Captain Trinton Ironspike was a sombre man. Twenty-five years he had toiled in the service of the Emperor; he'd taken part in countless bloody engagements, suffered more wounds than he cared to remember, and lost more than he had ever gained. In the heat of summer, his fractured knee ached with a dull numbness, and in the freezing caress of winter, it would swell to the point he would be considered unfit for campaigns. At the age of fifty, he knew that this long-standing injury in particular had put him beyond the reach of a comfortable retirement on some distant farm - one could not walk the plough on a busted limb. The Imperial Army was his only choice, but even then, age was dulling his usefulness. He feared more than death itself, the day that his Commander, Lord Polvark of Castle Rivergate, would relinquish him of his duties. He would die a useless cripple, eking out a meagre living in a cesspit no doubt - such was the way of many a downtrodden veteran. 

Another barbarian horn blasted. Beneath the oppressive weight of his steel full-helm, the Captain squinted at the northern tree line. This was to be the third attempt the savages had made to take the castle; it appeared to him that they were getting desperate. Something was driving them this way, but he had no idea what. Why else would they seek to make war on the Empire? Their lands expanded northwards for many hundreds of miles - their Kingdom alone was a mighty landmass that dwarfed Imperial territories. Perhaps, he resolved to reason, they were simply just out of people to fight in that direction, and that the Empire was their sole remaining sparring partner. Either way, the Captain was becoming weary of serving Lord Polvark in his tireless endeavours to hold the frontier. 

Looking to his left, and then to his right, the Captain took in the full might of the castle's defenders. They were a motley assortment - from all corners of the Empire. Technically, as Trinton recalled, the garrison had been designated as the 13th Auxiliary Legion. It had been given such a lowly name because Imperial blood was so heavily diluted by the presence of so many different peoples that it ceased to represent the Empire's ideals, and therefore had been relegated to a reserve army... a reserve army that did more front-line fighting than any of the real legions in the north. 

"Steady boys," hissed the Captain with a voice fit for a roadway, "let 'em funnel through between the gap, right where the river dives underground. Then we release, and watch them squirm." 

Shadows had started to emerge in the forest clearings; there was mass movement between the trees and the shrub. Last month the savages had come with three thousand men, and hadn't made it to the walls. He wondered how many they had brought this time. Judging by the slight trembling in the stone works that he felt tickling his palms as they lent against two merlons, they had brought a great deal more. 

"Make 'em count boys, 'n just remember, whatever comes through them trees, you are all men - and women - of the Empire, and you will stand yer ground. Lord Polvark is watchin' and he don't like to see people soil their britches, especially when those people are his soldiers." 

He cast a glimpse back at the keep, where he could see the dull mass of Lord Polvark's personal troops amassing on the ramparts there. His banner fluttered freely in the wind; a sea of green centred by a golden tree. [i]Aye, he's watchin' alright, from a safe, safe distance.[/i]