Horns blasted from the forests ahead, as the defenders of Castle Rivergate scrambled to their places upon the parapets. Arrows were knocked, pitch boiled and steel drawn as each man and woman defending the isolated fortification awaited their attackers. This was not the first time the castle had come under attack by the wild savages from the north, and it would not be the last - it was a stalwart bastion on the fringes of the Empire, and here the brave men and women of its roster were charged with its defence to the bitter end. For if Rivergate was to fall, then it would open the ways to the south, and the savages would rampage for hundreds of miles until they met a force that could stop them.

The sun was high in the sky, but even with its strong rays, it was hard for anyone's eyes to penetrate the darkened depths the forest ahead. The stone-trembling low rumble of the barbarian horns sounded again, and though they could not be seen, no one on the castle walls was in doubt that they faced a mighty host.

A Priest, clad in garbled and grimy robes stood at the centre of the northern wall. In one hand he held a large staff, with a silver wolf's head nestling on the top, and in the other he clasped a thick, heavy tome with soiled covers.

"Make yer peace, lads and lad'esses, we're in for one mighty storm," he called out through jumbled teeth.

Several of those nearest the Priest heeded his words, and they bowed before him to receive his blessing.

More horns blasted, and flocks of birds fired up from the top of the tree line to the north; the barbarians were almost here.

Sular Esselam, firstborn of the House of Snakes, stood upon the parapets. The newly arisen sun shone brightly over the light brown skin and sharp features of the young man, his long black hair waving in the hgih winds which seemed almost to prophesize the arrival of the Barbarians. His eyes were an almost storm grey, staring into the distance, not at the advancing horde, but beyond, as if he were staring at the edge of the world itself. His complexion was foreign to those around him, and, standing just shy of 1,90m, he was considered to be a giant by those around him. This exotic appearance was only strengthened by the colorful robe which he threw around himself, seemingly shimering in the rays of the sun, under which he wore a suit of boiled and prepared slabs of leather, tightly strung together to form the appearance of scales. Around his neck hung a locket, which carried the insignia of two interwoven serpents coiled around a single gem, a symbol both of his heritage and his loyalty.

While it was common knowledge that the Empire had conquered the Shash-La of the East many years ago, few within it's borders had ever met the strange, tall humans, with their oddly tinted skin and strange ways. Their customs and skills, honed by the wide open food plains of Alan Shior, roughly translated as 'Mother's Skin', were foreign and exotic to those within the Empire, and Sular was no exception. He had been sent into the army of the empire as a treaty of sorts, from the House of Snakes, one of the houses with a voice in the Selequoir, or, as the simple-minded Empyreans had named it, the Council of Houses. He was of nobe blood, and yet, failing to recognize the immense gift that had been granted to them, the leaders of the Empire had simply seen it as another measly tribute, and sent Sular to fight and die far from his homeland. As was to be expected of barbarians.

Upon his back, one could see what seemed to be a long length of jointed wood, oddly engraved. However, even as Sular reached back and released the clasp that had secured his weapon in place, it unfolded, the several joints evening out into a solid length of gleaming dark wood. Fully revealed, the bow was almost as tall as Sular himself, a true monstrosity that towered above some of the guards stationed besides him. A sturdy thread, woven from the hairs of his father's greatest stallion, was strung between several wheels between the two ends of the wood. The grip was engraved, once more, with the insignia of the Hesh-Coril, the House of Snakes, wrapped in supple leather to increase grip on the haft. Reachig back, Sular revealed a quiver previously hidden from beneath the folds of his cape, and he set two arrows tipped with fine steel beside him, within reach. The third arrow he draws, tipped with iron,he set on his bow, as he waited for the fools to come within range.

Far from his own lands, Sular had been pressed into service by the empire, and yet it was not the Empire he fought for. To a true warrior of the Shash-La, the fools of the Empire were nothing more than slightly stronger Barbarians. The only respect they deserved was for their military might, and even that was filled with contempt for the brutal, unhoned ways in which they committed their wars. Without elegance nor fashion, ignorant of the rules of the Selequoir, which formed the moral base of Shash-La culture. However, still the firstborn son fought these barbarians. For with each arrows that tasted the blood of his enemies, he honored his house and his father, and all those of Alan Shior. In him he wore the pride of the Shash-La, and it would be both armor and shield. He saw the advancing hordes of the enemy, and he faced them with a smile.

Let them come and taste the steel of a true warrior.

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. Aye, he's watchin' alright, from a safe, safe distance.

Muiri Battle-born did not enter this world for battle, despite her family name and it's rich history for taking part in essential and frivolous fights. Many of her siblings and cousins were practically born with a weapon in their hands yet she was born with potions and herbs. She was not blessed with the blonde hair and blue eyes of House Battle-born either, instead she was given a mop of dark, curly hair and eyes the colour of apple pips to match by the Gods. Muiri was not lean and muscular in stature like the other girls her age either but slight and willowy despite her somewhat short height. Multiple times Muiri had been accused of being a bastard child, so many times that she had almost begun to believe it herself but the proof did not waver. She was a pure-blood of House Battle-born with no exceptions.

She stood on the crumbly parapets, her hands clenching an impressive halberd made from the legendary Battle-born steel. Her family's steel was heavier than the regular stuff, designed for the tough men and women of the clan, and Muiri's weapon felt as though she was carrying a stone brick. She badly wished to rest it on her shoulder for a short while, but doing so was considered a disgrace to her family and a sign of great weakness. The armour she carried was rather heavy too, silver in colour with her family's symbol plastered in vermillion on the left shoulder, characterising all the Battle-borns on the field. An axe, a sword and a bow, all connected in the centre and spread in different directions and surrounded by a red circle. Simple symbol for a clan of simple minds, yet almost everyone knew who it belonged to.

Muiri flinched as the horn blasted into her ear, ringing through her head several seconds after. People shoved past her and she turned, watching as they flocked to the Captain's words. She followed, not wanting to be left standing alone on the parapet for everyone to see.

"...to see people soil their britches, especially when those people are his soldiers." Muiri bit her lip as he said this, almost sure that she was bound to make a fool of herself down there. She nearly fell off the wall when soldiers pushed past her again, returning to their places on the partition.

Muiri felt her knees knocking together and her palms grow sweaty as the ground almost appeared to shake and shadows began to form, signalling the first signs that the savages were coming. Muiri bit her lip again, hard enough that she drew blood and could taste the metallic pang in her mouth. Any Battle-born would simply spit to remove it, but Muiri had to remind herself that she was simply not "any Battle-born", nor was she so barbaric as to just spit wherever she pleased. So she let the taste just hang there and begun to prepare herself to taste a lot more of it.

As the thundering of feet could be heard in the distance, Sular's eyes weren't on his enemy. They weren't close enough to form any kind of threat, outside the range of even the most powerful of bows. However, he took this time to assess those bowman that stood in ine besides him, manning the northern wall. Many used the Imperial Recurve Bow, a strong short-range bow. Easy to use, perfect for mass production and use in the army. He assessed their stance, their view, and judged which would keep their cool in a battle. While it is important to know one's enemy, first one must know one's allies. While many of these people had very little true experience in the fields of war, some seemed ready to face the incoming horde, and held themselves like true Warriors. He had no respect for the supposed leaders of these military groups, who hid behind their men like cowards, but he could recognize a veteran when he saw one, and by his best judgement, this man would keep at least some semblance of order.

What he also noticed, as he assessed those that would stand with him, was the crest of the Battle-Born. In the battle of Surilan River, one of the Battleborn had led the charge against Silto Esselam, Sular's uncle. Even throughout the Shas-La they had earned a reputation as fierce, fearless warriors, and among those who fought with the barbarians, they were one of the few whom Sular respected. As a warrior, he had to respect might and bravery when he witnessed it, and whenever he saw a Battle-Born, it was in the thick of battle, surrounded by the corpses of their enemies. It would be good to have such a skilled wariror on this battle, and Sular had no doubt that the mere presence of that crest would back the troop morale, such was the fame of the Battle-Born.

The enemy was out of bowshot yet, however, they had started to group. The movements of the river had forced them through a gape, and at the end of it, they would come within range of the bowmen. The hail of fire, no doubt, would cost many barbarians their lives. However, Sular was an archer of Hesh-Coril, the House of Snakes. From the day he was born he had been trained in the arts of the Greatbow, a weapon whoms range dwarfed that of lesser bows. Too shoot at the enemy when they were spread out among the trees would have been a waste of arrows, but they had already made themselves vulnerable.

Muscles coiled and tensed under the brown skin as Sular readied an arrow. It took all of the warrior's strength to pull back the string of the Greatbow, the arrow prepared for it almost resembling a short spear in length. It's point was not barbed, as other arrows used by the Shas-La were, but built to pierce heavy armor. As he fired the arrow into the masses in the distance, knowing that it would hit somebody within, he knew that arrow had enough force behind it to punch through a human, and come out the other side with enough force to inflict a lethal wound on the next foe. Not only did two or more barbarians fall to that arrow, but the effects of fear could never be underestimated, as an arrow would soar from impossibly long distances. While Sular alone could not replace a full Shas-Ui of Hesh-Coril Greatbowmen, he knew he could deal some damage.

He took another arrow from his quiver. Another barbarian would fall, before the battle had even begun.

Captain Trinton Ironspike scowled at the advancing horde. Ranks upon ranks of dark skinned hulks were pouring from the trees in a steady march. The barbarians of the northern forests were large men, knotted with bulging muscles from a life of hardship. They had on themselves white paint, that covered their entire bodies in elaborate swirls and criss-crossing patterns. Their faces were hard, and long, and their deep-seated eyes were as black as the night. These were real savages, if ever that word suited a group of peoples. Quickly, the Captain made a rough estimation of their numbers, though truth be told he could only see those who had reached the river's edge - there was no telling how many more waited behind in the great forest.

"Five thousand," he muttered, "how many more you got back there, you black eyed bastards?"

There was commotion all across the northern ramparts, as the defenders suddenly took on the full reality of what they were facing. Dust was rising steadily in the distance, and the stonework of the castle walls still vibrated softly even though the barbarians in sight had ceased moving. Captain Trinton, an experienced warrior of the Empire as he was, guessed that the enemy had at least twice as many as he could see - perhaps even three times. If this was true, then the tribes really had gathered in strength, and Castle Rivergate's ownership was of great importance to them... but not the Emperor, apparently. How long had it been since the frontier had seen real reinforcements? Not the odds and ends sent to die, but real fighting men - the kind that go on to conquer great kingdoms and subdue terrifying enemies.

An arrow whistled out from the battlements, just down from where the Captain stood, and he watched the projectile as it sailed gracefully through the air and disappeared into the waiting horde. Someone's done this before, he mused. Suddenly, as if spurred on by the marksman's success, the entire rampart leased a volley.

"HOLD FIRE, YOU FOOLS!" Roared the Captain, back handing a young man next to him who'd just made a fruitless shot. Trinton grimaced as he witnessed the several dozen missiles slam harmlessly into the earth, right before the gap in the river.

"You &%&ing idiots have just given them a fantastic idea of what our range is, well bloody done, I'm sure you're all gonna make General of the Imperial Court some day," he barked mockingly. "Whoever fired that first, and second arrow, congratulations in spurring these pond scum on in giving away our advantage."

The barbarians, making light of the defenders' folly, let forth a unified quire of heavy laughter. They could be seen doubling over, clutching their sides as they screamed joyfully at the futility of the doomed barrage. Even now, the Captain could feel the eyes of Lord Polvark boring into the back of his skull for his failure to maintain discipline. He decided to right his earlier mistake of not laying down the law to the newer soldiers of the walls.

"Alright, listen up," he shouted coarsely, "I don't care how good you are with a bow, and I don't care how far it can shoot - if anyone else lets an arrow go without my Gods given command, then I will personally see he or she thrown over this bloody wall. Am I clear?" hearing nothing but the odd snicker, the Captain was satisfied. "Right, knock another arrow, but don't draw it until they start moving forwards."

And as if words were magic, the barbarian horde, recovered from its laughing fit, started to surge towards the gap. Some carried large hulking shields made from several tree branches strapped together, whilst others carried nothing. They had learned little, it seemed, from the previous two engagements. This made the Captain nervous - with everyone watching the north, who was watching the east and west? Maybe the savage folk were not nearly as dumb as they pretended to be.

"One problem at a time," he mumbled to himself, "let's see to this first, then we'll think about shoring up the sentries on the flanks."

A heavy boot forced the resting soldier out of his slumber as a group of heavily armed men marched past him and up towards the walls. Shaking himself out from the mists of sleep, Festus looked up at the man who woke him, blinking as the bright light hurt his eyes. The soldier’s face was hidden from Festus even after he cleared his sight.

Leaning forward the man began shouting, his voice echoing slightly in his helmet, “what the hell do you think you’re doing? Every able man and woman should be up on those walls or standing behind the gates and helping the defence preparations. The enemy are almost within our archer’s range and you’re still down here sleeping?” He took a step back and pointed toward the stairs the other soldiers headed up. “Get yourself up and moving onto those walls this instant boy, or by my rank I shall have you whipped.”

Not wanting to anger the apparent officer anymore Festus leapt up, grabbed his weapons and started jogging. As he headed up the stairs, the deep rumbling of hundreds of feet marching reached his ears and pounded through his body. Picking up speed he ran toward the walls. Once there he began squeezing past the defenders and inching his way towards the edge. A deep fire within him began to burn as he watched the hulking hordes rushing toward their positions.

Pulling the rounded buckler from his back, Festus brushed his mail-clad hand over the fading symbol painted onto the metal. The symbol depicted a large wolf lunging toward a deer from above, painted in green over a white background. It was his father’s shield, from before he left the army; this was where his father had fought his final battle before being forced to retire due to a severe injury to his left arm.

“This one’s for you dad” Festus whispered to himself as he hooked the shield onto his back and tightly grasped the wooden handle of his glaive, watching as the horde moved ever closer.

Sular scoffed at the foolish volley. He had trained his whole life as an archer, and to see these fools forget the range of their weapons was almost embarrassing. These were not warriors, they were frightened sheep, awaiting a slaughter. But, while the lack of skill on his allies' side would otherwise have worried him greatly, it was the tactics the enemy employed that worried him far more. As a noble, he had studied many forms of war, over planes of lands, in forests, and against a variety of enemies. It was his duty to be able to command those of lower ranking than him should his home come under attack, as well as to be an exemplary warrior himself. And this situation just wasn't right.

Without a thought, he abandoned the post that he had been told to hold. The sergeant, while technically of higher rank, was nothing but a peasant of low birth. Following only the mindless drivel spouted by the fool in the back, who hid behind this wall of sheep. Instead, he made his way over to the side of Trinton Ironspike, using his length and natural grace to swiftly work his way through the crowd. After all, the old veteran seemed to be the only truly competent leader of the whole lot, and Sular would need the aid of someone with a degree of both power and intelligence in order to conduct his thoughts.

"The barbarians have seen our offense, and yet they move forward. And yet, they have brought no siege equipment nor ladders to scale the walls. There's no way this grou could take the castle, even with an army of sheep on it's walls. And yet, their movements are unified, and so many have gathered together. They have a strong leader, but he doesn't wish to take this castle with that group, any fool could tell that." Even as he spoke, Sular's mind was racing through the possibilities. He wished he was facing a group of foes he had had the time to study, for he knew his enemy plotted somehing. Could it be the real strike force would come from a different direction? Or perhaps they were relying on some as of yet unseen element to breach the walls.

The Captain eyed the foreigner with measured respect, but equal dismay. It seemed that he was not the only one who felt the barbarians' sheer carelessness was not quite right of the situation. He had fought with them in minor skirmishes, from time to time, in the dephs of the forest. They weren't the smartest of battlefield tacticians, but he'd never seen them throw their lives away needlessly. The two previous assaults on Castle Rivergate, the Captain had rightly put down to their inexperience when it came to dealing with large stone defensive structures. There could be no way that they were prepared to simply clamber up the walls, whilst under the devastating volleys of the defenders - trying that had cost them dearly last time.

Something moved in the corner of his eye - something that sent a tingle up his spine. He shoved the foreigner to the side, and cast a look across the court yard to the eastern wall. There a thin line of men, perhaps a dozen or so, stood as look outs. Trinton's eyes found what they had seen, and he focused on one guard in particular. He was a tall man; his face obscured by a rusted full helm, and the chainmail around his biceps looked set to burst at the stitches. There was a small blade in his hand, and before the Captain could yell, he had plunged it into the neck of an unsuspecting sentry.

"Enemy on the eastern walls!" Trinton bellowed, drawing his longsword and starting at a hurried jog. He turned briefly, pointed at the foreigner and a rather sheepish looking woman next to him (Ahem, Muiri). She was a strange one, didn't seem to have much in the arms, but she hefted a glorious looking polearm. Against one barbarian, he was confident just the three of them could cope. "You two, with me. The rest of you, stay here - Sergeant, see to the defence if you will."

"Aye, Captain," replied Sergeant Jarrid.

With that, Trinton made off towards the North Eastern Tower, which would convey him to the eastern wall. He chanced a glance over at the barbarian, and winced at the sight of three more fallen sentries. The others had backed off, giving the spy a wide birth. Activity and commotion from the keep's parapets told Trinton that Lord Polvark was aware, and hopefully, would be responding in kind.

"M-me?" Muiri stuttered, gripping the weapon close to her chest. She glanced from left to right but was unable to deny the definite eye contact she and the Captain had made. He had already marched off in the direction of the North Eastern Tower, meaning he would hear nothing of Muiri's qualms. A tall, dark skinned man clothed in rather colourful robes seemed to have no such queries and Muiri recognised him as the one to initiate the rain of arrows that apparently did not help their cause.

Muiri had almost jumped in delight when the volley of arrows unleashed into the sky, raining down onto the earth within a stone's throw of the barbarians. But as the Captain released a series of scoldings to the archers that participated, Muiri thanked the Heavens she didn't. She probably would've contributed to the volley if she had held a bow and arrow in her hands. It seemed like a wise move to her, firing almost a wall of arrows to perhaps frighten the enemy or even pierce their armour but then again, Muiri was far from a military strategist. The magnitude of the battle finally dawned upon her and suddenly she felt more afraid and apprehensive than before, if that was even possible.

The Battle-born looked to the exotic giant of a man before hefting the polearm off the ground and trudging after the Captain, almost tripping over her own feet. She craned her neck to see the commotion on the eastern wall, and realised that the Captain was leading them to deal with the savage that was brutally slaughtering man after man on the battlement. Oddly enough, Muiri found her feet still moving towards the tower although her mind was almost screaming, telling her to turn around and pretend like she had never heard in the first place. She squeezed through the mass of soldiers on the parapet, muttering "excuse me" and "sorry" as she did so. Unfortunately, she was no where near as assertive as the Captain who was simply pushing and shoving bodies out of his way. Muiri could do nothing but silently pray to the a Gods that she would not end up the same way as the poor, misfortunate sentries that dangled from the edge of the parapet.

An infiltrator. Sular had been one of the many new and inexperienced fools who had been sent to this outpost to die, and he had personally witnessed the disorganised and pathetic state of this reinforcement. A sutry group of peasants and farmers given old and untrustworthy weaponry, hastily sent on their way by the word of some official in the palace at the city of Aegis. It would have been relatively easy to slip an infiltrator into this group, in fact, were they facing any other opponent, Sular would have been surprised not to have faced an infiltrator. However, these barbarians did not have access to any of the weaponry the Empire used for it's troops, nor did they seem to have any grasp of the same language. This meant that, quite worryingly, either the barbarians were far more intelligent than they seemed, or they had some hidden ally who was directing their attacks. The Empire had many enemies, after all, and many would be happy to see the barbarians raging through Empyrean lands.

However,even with this worrying prospect looming over the horizon, at this point in time there were far more pressing matters at hand. The spy on the East wall could deal no serious damage, not when he was being attacked by the sergeant as well as the Batlle-Born. Furthermore, even by killing the sentries, it had given the barbarians no real advantage. An attacking force from the East, while dividing the defenders' attention, would still be pointless without any way to pass the fortifications. While in an open battle Sular would have been one of the first to pronouce the group doomed, here, with a castle to defend, he had no such intentions. If the barbarians were intelligent enough to place a spy, they would know that attacking from the East would be just as foolish. Thus, the only logical conclusion was that the spy that they had believed to be the true threat, was merely a diversion, and the true threat still came from the army at their doorstep.

Ignoring the infiltrator, Sular headed down the craggy stone steps that led to the ground floor. As he had thought, the mechanism for opening the North Gate had been the target all along. Only a single boy had been left to guard it, no older than 16, and here he lay, dead from a swift stab to the neck. A rather short figure clad in only cloak, and potentially leather armor, was unlocking the mechanisms that held up the gate with frightening speed. With attention divided between the oncoming army and the spy on the East Wall, this second infiltrator had been able to get to this point without raising any alarms.

There was no time to shoot this man. The greatbow was a magnificent weapon for it's unparrallelled range, accuracy and sheer stopping power, a lord among ranged weaponry. However, it had never been built for mobility, nor was it a fast weapon, and in this situation speed was of the essence. Instead, Sular uttered a battlecry, intended both to draw the attention of his allies and startle the infiltrator, who no doubt had expected to remain unseen. Sular rapidly drew a dagger from the folds of his cloak, having carefully propped the massive bow against a wall before. Sular had had a cursory training with a variety of weaponry in his youth, for as Firstborn of the House he needed to be an exemplary warrior for his soldiers to follow. As he held this dagger in his hand, and eyed the shortsword his opponent wielded, however, he severely started missing the saber, or the range of his bow.

"Cowards, you pig rutting cowards," hissed Trinton.

The veteran shoved his way through a huddled press of bodies inside north eastern tower. He saw fear in the faces of those that tried to make way for him, and this sickened him as much as it troubled him. He wanted to have them all lashed a thousand times for just sitting there whilst a single enemy butchered their comrades. If just one of those savages being on the wall had this much of an impact on the garrison's morale, what would a score do? Outright surrender, more than likely.

Trinton approached the end of the corridor that linked the north and eastern walls. The large oaken door had been sealed shut in front of him, and a half dozen ragged looking soldiers held their weight against it. Their swords were drawn, but their trembling limbs told the Captain that they were hopelessly terrified. Once this ordeal was over, he was going to give the drill masters a good talking to about whipping the newer elements of the 13th Axillary into shape; this would not do. He wondered what Lord Polvark made of it all, or whether he even cared. The man came across as a bit vacant-minded sometimes, or so it seemed to the Captain.

"Move outta tha' way you scum, and open that door!" He shouted. His echo bounced from wall to wall, shocking the soldiers into action. With quivering hands, they removed the wooden planks they had bolted into position.

Not prepared to wait a second longer, Trinton kicked the door with his steeled foot. The impact sent shock waves through his temporarily-forgotten injured knee, and if it weren't for all of the terrified faces gawking at him, he'd of let free a whimper. The door swung open, crashing against the parapets on the other side. Trinton surveyed the situation; saw the dozen sentries mutilated and their blood running in small rivers over the edge of the wall and into the courtyard below. The saboteur stood, admiring his work calmly, even as a couple of arrows from the keep's ramparts whizzed by him. The rusted visor tilted upwards, to face the Captain, and without a word said, the man pointed at him coldly.

Trinton was having none of the bravado, "alright then you whoreson, let's have at ya!" he yelled, before surging forwards.

The man was tall - not quite as tall as the average savage - but easily a good foot over Trinton's meagre 5'6. He rushed forwards, to meet him with an overarching swing with a dull iron short sword. The weapon didn't appear like it'd been looked after well, and Trinton doubted it would cleave flesh, but it was still a lump of iron, and a man of that build could do great damage with it - no matter what kind of armour his victim was wearing. As the sword descended, Trinton stepped to the side, and the attack fell wide. The man may have been taller and stronger, but his size was against him, and his speed was lacking. Seeing the obvious opening left by his adversary's blundered strike, Trinton threw his steel-clad face into the saboteur's. His nose exploded with fiery pain, and he tasted blood in his teeth, but his opponent was stumbling backwards and struggling to regain himself. Looking to finish the fight, the Captain swung his longsword from left to right, cutting the saboteur deep across the stomach. The short sword fell from the man's hand, and Trinton followed up with a thrust.

His sword pierced the centre of the man's chest, and instantly blood frothed from the rusted visor. Before he could make good his victory however, the saboteur propelled both his palms with such force that Trinton was launched back down the wall's walkway. His armour sparked as he skidded along for several feet; in a daze, he felt around for his longsword, only to realise it was still embedded in his enemy's chest. The saboteur let fly a rasping chuckle, before promptly heaving the weapon from his ruined ribcage. He stalked towards Trinton, dragging it lazily by his side.

Trinton made to rise, but his busted knee had locked itself into position. Frantically, he beat at it with his mailed fists, but was rewarded only with a gut churning pain that coursed up his leg and into his pelvis. Realising that once again his historical injury was making itself heard, he drew his dagger - a simple blade of steel - and held it towards the saboteur. On his arse, and unable to stand, there was only one way this fight was going to end for him - this he knew. Unless one of those useless idiots helps me!

Turning, Trinton was dismayed to see the dangerous looking foreigner had failed to follow him. Cowardly swine poker! Not all hope was lost however, as his eyes soon fell upon the ghostly-pale woman he'd also brought along for his doomed adventure. Now he heavily regretted choosing her over all the other potential candidates. The poor thing looked set to have a heart attack, and Trinton reckoned if her hands closed around the staff of her halberd any harder, the thing would snap in two. Looking back at the saboteur, he realised he had perhaps seconds before he was skewered by his own sword.

The usual gravel of the Captain's voice was replaced with an almost womanish shriek, "don't just stand there you stupid bitch, kill him!"

“Enemy on the eastern walls!”

This deep yell from the west threw Festus out of his trance. A quick glance to the east walls, confirmed the news. Standing over the corpse of a sentry was one of the barbarians, bloodied and wearing a suit of chainmail that looks two sizes too small. In his hand was the body of another unfortunate sentry who was struggling less and less as the knife sticking out of his throat cut off his breathing and filled his lungs with his own blood.

Festus saw the barbarian manage to grab a third victim before his vision was blocked by an officer as he jogged past with a faint limp on one leg. He was followed by a heavily armoured woman, wielding a beautifully crafted halberd in a stance that looked as though she was ready to strike at anyone who threatened her. This weapon and her armour however, seemed much too cumbersome for her small body and each step seemed to drain her of strength as she tried to keep up with the officer and he barged through the crowd.

Gawking for long enough, Festus snacked the crowd around him and saw that none of the other defenders had moved to help the officer. Deciding that there was enough on this segment of the wall Festus chased after them. Tightening his grip as he balanced his glaive over his right shoulder he quickly moved towards the eastern wall, pushing past any defender who was too stunned to move.

Struggling through the crowds took time as his young body, while quite strong from lots of manual labour wasn't quite as built for strength as it could be. He reached the towers southern exit, leading out onto the eastern wall to see the officer thrown to the floor. His longsword hanging from the barbarian’s chest. Pulling it out of his ribcage, the large northerner stalked towards the downed man, crunching over the corpses of dead sentries.

The officer tried and failed to stand up, his bum knee obviously giving his problems as his death moved ever closer. He drew his knife and pointed it at the creature looming over him. He turned around and a look of dismay came over him, as his eyes set on the heavily clad female behind him, who stood as though she had become paralysed by fear.
shrieked out an order; “Don't just stand there you stupid bitch, kill him!”

Spurred on, Festus raised the glaive from his shoulder swung it down as hard as he could, the barbarian, who hadn't been expecting an attack reacted faster than he should have and raised one of his bloodied swords to deflect the polearm. Diverted from its path the glaive swung to the left and bit into the barbarian’s right shoulder. Knowing it was only a minor wound, Festus dragged the blade free as quickly as he could. This opened the wound further and caused a stream of blood to trickle down its arm.

Muiri wasn't particularly bothered about where her halberd was going to hit, as long as it hit something somewhere. The savage, preferably. She felt encouraged by the young man who inflicted a gash on the barbarian, who was now clutching his shoulder in agony, blood trickling through the gaps in his meaty fingers. Heaving the impressive weapon over her shoulders, Muiri launched a - somewhat unintentionally - vicious attack, landing the steel deep between the savage's shoulder blades. Blood sprayed from the wound and Muiri nearly gagged as it splattered her face and armour. When she expected to taste blood, Muiri expected her own and not some vile savage. The barbarian lurched forwards and the Battle-born stumbled with him, not willing to let the polearm free.

The savage turned, searching for his offender but she remained clinging for dear life behind him.

"Out of the way!" Muiri shouted to the men, as the barbarian remained stationary, simply growling and looking from left to right angrily. She had a plan, albeit not the best plan, but a plan was a plan after all. While the Captain sat, licking his wounds and the other man seemed not to have any idea as to what to, Muiri figured her plan was as good as any. The savage let out a strained roar, striking fear into the hearts of all the soldiers around them, not that they were doing anything anyway. If she didn't act now, she'd probably be dead on the floor in seconds.

Grabbing the polearm Muiri jerked it backwards, taking the barbarian with it. She raised her foot and the moment the barbarian came into reach, she gave him a kick with all her might. The halberd hadn't released itself like she had expected and again Muiri was forced to follow the savage as he blundered towards the crenellations. He stopped himself on a merlon, his gargantuan body hanging through the crenel. The Battle-born took this as opportunity and gave him a final shove, causing him to lurch off the edge.

Muiri felt the wind whip across her face, as well as gravity pulling her off the wall. She scrambled to grab whatever she could on the wall, which happened to be a poorly placed stone that stuck out like a sore thumb. The barbarian remained dangling off her polearm and it took nothing more than a good shaking to let him free. The blood-soaked blade slipped loose and the savage plunged towards the ground, colliding with a satisfying "thud."

"Someone help!" Muiri cried, realising that she was hanging off a wall with one hand and holding a weapon in the other. Sure, she could swing a big axe around a bit but there was no way she could muster the upper body strength to pull herself up. Nonetheless, Muiri did not appreciate being called a bitch.

Trinton's knee, now that he was far from danger, decided to free itself. With a sickening click, the joint released tension, and though it throbbed with pain, he found he could move it. Raising to his feet with an assortment of grunts, he marched over to the parapets and lent over. He looked not at Muiri, who was floundering wildly with her fingers to keep her grip on the wall, but past her towards the grassy earth below.

"That was my brother's sword," he said with collected calm, "carried that everywhere with me, since he fell ten years ago in some southern shit hole." He stretched further forwards, and eyed in dismay the broken shards of his family heirloom as they lay scattered about the barbarian's corpse. His vision hovered over the panicking face of Muiri, whose grip had started to fail, and with a sigh he caught her. His right knee might be less reliable than a Karandirian whore, but his arms were strong through years of standing in a shield wall. With hardly any effort at all, he dragged her over the parapets, armour n'all, and let her drop onto the floor in a heap.

"If you think you're getting my thanks, you'd be mistaken missy. Coulda done with you swinging that 'berd five minutes ago," he said mockingly.

Turning to face the real saviour - a mailed soldier, equipped with a bloodied glaive - Trinton smiled, "least one of you useless maggots got some balls, that's a bonus."

The Captain cast a glance over the wall; he hadn't seen any sign of the enemy when he was looking at the shattered sword of his deceased brother, and he didn't see any now. This was odd - what was that barbarian trying to achieve? More importantly, how had he managed to get inside so easily? Sure there were droves of peasant-soldiers sent to Castle Rivergate monthly. Some were recruited into the garrison, and others was passed further along the frontier to bolster other outposts. Rosters and inspections were rushed affairs, fair enough, but someone should have enquired further when they saw the man's dark skin, and his towering bulk.

An ear piercing grinding noise interrupted Trinton from his musings. He span on the spot and looked down at the courtyard - saw the gate starting to retract. WHAT!?

"We've been had!" He yelled. Looking around in a panic, the Captain picked up a dulled hatchet from one of the fallen sentries. "To the gate!"

Before he set off, he reached into his battered steel breastplate, and pulled out a nimble whistle held to his neck by a piece of discoloured string. Bringing it to his cracked lips, he blew four shrieking blasts. The sergeants on the north wall were already reacting to the crisis, and the Captain could see a score of soldiers making for the gate's mechanical compartment - but the giant oaken monster that kept the world beyond at bay was already six feet off the ground. Turning to the woman he was intent on not showing gratitude to, and the capable fighter that had saved him from getting his arse skewered, he nodded.

"If that gate goes up before the sergeants can put a stop to it, them black eyed bastards beyond the wall are gonna surge through. It'll be the end of us as we know it. You two head for the gate's mechanical compartment, see if you can help, I'm gonna go gather the Emperor's men in the courtyard," he paused to look up at the sun, "yup, looks like a good day to die. You got your orders, I'll see you in the clouds above!"

Trinton grappled a ladder mounted to the inside of the western wall, and slid down the rungs. He sent several more blasts through his whistle - and men, especially the more experienced of the garrison, flocked to him. Together they headed for the gate and formed a muddled shield wall, ready to brave the onslaught if the sergeants couldn't get the thing shut in time. He shivered as the floor trembled, and he eyed through the widening gap of the gateway an immeasurable line of warriors storming towards the breach.

"Archers!"

"Volley!"

"Fire at will!"

Sergeants were barking their frantic orders on the northern ramparts. The heart rending sound of a hundred bow strings being released at once gave hope the Captain, and he saw through the gate that the first rank of the barbarians had collapsed under a weathering wall of flighted death - but more surged forwards to bury those that had fallen under foot.

It seemed no help was coming his way, unfortunately. Sular could make no assumptions as to what was going on on the East Wall, but it was quite clearly distracting his comrades to such an extent that they had either not heard his shout, or been unable to come to his aid. This put him a rather problematic situation, as he did not relish revisiting his swordfighting skills at this particular juncture, and from the stance his opponent had taken, it seemed that this person was trained to at least some degree.

The short figure did not move forward, one knife held high, the second held low. No clear openings presented themselves other than Sular's reach advantage. He held the broadsword he had acquired from the nearby soldier in one hand, in a simple guard stance. His opponent couldn't afford to continue unlocking the mechanisms, for he'd have to turn his back on Shular. The advantage-

Before Shular could finish the thought, a heavy Thunk sounded. In the short figure's hand was a small crossbow, having seemingly materialised from thin air. The impact of the bolt knocked Sular back three steps, as he stared down at the shaft. It was firmly planted into his chest, still quivering from the impact it had made. It was hard to comprehend, as the mind tried to catch up to what his subconscious had already realized. That before he'd even been able to react, he'd already been killed.

Or at least he would have, if it wasn't for the boiled leather plate he was wearing. Noticing the man already reassessing the odds, having assumed Sular to be dead, Sular took a moment to reassess his opponent, and say a silent prayer to the Earth Mother. Whomever this was, they weren't a barbarian, and they were FAST. He saw the figure take out some form of stone from a pocket artfully hidden in the robe, which he threw at the stairs. There was a flash, as if he'd been staring into the sun, and Sular had to cringe away from the sudden light produced by the stone. No doubt this was all the time the stranger would need.

Moving forward, still half-blind, Sular tried to strike out at this mysterious opponent. It was quite probably not the most intelligent of moves, but Sular burned with wounded pride. He was a master warrior, trained from the moment he'd been brought into this world, and he would not be bested by some fool with no name or honor. However, his sword was caught in between two expertly maneauvered daggers, and ripped from his fingers. Pain blossomed from his hand, and Sular drew back hastily, his slowly returning vision allowing him to watch as well as feel the blood running down froma nasty cut on his hand.

With a loud clanging, the mechanisms moved into action, the powerful reinforced gate lifting off of the ground. The stunned soldiers watched, blinded by the stone the strange figure had thrown. With graceful, unhurried steps, the cloaked figure walked along the now lowered wooden bridge, seemingly disappearing halfwayover it, just as he'd dropped out of everyone's sight. Sular had seen magic worked by his father's Grand Priest, a gift from the Earth Mother to her greatest of children, but he hesitated when watching this display. If it was magic, it was unlike anything he had ever seen. And yet, what else could explain such an appearance?

And even as the Shas-La prince puzzled, a roar thundered over the plains. The very forests and sands shook, and those that moments before had fired into the barbarians' faces stared, wide-eyed with fear. Thousands in number, the barbarians streamed out of the trees, roaring a berserker's cry. Sprinting full out, weapons flailing and with no regard for their own lives. They saw an opening in the massive walls that had proved the deaths of previous waves, and they swarmed to it as sharks to a man over the rail. And Sular, starin into the face of the oncoming horde, felt rather like that man staring into the eyes of death.

Muiri expected as much, but at least the Captain had the courtesy to hoist her over the wall. Her feet were sore already and the wooden pole of her weapon was already giving her blisters and cuts. The blood seeped into the links between the plates in her armour soiling her undergarments. She had half a mind to roll her eyes as the Captain barked fresh orders at her and the other one, and certainly had no mind to listen to them. The moment he left she did so too, practically following him down the ladder just a distance behind. Except she was not headed for the front gate, rather a small room within the walls of the keep itself.

The sound of her polearm being flung against the wall disrupted the work of green and white-robed men, their heads buried in work. Some sat, scribbling away in parchments and thick books and some stood at tables surrounded by infinite amounts of herbs and bugs and sorts.

"Out of my way!" Muiri snapped, shoving a little man with a big hat away from a table, making him drop a bowl of brown liquid on the floor.

"What do you think you're-?!" He began to exclaim, interrupted by Muiri flinging her hand nonchalantly in his face. Currently, she didn't possess the patience to listen to small men in big clothes or to tell them what she intended on doing, for that matter.

The man began to scramble on the ground, making poor attempts to scoop up the liquid with the bowl. "You have obstructed a fine line of work, girl, and this is a restricted area," he sqwaked, his high voice thick with fury but Muiri had already begun to combine a reagent from the heap of items on the table.

"Fine line of work?" Muiri scoffed, grinding the ingredients in the bowl together. "Wheat, Empire berries and hollock, most common components of a healing remedy, yes?" The man nodded, rising from the ground with only a few drops of his brown liquid remaining. "You have heard of Ira berries, distant cousin of the Empire strain?" Nod.

Empire berries, an appropriate name for the abundance of berries that flourish within the Empire. A hybrid of that particular berry, named "Ira", grow within the deserts of Blackford and are deadly poisonous when consumed. The Hollock river runs parallel to the Hogol just east of Rivergate and is the source of hollock, the name given to the sweetwater tapped from there. Commonly used in meads and ales, storage of hollock is seemingly endless.

"Yes, but what do they have to do with-"

"Quiet, let me continue." The man looked taken aback, but did not argue. "Using Ira rather than Empire produces an entirely different effect, in fact the complete opposite." Muiri pushed back a clump of her mousy hair, showing her left ear, or what was left of it. The entire upper half was missing, leaving merely a stump of distorted flesh. She let the man gawk to himself before continuing to grind away. A tap in the centre of the table labelled "HOLLOCK - USE SPARINGLY" on a silver plate was the final step, and Muiri did not hesitate to turn it. Only a few drops dribbled out from the tap and into a glass bottle, but it was enough. Combining the rest of the mixture, she stormed out of the lab and back into the blazing sun, squinting to find the person she needed.

"Captain!" Muiri called, slightly struggling to catch up with the man, who had his worn eyes set on the charging horde of beasts, making their way straight for the keep. "Take this," she puffed, holding out the bottle. "Please, test it on one of them. But whatever you do, do not let it touch you. At all!" She thrust it into his hands, refusing a negative answer and left to retrieve her weapon. Yet what she failed to tell him was that such a small concentration of hollock could possibly have minuscule effects on the tough-skinned savages, but mammoth impacts on the soldiers. Not that she would know - after all, her skin had been the only test subject to date.

Trinton gawked at the woman, "test it on one of them?" he asked in confusion.

"RARDARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"

The Captain looked across at the gate, saw the barbarians thundering towards him and his band of men, and shrugged. "Alright, but whatever this is, it better work or I'll have you lashed ten a dozen for distracting me with your nonsense."

Blowing his whistle a few more times in hopes of garnering more troops to his cause, Trinton looked back up at the keep's battlements. He scowled at the fluttering green banner of Lord Polvark, and the gleaming breastplates of his hundred-strong personal guard. Castle Rivergate needed those fighters down in the courtyard; they were formiddable warriors, each one of them, all having served their terms in the real legions. For whatever reason however, they weren't prepared to move an inch to intervene - the 13th Auxillary was on its own. The Captain was not one for dispairing.

"On me, on me!" He called, stopping to blast another lungful of air down the mouthpiece of his whistle. "Spears up front, archers behind, swords on the flanks!" He barked, batting his breastplate with the flat of his hatchet as if it were a drum. "Come on you whoresons, you wanna live? Or you wanna die? Choose quickly, now."

A core of the garrisons more experienced troops, two dozen or so, herded the newer recruits into position. A score of men holding short spears, perhaps six to eight feet in length, lined the front of Trinton's makeshift regiment. A dozen or so others, armed with the short recurved bows of the imperial legions, ran to the nearby stables, and hefted back with them two large hollow wooden platforms. These stood only two feet high, four feet wide and ten feet long, and were designed to give the archers at the rear of a battle line the ability to shoot over the heads of their comrades in front. The rest of Trinton's men, baring a wide variety of swords, shields, maces and axes headed for the flanks of the spearmen.

"We let them come!" Trinton yelled, his voice becoming hoarse, "they crash into the spears, the swords close in from the sides. If you're any good at what you're supposed to be doing, we'll have them contained long enough for those tits up on the wall to get down here and help us. Archers, wait until those black eyed bastards are crammed in the gateway, then let 'em have it. Less chance of missing that way, ya see?"

The barbarians were only a hundred yards off now, and even as the archers on the northern wall rained arrows down on them, their advanced continued at a disheartening rate. In mere moments, they would be upon the Captain and his soldiers.

"Steady," said the Captain; his grizzly voice now of an almost soothing fatherly quality, "steady."

Watching the captain scramble for the ladder with the halberd wielding woman close behind Festus walked to the broken parapet. Looking toward the base he scanned the ground to look for the splattered remains of the barbarian’s corpse, but couldn’t find any trace of it except for the dark circle of blood where the body made the impact and what appeared to be drag marks in the soil.

Moving towards the inner wall Festus saw a wave of defenders from the southern reaches of the fort as they made their way towards the north gate. The northern wall was also swarming with movement as archers continuously released hundreds of dark shafts into the attacking hordes and soldiers armed to the teeth with a huge variety of weapons ran down the stairs to bolster the wall of defenders positioned around the open gate.

Acting upon the captain’s orders, Festus swung onto the ladder and slid down, quickly reaching the floor. He then fought through the gathering crowd and made his way to the gatehouse. Lying just inside the entrance was the corpse of a young soldier, a deep stab wound at the base of his neck. Thrown across the room was what appeared to be his weapon, the grip was darkened with traces of blood. Festus held his glaive in front of him as he carefully moved up the stairs, heading towards the mechanism that would hopefully allow him to lower castle gate before the Barbarians could charge through it.

Reaching the top of the gatehouse, Festus was greeted by a darkened room. He moved to one of the torches hanging from the walls of the stairwell and headed in. The glow of the flames managed to pierce the strange darkness that had settled over the room and revealed the gates mechanisms to the soldier. Jogging towards it, Festus inspected the machinery; “Now let’s see what we have hear…” He let out a sigh of relief. “Thank the gods, I can understand this, wouldn’t want to have come all this way just to learn that.”

After carefully placing his glaive against the wall and hanging the torch from a wall bracket, Festus deciding on the leaver he believe would close the gates and tried to pull it. His efforts however were futile. As soon as he pulled back the wooden handle had snapped. Raising the base into the light revealed that the wood had been burned and cut at the base, making it very fragile when putting force on it. Shocked, Festus continued to stare at the wood for a few seconds before trying to piece together a new plan.

Grabbing the base of the lever Festus yanked it out and threw the ruined object behind him. Then, grabbing his glaive, he jammed the butt of his handle into the hole he just created. Pulling on his glaive, Festus forced the impromptu leaver to slowly creak its way back. With an echoing click, his glaive stopped and the gate began working in reverse. Happy with his handiwork, Festus turned around to leave only to be struck by a large hand that leapt from the darkness.

"For the Emperor!" Cried Trinton as the barbarians crashed into the spearwall with a series if sickening crunches.

Bodies were skewered, and left hanging on the thicket of points. Others brushed through the weapons, and crashed into the those that held them. Trinton was there ready to recieve.

Ducking the wild swing of an axe, he brought his hatchet down on the skull of a barbarian. The man's wild black eyes looked at him in a rage, before his body accepted the two inches of dulled steel sitting in its brain. With a heave, Trinton withdrew the weapon just in time to bat away the lunge of a mace. Surging forwards, he rammed the flat of the hatchet's top into his attacker's unprotected face, splitting skin and breaking bone. He hacked franticly at his stunned opponent, until the man dropped to the floor in a thrashing bloody heap.

Those on the sides of spearwall gave their war cries, and thundered into the flanks of the press of barbarians. They crashed into them; the two forces merged into a bloody melee and it was every man for himself. Trinton took a hit to his full helm from a maul, and he fell to his knees in a daze. Blood cascaded down the side of his head, but before his attacker could finish him, his soldiers advanced to form a protective ring. Hands gripped him and pulled him to the back of the battle.

"Archers," Trinton mumbled as if drunk, "fire, for the Emperor's sake, fire!"

The archers, positioned on the makeshift platforms, leased their meagre volleys over the heads of their comrades. Most of the projectiles found their mark, and many proved fatal - but it was not enough. Hundreds of the savages were driving through the open gate, and though Trinton's force was being bolstered by fresh arrivals from the walls, it would not be enough. Again, the Captain looked up at the keep and stood with bemused anguish at Lord Polvark's willingness to let the castle fall.

"My Lord!" shouted Trinton, "grace me with your legionaiires, if you would."

The unwavering lines of steel plated armour that stuck to the crenelations of the keep did not move, and nor did the Captain receive a reply. Just what is that idiot doing?.

The gate began to churn its way back down, and Trinton swung to look at it. Finally, someone had regained control of the mechanisms! If they could just hold the barbarians for a while longer, then the gate would be closed, and those that remained on his side of it would be slaughtered.

"Fight on, fight on!" Roared Trinton, surging back into the fight. "Drive these swine arse slapping freaks back, the Emperor demands it!"

And then, just like that, the gate stopped descending. Trinton scowled - he did not want to leave his men to fight without his leadership, but damnit, someone needed to close the thing before all was lost. He needed to buy time, and that's when he remembered.

Reaching into his breastplate, the Captain pulled forth a glass phial that the irritating woman had given him. She'd said to throw it at the dark skins, and that was just what he was about to do. He threw it high and far, and watched it glisten as it fell back to earth and disappeared beyond the throngs of the enemy. For a second nothing happened, and Trinton berated himself for believing for a moment it would amount to anything. That's when he heard the screaming - the kind of screams that chase a man in his sleep.

Smoke was rising from where he had thrown the mysterious liquid, and there was a strange hissing sound that was quickly threatening to overrule the noise of clashing metal. The barbarians surged forwards, as if trying to escape something, and then broke apart, allowing for Trinton to see the fruits of his labours. A dozen or so of them stood grasping for the help of their comrades; their skin was peeling from their bones, and they were coughing globs of blood as their eyes melted down their cheeks. Trinton had seen many horrible things in his time, but this was something else. He promptly emptied his stomach onto the courtyard; the foul half digested remains of his breakfast clogged his visor, forcing him to rip his helmet off and cast it aside.

He was an ugly man, pockmarked skin, grey cropped hair, dull blue eyes and now splotched with his own vomit.

"Whatever that woman is, and wherever she is, FIND HER, we're going to need more of that evil before this day is through," shouted Trinton to his sergeant.

The barbarians had been stunned by the horror, but were hastily regrouping for an attack; though Rivergate's courtyard defenders too were reaffirming their defensive lines. Trinton decided he could vacate for a short time, and see what nonsense had befallen the gate. Promptly, he ran for the opening in the wall that would lead him up to the mechanical compartment.