"HOL' THA LINE YA BLOODY -"

The rest of the shout, even at the top of his dwarven lungs, is drowned out by
the sounds of battle. The plan was for the sappers to assault from the east,
claim the trenches, and tunnel in to the prisoners held by the light-blinded
Whitecloaks. The paladins would strike from the south to provide a distraction,
and the dwarves could fight their way out, with freed prisoners in tow. Freg
Oathcrusher thought the trenches felt a little too lightly defended.

And now he knew why.

The stout squad had only lost a few men over the course of the past week, but
their numbers were not appropriate for siege warfare. The woman prisoner was a
priestess, and could keep their wounds healed and their bellies full (though
they'd run out of ale two days past). But instead of battling Whitecloaks to
clear an escape route, they'd been battling nightwalkers.

And they just. Keep. Coming.

He lifts his axe and swings through yet another of the beasts, the blessed
mithril blade hissing as it repels acidic blood. The rear scouts had reported
that the trenches were not passable. The only way out is forward.

Right into the heart of the nightwalkers.