Seeing the Orc wolf cavalry withdraw from both flanks, only to choose a brief pause to reorganize their equipment, Herbert, at the rear of the battle line, felt no relief at all. Instead, an even more desperate oppression settled over him.
Having endured countless battles himself, Herbert naturally understood, more or less, what the Orcs were planning.
That brief respite was nowhere near enough for them, after already enduring one high-intensity defensive battle, to recover sufficient strength.
On the contrary, after an excessive surge of adrenaline, both their mental resolve and physical condition would plummet like a waterfall as time passed.
He had not noticed it before, but as time went on, he became certain that the bones in his left arm had shattered into several pieces. Agonizing pain continually swept through his nerves.
Yet across the entire position, there were barely any Clerics available to provide healing.
And most of those half-baked Clerics were doing their utmost to restore the condition of the shield warriors at the very front.
Heaven have mercy, most of these Clerics had originally been down on their luck, and had only chosen to go with the merchants for a pitiful bit of pay.
During the years they had been abducted by the Drow into the Underdark and broken in, the vast majority of the Clerics had seen their channels of faith collapse, either because their faith was not firm enough or because they had fallen into despair.
The fact that they still retained even a little Cleric level now already counted as steadfast faith, alright?
Under such terrible circumstances, it practically meant the Orcs intended to launch their final assault before dawn and win the battle in one stroke.
Yet Herbert discovered in confusion that, even in such a dreadful dead end, those Gnolls