In stark contrast to the relatively orderly, disciplined prelude to the assault on Peter's side, the atmosphere within the hastily assembled central defensive line of the Sauron Army was oppressive, chaotic, and thick with brutality and despair.
"Stand in line, damn you! You filthy, lowly slaves! Looking to die?!" A roar full of impatience and fury exploded from the front of the ranks.
Thomas blankly, slowly raised his head, his clouded, lifeless eyes looking over.
Einar was swinging a whip, lashing viciously at a young slave who had panicked and was darting about at the edge of the formation. The slave had apparently been separated from his squad amid the earlier chaos of the artillery fire, or perhaps he had simply been scared out of his wits. Like a headless fly, he was trying to find somewhere to hide, only to collide with the Sauron regulars who were forming up.
"My lord! I... I can't find..." the slave wailed, but before he could finish—
"Useless trash! Die!" A savage gleam flashed in Einar's eyes. He seemed to have long since lost the last shred of patience—or perhaps he needed the cruelest means possible to cow these "cannon fodder" who might collapse at any moment.
He abruptly drew the curved blade at his waist. Before the terrified eyes of the surrounding slaves, its gleam swept out a bleak arc like lightning!
Splat!
The young slave did not even have time to let out a full scream before his head flew away, and his body crumpled down amid spurting blood.
The surrounding slaves let out muffled cries of alarm and sharp gasps. Many had gone deathly pale, their bodies trembling like sieves. The blood of one of their own and the merciless slaughter showed their present plight—lowly as weeds—far more directly than