His orcs fought with suicidal courage, their war axes cutting through human soldiers like wheat.
An orc named Kresh'gar took three sword strikes—shoulder, side, leg—and still kept fighting, his berserker rage sustaining him through wounds that would drop normal fighters.
Another orc named Thrak'mor grabbed a human soldier in each hand and smashed them together, crushing armor and bones simultaneously.
But orcs could only endure so much.
Five orcs fell in the first six minutes—killed by overwhelming numbers, by accumulated wounds, by exhaustion finally overcoming berserker strength.
"GRUK!" Lyra's voice came through the telepathic network. "FALL BACK! YOU'VE DONE ENOUGH!"
"ORCS DON'T RETREAT!" Gruk bellowed back.
"ORCS WHO DIE STUPIDLY DON'T HELP ANYONE!" Lyra's tactical command cut through his battle fury. "YOU'VE KILLED SIXTY-THREE HUMANS! THAT'S ENOUGH! RETREAT NOW OR DIE WASTEFULLY!"
Gruk hesitated, his orc instincts screaming to fight to the death—
