Suddenly tired, Jarvis slumped to the ground next to the revenants, battered but unbroken having boldly lured the fight wagons into a charge. He gazed over to the far hill where the giant still inconclusively battled the cavalry and the spearmen. The winged orc leader swooped around a patch of forest, trying to dislodge a last troop of revenants still standing steadfast.
A flaming skull screamed towards the horde of orcs holding the centre unchallenged, their jeers catching the attention of the werewolves hunched among the wreckage of the fight wagons, dismantling the orc war drum. Jarvis clenched a fist in silent prayer. So many fine margins, so many moments when the green tide could have broken through, only for the spirits of the fallen knights to remain stubborn.
He winced as the Barrow Wights dispatched tore apart the enemy standard and it's bearer with typical brutality, remembering how they had smashed through orc and boar alike to destroy the orc left flank. It was enough