The halberd gripped in Daroon's massive hand gleamed coldly under the moonlight as he charged toward the Minotaur.
Daroon's halberd, forged over months by the Dawi blacksmiths, was a true weapon of war, crafted to match his colossal frame.
The haft, twice the length of the arms, was carved from sturdy wood, reinforced with spiraling bands of black iron wrapping from the grip all the way up to the blade. At the butt end, a heavy iron spike was embedded, allowing for powerful strikes from the opposite side of the head.
The halberd's head bore the strength of three sharp weapons bound together as one. The central axe blade was as wide as a human man's shoulders, its thickness equivalent to two fingers' breadth, heavy and unyielding. The edge had been honed and polished countless times to a mirror-like smoothness, and the Dawi runes engraved upon it reacted to Daroon's mana, emitting a faint blue glow.
Above the axe blade, a spear tip rose straight and true, its point needle-sharp, capable of piercing any armor. Behind the axe blade, a curved, hook-like spike protruded, ready to snag and tear.
Daroon clutched the halberd tightly in both hands and charged relentlessly toward the Minotaurs at full speed. His footsteps thudded heavily, carving deep imprints into the damp forest floor.
The first Minotaur Daroon encountered spotted the approaching foe and raised its weapon, but it was already too late.
Daroon's halberd swung horizontally with a heavy whoosh through the air, the axe blade slicing cleanly across the Minotaur's neck.
A dull, weighty thud echoed as flesh and bone were severed in an instant.
The Minotaur's head tumbled from its body, soaring through the air, while blood sprayed from the severed neck, staining the surrounding ground in dark crimson.
The headless colossal form stood for a moment before its knees buckled, collapsing forward.
"Kaaaaaa!"
The second Minotaur let out a furious roar, swinging its double-bladed axe. But Daroon was already pivoting. He spun the halberd in a wide arc, the axe blade hurtling toward the Minotaur's right arm. A sharp metallic clang erupted as iron met iron.
"Damn! Too shallow!"
Daroon muttered with a furrowed brow.
The thick iron gauntlet wrapped around the Minotaur's forearm had blocked the halberd's edge. Yet the impact severed the Minotaur's right arm nonetheless. The creature staggered back with a scream, its double-bladed axe clattering to the ground.
Daroon swiftly ducked down to snatch up the fallen axe. With the halberd in his right hand and the Minotaur's double-bladed axe in his left, he closed in on the reeling, armless foe in a single stride.
"Kraaaah!"
The double-bladed axe swung horizontally, cleaving through the Minotaur's waist. This time, the armor it wore offered no resistance. The Minotaur's upper and lower body separated, the severed torso thudding to the ground.
Soon after, the creature's trunk slumped heavily to the earth with a dull 'thump.'
"Krrraaaa!"
The last remaining Minotaur bellowed a thunderous roar, charging at Daroon while wielding twin-bladed axes in both hands. Its massive frame swelled even further as it tensed, gripping the axes with bulging muscles.
Its broad shoulders and inflated sinews made its hefty bulk appear even more immense, veins protruding like ropes along its arms.
Daroon calmly crossed his two weapons to meet the oncoming rush. The halberd's blade sliced through the Minotaur's left arm, while the double-bladed axe hacked off the right. With both arms severed simultaneously, the Minotaur continued forward on momentum alone, but Daroon sidestepped and slammed the butt of his halberd's haft into the creature's back.
"Uwaak!"
The Minotaur pitched forward, face-planting into the forest floor.
As it thrashed in an attempt to rise, Daroon pressed the halberd's blade against its neck. The cold iron against hot flesh made the Minotaur flinch and twist.
"Pósoi eisi hoi sýmmachói sou en toútōi tō̱ dásos?" (How many of your kin are in this forest?)
Daroon demanded in the Minotaur's tongue.
The Minotaur panted raggedly, glaring up at Daroon. A twisted smile curled on its lips amid the fear of death, its wide-open eyes showing broad whites, the black pupils quivering faintly at the center.
"Polloi! Tóso polloi hōste to mikrón sou kástron prin tón hēlion anateílai, oudéna Dávī ē Mua kataleípomen!" (Many! So many that before the sun rises, not a single Dawi or Muwa will remain in your puny stronghold!)
The Minotaur spat blood-flecked saliva, then lifted its head, trying to rise.
Daroon's expression hardened.
"Tóte sýntoma tous symphýlous sou akoloutheíseis." (Then you'll soon join your kin.)
Daroon twisted the halberd's haft and brought the blade down on the Minotaur's neck. A dull crack resounded as the neck snapped.
"Tirrellda!"
Daroon shouted toward Tirrellda.
"We must return to the Moonlit Citadel at once!"
Emerging from behind a tree, Tirrellda paused, drawing a breath as she beheld the fallen Minotaurs on the battlefield. The ground was littered with severed arms and heads, pools of congealing blood, and the sprawled corpses of the hulking beasts.
"...So many Minotaurs."
Tirrellda murmured, her eyes wide with astonishment as she surveyed the slain.
Daroon shook the blood from his halberd with a swift flick, then nodded.
"There's a bigger problem than that."
He scanned the surroundings briefly, continuing in a low voice. "Their numbers are greater than we thought. As that one just said, a large force of Minotaurs is likely heading for the Moonlit Citadel. We need to hurry and check."
Tirrellda's face set in determination as she nodded.
"Let's go quickly."
"Aye!"
The two immediately broke into a run toward the Moonlit Citadel.
The night forest swallowed Daroon and Tirrellda like a black sea. Branches stretched skyward, intertwining like spiderwebs to obscure the moonlight, with occasional silvery shafts piercing through to dapple the dark forest floor in mottled patterns.
Daroon led the way. He read the wind's flow, the thickness of tree trunks, and even the shapes of roots bulging from the shadowed ground, stepping forward with unerring precision.
Thanks to years of traversing the Tharn Forest, his senses allowed him to navigate the darkness as if it were day. He twisted through dense underbrush like slipping through water, ducked under broad overhanging limbs, and pressed on without pause, accelerating steadily.
Tirrellda followed close behind. With light footsteps and the elves' innate agility, she vaulted over rocks and roots, gliding gracefully through narrow gaps.
Their footfalls shattered the night's stillness. Daroon's heavy strides thudded 'thump-thump' deep into the earth, while Tirrellda's light ones skimmed the surface, rustling fallen leaves with a 'swish-swish.'
As they dashed between trees, Daroon lowered his shoulder-slung halberd to his hands to avoid snagging on branches.
Tirrellda sometimes leaped over low boughs, other times crouched low to slip through, matching his pace. Occasionally, thin twigs snagged on clothing and armor with a 'scratch-scratch.' but neither slowed.
As time passed, the forest's atmosphere began to shift subtly. The dense trees thinned out, the sky opening wider. More moonlight filtered in, illuminating their path. And the scents carried on the wind changed. Mingled with the chill of wood and soil was the faint tang of smoke, burnt oil, and... blood.
"That smell..."
Daroon sniffed the air while running.
"What smell?"
Tirrellda asked, panting.
"Smoke... roasting meat... and blood."
As the forest's edge neared, they began ascending a small hill. The trees vanished entirely, giving way to a modest meadow. And far ahead, atop another hill, the silhouette of the Moonlit Citadel came into view.
But it was nothing like what they had expected.
"That is..."
Tirrellda trailed off, gasping for breath.
The Moonlit Citadel appeared. Yet it was not the serene, peaceful form they remembered. The small fortress of gray stone perched on the modest hill was now encircled by massive bonfires.
Dozens of enormous campfires ringed the citadel, their red flames dyeing the gray stone walls in hues of scarlet.
Amid the bonfires, countless shadows stirred.
Minotaurs. A vast horde, easily numbering in the hundreds, had encamped on the plain below the citadel. Their tents loomed darkly in the firelight, and rough laughter and shouts echoed toward Daroon and Tirrellda.
That wasn't all. Around the citadel, Minotaurs were hard at work felling trees with axes. Each swing of the heavy blades resounded with a 'boom-boom,' followed by the creaking groan of massive trunks as they toppled slowly.
The earth trembled with the thunderous crashes of falling trees, the echoes reverberating endlessly.
The felled logs were stacked methodically, some used to build barricades or fuel even larger fires.
Faint lanterns flickered atop the citadel's walls—a sign that the garrison still held. But those lights seemed so small and frail amid the Minotaurs' bonfires and the ceaseless clamor of axe blows.
"This can't be..."
Daroon muttered lowly, staring at the scene. His grip tightened on the halberd's haft, deep furrows creasing his brow as his sharp gaze pierced the invaders encircling the forest stronghold.
"That number..." Tirrellda couldn't finish her sentence.
The Minotaurs' encampment exuded a raw, chaotic energy. Hundreds of tents sprawled haphazardly, clustered in natural groups without proper divisions.
At the heart of each cluster, flames roared atop piled firewood, dozens of bonfires blazing across the camp, bathing it in a seething glow. Devoid of proper structures, the tents—hastily erected from stitched beast hides—resounded with heavy footfalls and guttural breaths slicing through the night air.
Near the closest bonfire, a group was butchering what appeared to be a freshly hunted massive bear. Three Minotaurs encircled it, stripping the hide with sharp knives, blood dripping 'plop-plop' onto the ground, forming black stains. One Minotaur gnawed on the bear's liver whole, its maw smeared in red gore.
Farther off, others had hung a gigantic cauldron, boiling something within. Steam rose with the mingled scent of meat and potent spices, though the exact contents remained a mystery. The Minotaurs gathered around stirred the broth with bloodied axe or knife handles, erupting in booming laughter.
In another spot, Minotaurs engaged in arm-wrestling contests. Spectators encircled them, bellowing encouragement, and cheers exploded with each victory. The winner raised both hands in a triumphant roar, while the loser pounded the ground in frustrated fury.
In one corner dedicated to weapon maintenance, the acrid smell of iron mingled with sparks. A Minotaur hammered an axe blade on a crude anvil, the blows irregular but forceful, sharpening the edge.
Others straightened bent spear tips by slamming them red-hot against the ground, while some crudely stitched beast hides onto cracked shields, grunting in exertion.
Minotaurs constantly moved between the tents. Some shouldered large wooden barrels, others carried bundles of spears.
A few hauled massive wagons laden with siege equipment for assaulting the walls—enormous wooden ladders and ropes fitted with iron grapples.
At the encampment's outermost edges, Minotaurs stood sentry. Spaced evenly, each held a weapon, vigilantly scanning the surroundings. Occasionally, a few would meet for brief exchanges, but most remained silent, steadfast in their posts.
Daroon and Tirrellda concealed themselves behind a large rock at the forest's edge on the hill's base, observing the spectacle.
The broad plain before the citadel hosted the Minotaurs' sprawling camp, with countless tents and fires haphazardly arrayed toward the fortress. Armed Minotaurs roamed everywhere, stirring up clamor, their formation less like an army and more like a pack of beasts surrounding prey.
"Captain Daroon? Tirrellda!"
A small whisper echoed from the darkness.