"Asag," a calm voice echoed through the dimness of the Legate's quarters.It was soft and yet hard. "You know this is the only way.No use in head-butting against the truth. A moron can smash his skull against a stone wall as much as he likes, but the wall will not move, and he will be left with nothing but brains in the dirt."
For a long, agonizing moment, the Legate said nothing. He leaned heavily against the cold stone of the window slit, his gaze fixed on the Eastern ramparts where thousands of the enemy had already paid the tithe of their lives.
So many and yet not enough.
It was a bitter notion.
The League could scour the countryside, press-gang a thousand more peasants into service, hand them the rusted spears of the men who had died that morning, and send them back into the meat-grinder.
No matter the casualty ratio, the League remained a mountain while the Bastion was being whittled down to a pebble. They could replenish their losses; Asag could only count his dead.
