblin, bellowed commands, his guttural voice cutting through the chaos. He was clearly trying to coordinate his forces to stop us, but the shaman paid him no mind. Completely focused on his duel with the mage, the shaman unleashed blasts of dark energy that collided with the mage's fireballs, casting the room into a dizzying display of light and shadow.

"Press on! The shaman is focused on the mage, not on us!" I shouted, seizing the opportunity. My men responded with renewed vigor, cutting through the goblin guards with discipline and precision. The guards fought desperately, but their numbers dwindled rapidly under our relentless advance.

As we closed in, sweat poured down my face, and the cacophony of battle filled my ears. Gripping my spear tightly, I fixed my gaze on the shaman. He remained oblivious to our presence, consumed by his battle with the mage. Taking advantage of his distraction, I summoned all my strength and hurled my spear with deadly precision.

The weapon flew through the air in an instant, crossing the distance between us with lethal speed. The impact was devastating. The spear drove deep into the shaman's abdomen, piercing clean through his body. He let out a guttural cry—a mix of surprise and pain—as his body arched forward. The wolf pelt on his shoulders flashed with one final burst of light, as if trying to resist the fatal blow, but its glow faded quickly.

The shaman's connection to his magic shattered instantly. The dark aura surrounding him dissipated like smoke, and the energies he had been exchanging with the mage ceased. For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the sound of the spear clattering to the ground behind him. The shaman staggered, his trembling hands grasping at the spear's shaft, but he couldn't hold on for long.

The mage, visibly exhausted but still standing, seized the moment. With one final gesture, she conjured a wave of fire that engulfed the shaman, consuming him entirely. His body collapsed to the ground, motionless, as the flames slowly died out.

A collective, mournful wail rose from the goblins, echoing through the castle. The death of their leader had broken what little morale they had left. Those still fighting began to retreat, abandoning their weapons as they fled for their lives.

We had won.

The battle for the keep—and the castle—was decided.