"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. [i]Just what is that idiot doing?[/i]. 

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.