"No!" Varokal's horrified cry ripped through the night as he watched Drek'maz's axe descend towards the transformed Galen. His face was a mask of shock and self-reproach.
Regret gnawed at his heart. If only he had recognized Drek'maz's feigned retreat, if only he hadn't hesitated for that crucial half-step, the prince wouldn't be in such mortal peril.
On the other side of the camp, Omar relentlessly pressed his attack on the witch doctor, who could only desperately parry with his staff. But at the sight of Galen's imminent demise, Omar's focus wavered. He turned, abandoning the battered witch doctor, his instinct to protect the prince overriding all else.
They were the prince's chosen guard. To fail him so utterly, to witness his death at the hands of trolls, would not only betray his trust but also leave them with a shame that would follow them back to Stromgarde.
Then, in that razor-thin margin of time, the battle-axe fell. Prince Frog, his beady green eyes wide and intensely focused, tracked the descending weapon. Had they not known the frog was their transformed prince, Varokal and Omar would never have believed such a serious expression could grace the amphibian face.
They watched, hearts pounding, as the frog nimbly hopped to the side, narrowly avoiding the lethal blow. The axe slammed into the earth where the frog had been moments before, sending a spray of mud and pebbles flying.
A collective sigh of relief escaped Varokal and Omar. And Prince Frog, from his low crouch, launched himself upwards in a powerful leap, assuming a bizarre, bouncing posture. The sight of those long, cyan legs propelling the frog through the air left an indelible, surreal image in the minds of the two guard captains.
But the shock for Varokal and Omar was far from over. The instant Prince Frog landed, a soft 'poof' sound echoed through the camp, followed by a sudden burst of smoke that billowed outwards, momentarily obscuring both the frog and the hulking form of Drek'maz beside him.
As they gaped in bewildered confusion, the smoke slowly began to dissipate, revealing the two figures in the dimly lit arena.
Within the lingering haze, Drek'maz remained frozen in the posture of his failed axe strike, the massive weapon embedded in the churned earth. He hadn't anticipated that someone under the influence of potent magic could so swiftly break free from the altered state of their body. Moreover, the frog's unexpected agility had been so rapid that he hadn't had time to retract his blow, his attack finding only the ground.
Standing opposite him was Galen, the effects of the witch doctor's transformation spell completely dispelled. In his hands, he wielded his greatsword, its tip now buried deep within Drek'maz's chest.
The greatsword had been thrust in diagonally from the right side, piercing through the troll warrior's heart and emerging from his left back. Drek'maz's face registered utter disbelief as he slowly lowered his gaze to the protruding blade. Even a great troll warrior, with his renowned resilience, could not survive such a grievous wound.
A final gurgle of blood escaped his lips, his eyes filled with regret and a lingering unwillingness to accept his fate. With a shuddering breath, Drek'maz drew his last.
He had believed this to be a simple hunting expedition. A master warrior, a figure of authority within the tribe, his talents wasted on a mundane supply run for a sacrifice. Moreover, it was far from human territory; only beasts, he had assumed, posed any threat to the camp's safety. A fatal lapse in vigilance had cost him his life.
On the other side of the camp, the troll witch doctor had watched with a triumphant sneer as Drek'maz's axe hurtled towards the spell-bound Galen, the tide of battle about to turn in their favor. But the swift reversal of fortune unfolded with such breathtaking speed that his gloating expression froze mid-smirk as he witnessed Drek'maz's sudden, gruesome demise.
He couldn't fathom how a victim of his transformation spell could break free from its effects in mere seconds.
But the dire situation before him offered no time for contemplation. Suppressing the gnawing doubt in his mind, he realized he was the last surviving troll, facing three formidable human warriors and several more who were merely stunned.
The battle was irrevocably lost. Before the humans could fully react, he had to escape.
Clutching the wound on his abdomen, he dared not waste precious moments on a healing spell. Using the tents as cover, he bolted from the camp, melting into the darkness of the surrounding night.
Omar and Varokal, their attention momentarily fixed on the now-safe prince, were caught off guard, neglecting the last remaining troll and allowing him to slip away.
But Galen wouldn't let him escape. He harbored a deep-seated resentment towards the spellcaster who had turned him into a frog. Even now, lingering aftereffects plagued him. Besides a general soreness, his mind felt slightly disoriented. He even vaguely recalled those bizarre seconds as a frog, a strange urge to flick out his tongue and catch insects.
Suppressing the unsettling sensations, Galen grabbed his greatsword and gave chase.
At the corner of a tent, his eyes fell upon a discarded spear, its shaft embedded diagonally in the ground. He swiftly reached out, yanked it free, and held it in his hand.
Reaching the edge of the camp, Galen spotted the troll witch doctor staggering, having already covered nearly thirty meters. Gripping the spear in reverse, he locked onto his fleeing target, unleashed the full power of his body, and hurled the weapon.
The spear flew true, striking the troll squarely in the right shoulder. The tremendous force propelled him forward two steps before the spear pierced through his body, its tip digging into the earth.
Seeing his marksmanship, Galen sprinted forward, his greatsword held ready. Varokal, his concern for the prince's safety paramount, followed closely behind. Though the immediate threat had been neutralized, he wouldn't allow Galen to venture out alone again.
Omar, meanwhile, had moved to assess the condition of the soldiers who had been thrown aside by Drek'maz's berserker rage.
Reaching the spot where the troll had fallen, Galen saw the witch doctor kneeling, half-turned towards the ground, his upper body leaning forward, the spear impaling his shoulder preventing a full collapse.
Blood seeped into the earth around the troll witch doctor. Omar's axe had already carved a deep wound into his abdomen, and now Galen's spear had pierced his right shoulder.
Seeing Galen and Varokal approach, their figures looming before him, the troll fixed them with a look of bitter resentment, coughed up a mouthful of dark blood, and let out a final, guttural roar of defiance.
Galen wasted no words, his actions embodying ruthless efficiency. He swung his greatsword and cleanly severed the witch doctor's head.
From his initial charge at the camp gate to the final, decisive spear throw, Galen had personally slain a total of eight trolls, a grim testament to his burgeoning combat prowess.
Returning to the camp, carrying the witch doctor's lifeless head, Galen found Omar had already gathered the five injured soldiers.
He quickly assessed their condition. Two had suffered fractured arms from their desperate attempt to block Drek'maz's attack with their shields, while the other three had sustained only minor scrapes and bruises, their mobility largely unaffected.
A wave of relief washed over Galen. Miraculously, no one had died. These guards were his personal selection, and a strong bond had formed between them over the years. He couldn't bear the thought of losing them here.
He instructed Omar to lead the three lightly injured soldiers in clearing the battlefield and collecting the spoils of war.
Galen added more wood to the flickering bonfire and sat down beside it, the orange-yellow flames casting dancing shadows across his face. Varokal, his usual gruffness softened with concern, clumsily bandaged the fractured arms of the two injured soldiers, their pained grimaces a testament to his lack of finesse.
Sitting by the fire, his chin resting on his hand, Galen unconsciously stroked the hilt of his greatsword, his mind already lost in the aftermath of the brutal night.