Ashur, who already suspected he had suffered grievous losses, now led an army of some ten thousand men, having mustered almost everything he had. By then, he had also learned of the Lonely Mountain Dwarves from his people who had fled south from the north.
With that news, Ashur believed he finally understood why the humans had dared to attack him, and it enraged him.
His anger came not only from the losses he had suffered over the past two months, but also from his current predicament. Once he calmed down, he began to regret his rashness.
As he marched, Ashur had begun to worry that the Woodland Realm's Elven forces might also have broken with their usual ways and joined this war against him. If humans, Dwarves, and Elves had all come out in force, then, weakened as he was, he might already be at a disadvantage.
In his youth, Ashur had never spared a thought for his own life as he fought his way to power. But after decades as a commander, he no longer wanted to fight battles he was not confident of winning.
Still, Ashur knew he could not simply retreat. After suffering such humiliation, if he slunk back to his stronghold with his soldiers without even seeing the enemy, the image he had maintained all these years would collapse in an instant. The prestige he had painstakingly built would soon drain away.
Indeed, Ashur ruled his tribes through an image of cruelty, strength, and fearlessness. He knew he could never show weakness, or he would lose his hold over the captains of every rank under his command, along with the tribal chiefs who had only recently joined him.
And so, seething with helpless rage, Ashur could only steel himself and lead his soldiers onward. His