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. [i]Someone's done this before,[/i] 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."