The brutal slaughter atop the walls continued. The difference was that the orcs were gradually gaining the upper hand. Black scars began appearing across Silverymoon's tall, majestic walls, and the sections occupied by the orcs were steadily increasing.
This had begun at three in the afternoon. Now, within just two hours, Silverymoon had suffered more than ten thousand casualties. Yet the heavy losses had not curbed the Black Orcs' assault. On the contrary, more and more orcs were climbing onto the walls.
The reserves had already taken turns reinforcing the walls. Even the two elite legions held back as the final reserve were now running themselves ragged, deployed as firefighting units wherever the situation was collapsing.
The combat strength of these two elite legions was beyond doubt, but there were simply too many breaches. They had to be redeployed again and again. As time passed, the soldiers' stamina began to fail, and casualties started mounting.
Count Marshal, the supreme commander of the city's defenses, had even sent out his personal guard!
Though this could temporarily stabilize the battle line, everyone knew it would not last long. Perhaps an hour, perhaps two—the walls would inevitably fail!
When that happened, Silverymoon would have no choice but to fight street by street!
Street fighting was an absolute disaster for the defending side. In Faerûn, where firearms had yet to become widespread, street fighting meant a desperate final struggle. To this day, no city on the continent had ever defeated an enemy through street fighting.
Street fighting first meant the complete collapse of the defensive system and the defenders' morale falling to its lowest point. And if even the walls could not stop the enemy, could the remaining defending soldiers and a bunch of ordinary civilians possibly hold them back?
But that was not