An arrow extended from his chest, his head still ringing from the mysterious stone, Sular lay slumped against the wall of the suddenly brightened room. Most likely the man that entered had dismissed him as a corpse, like the poor soldier that lay beside him, if he'd even seen him. Slowly standing, Sular made sure not to be seen, in case this person turned out to be an enemy. And also because he hurt enough that he doubted his ability to defeat a mildly peeved puppy in combat right now. However, as the figure went around, creating an improvised lever to replace the one that had been broken, he came to the conclusion that this man was most likely not a spy. Unfortunately for the fellow in question, a figure who had also been skulking the shadows came to the same conclusion at more less the same time, and this other man's response was a lot more hostile than Sular's would have been.

Reaching for his Greatbow, Sular remembered that he was in a tight, enclosed space. Even if he could get a good line of fire on his opponent, it would take all of two strides for a Barbarian to walk up and slap the overgrown projectile weapon aside. And then Sular would be left with no defense against the ensuing attacks, which would most likely end in death. Instead, he once more picked up the Broadsword he had quietly come to despise. He wasn't meant for fighting in such small quarters, and these broadswords were far slower than the sabers he was used to wielding. However, unlike last time, he had an ally by his side, assuming he managed to prevent that ally from dying right about now, which would hopefully turn the scales against this barbarian.

In his first attack, Sular abandoned defense for a bit, knowing full well that he had the advantage of surprise. His blade hissed out as he stepped from the shadows, slicing through the flesh of the arm that had gripped his ally. He hadn't hit the bone, but he'd cut the tendons for sure, and with a scream the barbarian was forced to drop his temporary captive. He didn't know the man's name, but he'd happily get to know it later, assuming they lived through this. He'd have a good drink, too, even the disgusting swill these westerners called alcohol. Ducking under the heavy swing of an iron mace, Sular moved forward with a rather ineffectual slash, not so easy now that the element of surprise had been lost, hopefully giving the man beside him the time to get his bearings, and start pulling his weight. In fact, Sular grimly reflected, as he deflected a blow from the side, his life very much depended on that.

---

The giant Broding was Gutra, born of the Dragon Stars. His birth had occurred on the sacred moon, and as a child he had drunk the Blood of the Dragon, ritually prepared by the High Shaman in the Shukken forests. He was chosen by the Spirits, elite among all Gung Warriors, to be a pillar of strength and destruction. Throughout his youth, his various exploits, such as murdering and eating a Blade Raptor with his bare hands, had spread his fame throughout the other clans. He had fought, and bested, the Chosen of each other clan, and earned the position of Guntra through a passage of blood. The spirit of Amun, the Dragon Knight, burned immortal within his heart, and with it came both the fury and the strength of the Immortals. No man had ever faced him and lived, no beast had he found that he could not kill. Unequaled, he was Guntra, and nothing would stop him.

At slightly over 3 meters, Broding truly deserved the title of giant. Even the tall and strong Gung around him came barely up to his chest, and he was almost twice as tall as the Metal Men before him. Those who clad themselves in iron, fearing the judgement of Kuln, He who Devoured. His body was built like a wall of flesh, heaps of muscle giving him an almost inhuman appearance. His head was comparatively slow, and yet no man would miss it for the bloodthirsty grin that seemed to be a permanent addition the Broding's face, as well as the seeming fire that burned in his eyes, almost as if he had lit his brain on fire. In his massive clenched fist, he held a long staff, a blade attached to each end of it. It was pure white, seemingly forged from bone, the blades resembling talons more than anything forged by man, as if they had been taken from some massive beast. Which, quite possibly, they had been.

As he walked through the gate, opened as the High Shaman had stated it would be, he saw his Gung already fighting the Iron Men. Letting out a roar that resembled more the tales of mythological beasts and demons than anything uttered by a man, Broding launched himself forward. Gung, knowing what was about to happen, stepped aside rapidly, a path forming to allow Guntra to battle. A spearman who had moments before been fighting for his life was momentarily left with no enemies, and just enough time to glance up and see the massive hulk of a man bearing down on him. To his credit, the spearman, despite seeing his death closing in, set his spear against the ground, and held up his large shield, as if defending against a cavalry charge. Unfortunately for him, Broding used the dual-bladed battle lance to swipe the spear aside. Instead of striking again, however, Broding held up a foot, and brought his full weight to bear on the shield. Even as the man tried to frantically scramble away, he was crushed under his own shield, Broding using him as a stepping stone to walk into the enemy ranks behind him.

Guntra stood strong, burnign with the flame of Amun, the Dragon's Claw in hand. The Gung knew this, and surged with revitalized morale as the legendary warrior took to the battlefield, already ripping through the enemy. If this line fell, they knew, the bottleneck would be broken and they could bring their full numbers to bear. Then, any hope of victory would soon fade away.

Trinton heard an earth shattering roar as he made for the gate, and turned to see a horrific monstrosity in the form of a massive barbarian surge into his men. Bloodied screams took to the air, as the spear wall folded, and the giant's comrades drove forwards into the breaches. He'd left his men for five seconds, and already his absence was wrecking Rivergate's chances of survival. Realising that the gate's mechanisms would have to be left to whoever was there to do something about them, he trotted back towards the melee.

Casually, he raised his whistle to his lip, and fired shrieks into the air repeatedly. Again and again, he emptied the contents of his lungs into the now-moist mouth piece. Exhausted from the fighting, as he was, the weight of his armour was heavy on his shoulders, but a cool summer breeze revived him as it washed over his exposed perspiring face.

"To me, to me!" He shouted. Soldiers who had been descending from the eastern and western wall, and the south eastern and south western towers, ran towards him. He was the only captain in Rivergate's roster, Lord Polvark's second in command in the grand scheme of things. His word was practically the Emperor's. "Rally to me!"

Ten, then twenty, then fifty, and then eighty miss-matched men-at-arms, peasant militia and disgraced legionnaires assembled behind him. He cast down his hatchet, exchanging it for a longsword and a towershield brought forwards by one of Rivergate's quartermasters. A young squire bearing the coat-of-arms Trinton did not recognised, presented him with a simple skull cap and a damp rag. He used the rag to wipe the vomit from his face, and then planted the bowl-shaped helmet on his head. The screams of the faltering defenders at the gate reached their peak, and Trinton Ironspike, loyal Captain of the Empire, and stalwart defender of the Emperor's claims, pointed his sword towards the throng of bodies.

"For the Emperor!"

The Imperial defenders stormed onto the flanks of the barbarians from the east - reinforcing the bulging line, and then forcing it backwards.

"Cut them off, cut through them!" Shouted Trinton, blasting his whistle between words. "Make safe the gateway!"

The Captain and his men cut a bloody swathe through the barbarians, slicing through the narrowest part of the choke point. One of the savages swung a mace at him, but he easily caught it with his shield, sprung his knees forwards and struck the man in the neck with his sword point. Not stopping to admire his prowess, he barged the barbarian out of the way with his shield, and hacked at the arm of another as he stood strangling one of the Emperor's men. His abrupt plan was working, if they could secure the gateway with sturdy shields and iron hearts, then the savages caught in the courtyard would be cut off and dealt with.

A double bladed lance caught Trinton across the face, gorging his left cheek and gauging his eye. The force of the attack sent the man spinning on the spot, and he fell to his knees. His vision had halved, and what remained was a reddish haze. His face was on fire, as if someone had thrown boiling water on it.

"On your feet, little Iron Man," grumbled a deep voice behind him in broken common tongue.

Trinton, despite his grievous injury, stood and turned. He looked up at the gigantic monster before him, and not for the first time that day, his heart sunk to his stomach. Even with both eyes, and twenty years taken off him, this opponent was well beyond his skill. Still, if Trinton was anything, it was that he was the Emperor's man, one who would not cower, and one who would do his duty to his dying breath. Besides, he was old, and his busted knee was driving him to an undignified retirement.

"Alright, you tall bastard, let's have at yer!" He shouted, and ran forwards.

The lance swept at him, and he raised his shield - not that it did him much good. He stumbled wildly to the left with the weapon's impact, and he was barely able to recover as it came at him again. He brought his sword up to meet it, but the weapon shattered at the hilt and a spectacular display of shimmering metal shards. There was nothing for it. Trinton ran forwards with everything his troublesome knee would give, and held his shield in front of his mass. He collided with his enemy, throwing his weight into the attack, but the hulking giant barely moved. Trinton looked up at snarling teeth.

The line of bodies felt soft as he hit them, but the ground was as unforgivably hard as he struck it and rolled several feet. A pain seared his chest, and he knew a rib or two had been cracked. Struggling to his feet, he drew his dagger, and pointed it limply towards his doom. If Trinton Ironspike was to die, then it would be fighting - not cowering, no, never cowering.

"Again," he wheezed, spitting a blood through broken teeth. He stalked forwards, preparing to strike low even as his opponent brought down that dreaded lance from above.

---

"It is time," said Lord Jacques Polvark calmly. "We go to the gate."

"Right you are my Lord," replied Polvark's Seargeant-At-Arms. "Alright men, it's time to get into this war!"

The sergeant's words were met with enthusiastic cheers from Polvark's personal guard - a hundred strong assortment of hardened warriors. Together, they turned from the keep's crenelations, and started to descend the stairs that would take them to the courtyard. Lord Polvark was at their head - a tall man, in beautiful ornate steel, flanked by a billowing blue cape and grasping the regal sceptre of his House. He was not a stupid man, as he no doubt suspected the defenders often thought him. Quite the opposite, he was a thinker. His men were the best of the best, as far as Rivergate went, and he was not about to waste them so early in the fight.

"How long since you sent the runner?" He asked to his sergeant.

"Six hours ago sir. Bastion La Tour de Garde should have received news by now, and surely, Lord Grimhelm is on his way," replied the sergeant gleefully.

"We can but hope," said Lord Polvark.

His vision swam as the soldier picked himself off the floor. His shoulder sore from where it had apparently collided with the floor, just before his head had done the same. Spitting blood from his mouth, Festus adjusted his helmet to look at the new enemy and was surprised to see that the barbarian was being fought by a large wounded foreigner wielding the dead guard’s broadsword.

The barbarian had turned towards the new threat thinking that Festus had been incapacitated, and while he was seeing double, Festus could definitely swing his weapon. Taking a deep breath he calmed himself and focused his sight, before silently pulling his shield from his back and unclipping the crow’s beak from his belt. Like this shield this weapon was also his father’s and Festus had taken quite a liking to it. It was a weapon shaped like an axe except instead of a blade it held a long and viciously sharp metal spike which had a large square weight on the back of the spike to help balance the weapon.

Carefully moving towards the barbarian, Festus swung the spike into the back of the barbarian’s knee driving the point into the thick bone. Unable to keep his weight on it the barbarian collapsed onto his left knee, his empty hand stabilising himself and preventing him from falling any further. Twisting its body around on one leg, the barbarian swung his mace backhand into Festus’s shield. Bracing himself against it, Festus was pushed back a few feet but the metal of his shield held and redirected most of the force saving him from harm.

The extension of his arm during the backhand caused a wound on the barbarian’s shoulder to reopen, stitches ripping through the skin and causing dark blood to flow down the muscles of his arm. Lunging forward, Festus brought his crow’s beak in a heavy overhead strike aiming for the kneeling barbarian’s head. The barbarian’s body extended as it was couldn’t dodge the thick spike which easily pierced the skull and dropping the overgrown brute onto his stomach. Pulling the spike from the dead enemy’s head, Festus looked toward the foreigner who saved him.

“Thank you for that, no doubt you saved my life there.” Quickly nodding his head in the giant’s direction. “now let’s finally get that damned gate closed.”

In a world where magic is rare and gods often remain silent for thousands of years, miraculous events fade into the past and become legend, and legends become bedtime stories for young children. One such story warns of the folly of war and bloodshed, stating that those who kill will also be killed, rendering all for naught. Only evil itself will profit from it all, for the servants of the Flayed Twins are drawn by blood and death, appearing in the midst of great battles to finish the wounded on both sides, gaining strength with every drop spilt. Bloodrage fueling their senseless slaughter, the mythical blood hunters channel the vitae of their victims to their gods through the markings on thier armor. They are every warrior's nightmare. They are unstoppable.

No one living has ever seen a hound of the Twins.... no one still living, that is.

On this particular day, as the sun was beginning its descent from zenith, a small, red and black streak shot out from the forest along the river. The large, dog-like, clawed paws of its hind feet hardly touched the ground in its speed as it coursed directly for the front lines. Its eyes completely covered by a hood, scent alone directed the bloodseeker's blades. Age, gender, blood type, sickness, degree of fear and pain... Strygwyr could detect it all with a breath. He knew exactly who to attack, and who was next after him. His large, pointed teeth neatly meshed together in a grin, he pounced on his first victim with eager glee. "For the Twins!" He called in his particular accent as he smashed a bladed tonfa into the barbarian's back, knocking him down.

The barbarians around him were completely caught off gard. No one had been expecting an attack from the rear. Quite tribal in appearance himself, the blood hunter looked nothing like the other wildlings. He was smaller, with lighter skin, and not to even mention his hind feet being paws. Also not much for clothing, he had a thickly feathered black hood, a mantle of leather and cloth covered in markings, a loincloth, and decorative bands and bracelets of bone, feathers, and teeth. Two large blades shielded him on either side along his forearms. Death was all the armor he needed.

With a satisfied growl, he turned to the next sacrifice. Now splashed with blood, he was even stronger. A faint glow seemed to come from his eyes from underneath his hood, and he moved as if possessed. Mercilessly, he launched at the slowest of the barbarians around him. They didn't know what to do with him. He was so fast, and he cut anyone around him. One of the barbarians gasped in horror, seemingly recognizing the strange creature, and shouted something that sounded like a warning to the rest. Most of them were oblivious, too engaged in the battle with the soldiers of the fortress, dodging arrows, or trying to climb the north wall. A few, made haste to relocate themselves, muttering in confusion. As the second barbarian dropped to one knee, bleeding and loosing to his unexpected enemy, a small clearing began to develop around them. Strygwyr opened his jaws, almost panting, and stood up. Not far from him, the North gate was getting crowded. He sniffed the air deeply as a new scent filled his lungs. ...poison, blood tainted with chemicals, melting flesh... Pain. As the barbarian before him died, his heart giving out, Strygwyr left toward the source of the agony and strongest scent of blood.

He stopped before the circle of melted flesh and let out a wolfish growl. It was too late. Everything here was already dead. Still, he smiled. The blood of those who had impaled themselves on spears after going under the still-open north gate was calling to him. "So much blood." He said to himself as he flew in that direction.

Dive-rolling under the gate, Strygwyr had the advantage of surprise, which he made full use of. Starting with the weak, he began killing relentlessly. His own wounds didn't seem to stop him, nor did even a strong bash to the flank with a heavy mace do more than knock him aside before he bounced back. The beast was wild and inhuman. At first, it seemed as if he might have been some great or enchanted warrior from a rival tribe, who might have come to kill the invaders, or just happened to be at the fortress at the time of the attack, then suddenly, he ran up a set of stone stairs and began attacking infantry men as well. No, there was no discretion. He was a fury warrior gone berserk, and he was going to kill everyone.

At the back of the charging horde of barbarians, stood a magnus. A mage of old, one how had been dormant for many years, do to an elderic curse. He had been reduced to a fairy tale during his slumber for a hundred years, but he had returned.
"Today, I set the world aflame with green blazes. I will show them the fear they felt a century ago!" He roars, from the far back of the barbaric tide, as he force his way threw, lobbing large green flames at the castle, like a siege weapon. The flames did little though, unless they caught onto flesh, in which the burns were painful, and fast spreading. These attacks drained the mage, and forced him to consume a few barbarians to keep the attack going. Rinack make sure to keep himself hidden from sight, his true form behind hidden by the rather over sized robes he had clad himself in.

He had a mission, he wouldn't let his greatest weakness show. Not now. Not ever again.

The great magnus of the nether hell keeps his attack up, sending the rather weak blobs of fire into the ranks on top of the ramparts. Quickly, his pushed forward, to the broken wall, where he simply stood back, throwing flames over the wall. The goal here was to cause fear, not death. So, he would cause that fear, with the darkest power he knew.

Again? So soon? The feeding is getting worse you know......

Rinack shook off these memories of the past, and attempted to consume a few of the guards on the ramparts, from where he stood. Red energy left their bodies, and flowed into the magnus, not turned green by his rotten soul. The few soldiers were reduced to ash in there armor with in the minute, but such a ability drained Rinack, forcing him to rest. Hiding in the horde of primitive fools, he waited for his strength to return....soon, he would win.

The eastern wall was quickly becoming vacant of archers. Blood poured across the stone, streaming down the walls as the bloodseeker advanced. The armor of any fool insane enough to remain was dented and rended by the rapid and relentless strikes of his large blades. Any dutiful and honorable hand capable of raising a weapon against him only felt the shockwave of the the weapon shattering as Strygwyr sundered it directly. Mere humans were no match for the Twin's dog, not when he was fueled by the Flayed One's thirst in the midst of battle. The ordained beast laughed in amusement. It had been a hundred years since he had last risen to hunt, and he was eager. This was a bounty. Listening, sensing, breathing, Strygwyr felt the familiar reverberation and light of magical fire. His darkened eyes could no longer witness the green sparkle as Rinok's flames descended randomly into the courtard, but he knew. "Cursed wizard." He growled to himself softly. Magic could kill without letting blood, and this greatly displeased him. Having mages on the scene would bring an early end to his worship this day. Inclining his head to the left, over the wall, he searched for the source of the magical fire. So many barbarians were swarming the area, yet he gathered a faint scent of ash and putrid blood among them. He'd have to remember it incase he encountered it again later.
Padding vigorously forward along the now-empty eastern wall, a cacophony of screaming in the courtyard gave him pause. A great warrior had appeared, his strong heart and powerful vitae attracted Strygwyr's attention almost as much as the blinding degree of slaughter around him. Like a curious merecat, Strygwyr raised himself up to take in all the information his senses could provide. It was wonderful to behold such a good killer. Delicately he stepped to the very edge of the battlement toward the warrior, and for his carelessness in 'staring,' two arrows pierced his flesh. Ripping the bolts out of his shoulder and neck with furious growls, he ducked down and sprinted back to the courtyard. "Twice the blood shall I shed." ...and thanks to the new warrior, there was plenty.
Slashed by the giant's dual-bladed battle lance, a spearman attempted to flee, hoping to outrun such a large creature as Broding. Not four strides had he gone before Strygwyr violently crashed into him, nailing him to the ground and breaking his spine. "You feed the Flayed twins." He said as the man stopped moving. With that, Strygwyr paused, his wounds visibly closing as the human's blood flowed. He knew Broding was approaching behind him, and a shark-like grin widened under his hood.

Broding was Gutra, a warrior above all other warriors. And as well as physical strength, he could respect the soul and will of a warrior. Even to the very last moments of his life, with full knowledge of Broding's capabilities and his own weakness, the Iron Man crawled towards him. It took a strength of spirit for a man to even face him, but to continue through such pain was quite an achievement, a show of courage not often seen. It was only right in Broding's mind that a warrior who walked willingly towards death to fight for his cause deserved respect, if not mercy.

"Gan Bor Du Amun" Roughly translated, it meant 'You are brave', or 'you are blessed by Amun.' For the Gung, the two were one and the same.

Coiled muscles like those of some great beast rippled beneath skin black as obsidian as the massive warrior reached down with his left hand. The man sliced at it, but Broding merely broke his arm with a swift grab. Even as the crack resounded, he suddenly moved as if to punch Trinton in the chest. Cracking through flesh and bone, his hand seemed to break through the mail, impossibly, blood spurting out as if from a miniature fountain. With a grunt, Guntra pulled back his hand, and in it he held the still-fresh heart of the old veteran. With another motion, even as Trinton's vision began to fade from the sudden blood loss, Broding held the heart up to his face, and devoured it in a single bite.

Broding could feel, even as the warm flesh slid down his throat. A childhood scuffle in the sand with the local rough boys. A patriotic youth, filled with wild ambition and great dreams for the future. A dispiriting and disillusioning battle in the marshes of Nidaa, the memory haunted by the screams of those who had not survived. All of those memories, the life that he devoured. To some small degree, they became a part of him, forged his soul stronger. It was both the greatest horror, and the highest compliment that was within the Guntra's right to grant, as he absorbed the strength from those who fell before him, forging his heart, mind and body to beyond human limits. Gaining the strength of each great warrior he defeated, he was an unstoppable immortal, who carried with him the souls of countless master swordsman and brave knights, daring or foolish enough to make the Guntra their opponent. Such was the Way of Amun.

As he continued, the Dragonclaw slicing through the Iron Men around him, he felt the green fire fly through the air. It burned not naturally, with the eternal passion of Gura, as all normal flames do. Rather, it burnt like the foul deeds of cowards, hidden from sight by a veil of lies and deceit. They burned with envy, hatred, and greed, those things that make up the weak and rotten minds of fools. He knew that those who were devoured by it stood no chence of arriving in Amun's Plains when this was all over, their souls pulled down into the depths of the Netherlands. Had he had any will for mercy or pity, he would have granted them a warrior's prayer. However, he was a warrior who knew no such weakness in his heart, and the only mervy he would grant them was death by his blade. He would grant all who came near him an honorable death by his hands, that they might fight for what they believed in before falling.

The mage was not of the Gung, and never could have been. He was not of the Ak, nor of the Tan. No Clan under the heaven's could call the mage kin, and yet, he had shown up so many days ago speaking the Old Tongue. That divine language entrusted to only the shamans who spoke with the Gods. He had known ancient secrets that should have been lost to all still living many years ago. He had shown great power, and he had come demanding they follow him. He saw the Gung went to battle, and had assumed that they would follow him, as if he were a High Shaman. Had the High Shaman not granted him the Protection of the Gods, Broding would have crushed his skull and left his heart to rot, along with his traitorous, blasphemous soul. He feared no Gods, and such a man, Guntra knew all too well, was nothing more than a rotten soul. Driven by greed and foolishness.

However, Broding was not a thinking, and he had not come here to ponder upon the stranger. He was a warrior, he was Guntra, greatest among warriors. And he had come here to be bathed in the blood of his enemies, and devour the hearts of their greatest.warriors.

A red flash streaked through the battlefield. moving with inhuman grace, it's arms were soaked in the blood of those that had already fallen. Moving through Gung and Iron Man alike, it's very skin seemed to be turning red from being eternally drenched in blood. Well schooled by the High Shaman, Broding recognized the Blood Hound, hunter of Ayk and Buk, the Spirits of Slaughter. Omen of bloodshed, and ally to none, the blood hound had already marked many deaths upon the battlefield as it came within Broding's reach. He could fully observe it, twisted by it's servitude to those Spirits. Broding paused a moment to wonder if it had been the admittance of the mage into the Gung that had caused Ayk and Buk to send their hounds, or whether it was simply one of their bloody whims. However, Amun was embodied in him, and his hand was that of Amun, Lord of Dragons and God of Warriors. If the Spirits of Slaughter had forgotten their place, then Broding would show them that the Chosen of Amun would rip the heart of their hound from it's flesh. He would take the fury of the Seeker and make it his own.

The polearm extended the already massive reach of Broding's long, muscled arms even further, allowing him to attack his opponents well before they could close in on him. The Dragonclaw came in fast from the side, but the Bloodhound had already gracefully moved aside, the serrated edge whistlign through the air above it as it smiled, preparing for another bloodbath. However, quickly reversing the direction of the blow, Broding brought the second blade of the Dragonclaw from below. With no time or room to dodge, the Bloodhound blocked, but Broding's strength was more than that of any human. The Hound was launched into the air, pciked up by the swing, and landed with a soft thump several feet away. While fast, Broding had the advantage of great reach, and as chosen of Amon, he was unstoppable in physical strength. He had also drawn into himself the combat knowledge and skill of every great warrior he had encountered, making him a formidable opponent.

Walking forward, Guntra called forth in the native tongue to his people, the Dragon Clans. "Seeker of Blood, Hound of the Twins. I am Chosen of Amon, Lord of Dragons. If your gods have forgotten my place, let me show you why you are nothing but a hound for the Spirits, and I am Chosen. Come forth, and show me your power and fighting spirit, that you may die with dignity and honor!"

Strygwyr knew he was under attack long before the first swing began. Although he could not see, per se, the power of the Twins told him much. He dodged easily, turning to face Broding, but the followup attack was well-timed. With a grunt, he blocked the strike and was thrown some distance. The blood hound's seemingly ever-present grin was wiped from his face as he scrambled to get up in case of another attack. This warrior's strength was quite lethal.

His opponent introduced himself, and the challenge was presented. That, was cordial for the battlefield. The animalistic seeker stood up, almost looking human, and spoke slowly with a thick, earthy accent. For many, this was the first time they could get a good look at him. "So, you know me, warrior? Then you know that I will be your undoing. The Flayed Ones are in need of blood, and so, I go. Your blood, Chosen of Amon, will be very satisfying to them. You should be honored to bleed, so that the Twins may live." He seemed proud of his calling as his smile returned. The arrangement between Strygwyr's people and the twin gods of slaughter was two-sided, like a coin. On the one side, the people worshiped and fed the gods via bloodshed and in return were granted their blessing and protection. On the other side, if the Twins were left hungry and sacrifices had been inadequate, the Twins would devour the entire civilization. There was no middle ground, yet, over centuries and many generations, the Flayed twins had come to be loved and revered. Strygwyr was in essence, a priest, sanctioned as their holy hunter, having willingly submitted his soul to them, to live again and again as their dog of war, providing blood to assure his homeland. "You, were chosen, but I chose." He crouched down into a more comfortable stance, readying his blades. "I will see that your sacrifice is properly made!"

With that, he started forward, stepping briefly into Bodring's striking distance to draw his attacks, but with full intention to keep clear of every one, taunting him with his dangerous proximity. Even fueled as he was with bloodrage, he couldn't afford to endure the impact of the warrior's swings too many times, and so he couldn't get close enough to do any damage. Nonetheless, Strygwyr drew him forward, forcing him to move to reach him and bided his time initially. He ducked and darted away as a powerful swing crashed into a wooden support beam next to his head, fracturing splinters everywhere, and causing the platform above them to shortly collapse thereafter. Bloodseeker may have been a primitive, but instinct was a raw and beautiful form of intelligence. He used it to its full advantage. Everyone got out of their way as they chased each other. A few cheers erupted from the nearby Gung who had made it into the courtyard as they witnessed their champion against a worthy adversary. None of them would dishonor the Gutra by participating in his one-on-one mortal combat.

Finally, Strygwyr created his opening. Nearly losing his head in doing so, he drew a straight swing down to the ground where he had been only milliseconds ago. With unexpected and unparalleled grace, his clawed feet ran up the shaft of Broding's glaive, and he slashed deeply at the arm that held the weapon and lined up a second swing for Broding's neck. Bloody teeth like a piranha came so close to the warrior's face that the image would live in his nightmares ever afterward were he to survive this. Inches short of Broding's neck, Strygwyr's tonfa missed as he was backhanded by Broding's free arm and thrown backwards against a stone wall. Gathering himself up again, the blood hunter laughed. All he had to do was keep making Broding bleed.

Lord Polvark's men descended the stone steps in an organised flurry of burnished shields and sharpened swords. Some of the barbarians, having broken through the decimated ranks of the defenders at the gate, charged forwards to meet them. Polvark's personal guard however, gathered themselves into an air tight shield wall with practised precision, and almost in an instant the front rows of his men were a formidable wall of steel and courage. As the first barbarian fell upon the centre of the line, his victim batted his axe to the side with a tower shield, lunged and withdrew in one fluid motion. Stunned, at first, and then taken over by dread realisation, the savage fell to his knees with a hole punched through his lower ribs.

Upon the stone steps, elevated above the gathering formation of his men, Lord Polvark surveyed the carnage with grim dismay. Most of the castle's defenders were dead or dying, and those who remained were making a desperate effort to reach the safety of his line. Though, it wasn't the condition of the 13th Auxiliary legion that troubled him most - it was the massive savage, and Polvark could tell even from afar that this adversary held terrible power. To add to the nightmare, a large and horrifying animal was running amok amidst the chaos. The eastern ramparts had fallen to the creature's might alone, and now it rounded upon the giant. It seemed that whatever this beast was, it served neither the Emperor or the savages.

"Praetorians, today this keep does not fall, the Emperor demands it of us!" Cried Polvark, his voice straining to convey his words over the sounds of slaughter.

"MARAH!" Came the thundering and unified retort of his soldiers. They were good men, each one a great warrior, each one the Emperor's chosen, each one assigned to defend Lord Polvark to their dying breath. Though only a hundred strong, in their tight formation of steel and unwavering courage, they were a formidable force.

Green fire started to fall in clumps, splashing Rivergate's northern ramparts, and covering the unfortunate soldiers in unyielding flames. They screamed, begging for their mothers, as their skin boiled beneath their white-hot mail. Lord Polvark was not a warrior, he was a statesmen, a politician - an aristocrat. Such an awful sight sent his stomach tumbling, and for a moment, he feared he would vomit onto the backs of his men. Not that they would do anything or even react, but a Lord of the Empire had to show he was made of sterner stuff at all times.

"Shall we open them up, my lord?" Enquired Polvark's sergeant.

The Lord shook his head. "No, we wait here, we hold the steps and make safe passage for any of the Emperor's men that can make it to us. United as one, we will outlast the tide, until Lord Grimhelm's arrival."

---

The road to Castle Rivergate from Bastion La Tour De Garde was a long one, fraught with peril and difficult to march an army down. Yet, with one of the Empire's last surviving forts under threat of collapsing, the 16th Legion was making a go of it all the same. At their head, Lord Erich Grimhelm, Consul of the Imperial Senate and Commander of the Northern Armies, trotted on the back of a great white destrier. He was as old as the Emperor. His former masculine image of strength was mocked by his gaunt wrinkled face topped with thinning silver hair. An arched back wrought with age added to his pitiful physique. Though, having lived seventy winters, it would be rash to describe him as diminished. Not many lived to see such long years, after all.

Alongside him rode Magnus Antonius of Meria, one of the Empire's late, great spell wielders. Unlike the consul, he was a young man leaning on the good side of thirty, with long dark hair and flawless facial features. Erich often wondered if the man's handsomeness was more down to concealing magic, as opposed to natural given qualities. Antonius wore the glistening blue silken robes of the Imperial Wizardry Council, a statutory requirement by all licensed magic practitioners serving the Emperor, and he wore it well. Framed by a finely trimmed beard, and clad in exotic jewellery, Erich thought him to oddly resemble a well lavished whore than a man of any considerable power.

Antonius, though looking peaceful and dashing as ever, was deep at work. His powers gave him vision beyond the means of mortals, and through the eyes of nature's flying minions, he could see all for miles. With no great deal of effort, he reached deep, and released himself to all that would avail his attempt to see the situation at Castle Rivergate.

Grey stone, lapped by waves of green fire. A wolf, no, not a wolf, a man of great and unspeakable horror wearing the false mask of the Earth Mother. A giant warrior, of terrifying might, laying waste to a stalwart captain of the Empire - and consuming his essence? Men screaming, as they were cut down by the endless tide of the barbarians, or butchered by the monstrous evils afoot. Lord Polvark and his praetorians, holding the base of the keep with grim resolve. A man, cloaked in defences too strong to be penetrated. Thousands of roaring savages, crying out in hunger for victory beyond the castle's faltering ramparts.

"We cannot win here, Consul Grimhelm. We should turn back, and now, before it is too late," said Antonius abruptly; sweat edging its way down from his immaculately oiled hair.

"Bah," snorted Erich, "you wizards are always seeing things that scare the shit out of you. Back in my day, a wizard wore armour, and launched fireballs up the arse of the Emperor's enemies."

"Those days are over Consul, the Emperor forbids 'the launching of fireballs up one's arse', or must I remind you in your senility?" retorted Antonius, quickly but without humour. "What we will face at Castle Rivergate will require more than the 16th Legion and myself can offer - no, it will take the Empire's full might."

Erich, ever a commander, and not likely to dismiss the words of his advisors, lent over in his saddle. "Show me," he whispered, so that his men could not hear him.

Antonius grabbed the back of Erich's neck in a fierce and iron-clad grip for but a moment, before releasing him. Erich did not make an expression, did not speak, he merely nodded.

"You cannot defeat him?" Asked Erich.

"The Imperial Wizardry Council lost fifty of its greatest Battle Mages driving him off the first time, and that was when they outnumbered him two hundred to one. Literally. Swords and strong hearts will do us no use here, we must turn back lest we waste ourselves," said Antonius sullenly. He regretted wanting to leave Rviergate's defenders to their fate, but in his experienced eye, they were already dead.

"Balls," spat Erich. "I'm a Consul of the Imperial Senate, Commander of the Northern Armies."

"Army," Antonius interjected.

Erich scowled, but continued, "if we let one gap in our defensive chain appear, and show those wretched dark skins that we wont lift a finger to help our own, it'll invite a whole damned invasion down on the Heartlands. This, I cannot allow. Whether we win or die, we must do something."

Antonius thought on this for some moments, and then nodded with a sigh. "Your logic is sound, very well, then we will do what we can, but leave room for a retreat in your strategy."

"Always," smiled Erich.

Four thousand fighting men. Tight formations. Tower shields, short swords, javelins. Brave men all, and well trained. The Last Legion of the North. A shadow of the Empire's former might it may be, it was nonetheless an army that the savages had spent a decade avoiding. Behind them trailed a thousand archers, from the 11th Auxiliary Legion, and behind that came two thousand camp followers and the baggage train. Those who caught a glimpse of the Empire's might on the march could make no mistake, this was an army bred for war, and into the jaws of death it would test its mettle for the fiftieth time.

A dark set of eyes watched the castle’s defences crumble. A fair hand, felt the rumbling of the earth as thousands of barbarians from the north and soldiers from the south marched onto the slaughterhouse. Two evil creatures, locked in mortal combat were the cause of this butchery, each one incredibly strong and blessed by beings of great power. Yet somehow even still the castle held, the soldiers inside never surrendering.

However, the balance of power had shifted and the spirits had sent their champions in. Shreika was no exception. Embracing the void, she took to the skies in the form of a black bird, a cloud of smoke the only sign of her magical change. Flying over the barbarian horde, a dark sea of rippling muscles and lethal weapons, Shreika watched for the sorcerer responsible for the lethal flames being thrown over the walls. She could feel a great power within the barbarians but could not precisely locate it, all she could do is try to minimise the dame his evil magic caused.

The barbarians within the gatehouse were forced into the castle as the strong gate began to slowly close itself all they needed to do now was to wipe out the poison that was eating away at it from the inside and causing the walls to bleed. The priestess perched upon the south-eastern tower, and watched the death match continue in the courtyard below, praying to the high spirit for its great blessing.

Tearing a bloody route through the battlefield, Broding followed his beastly opponent step for step. He launched blow after calculated blow, however, having lost the advantage of surprise, none hit. Dodging and weaving, the Seeker evaded the blade, fully knowing that blocking the blow would be folly. The strength of a blow was irrelevant if it did not hit, but Broding followed his opponent backwards. No Gung would interrupt the battle, instead avoiding the showdown and cheering. The Iron Men occasionally got in the way, but Broding simply swept them aside, their shields and swords shattering before the power of his Dragonclaw. Despite it's appearance, it was not a brittle weapon. Having been forged from the bones of a dragon, it was almost as hard as steel. With Broding's immense physical power behind each swipe, it was like the blade of Amun himself, tearing through flesh, bone and iron alike as if they were but parchment.

Eventually, after dodging swipe after swipe, the Seeker dashed forward. A clawed foot landed on the flat end of the Dragonclaw. Jumping forward, the beast sliced along the side of his arm, evading the strike from the side. It was not a deep cut, thick layers of knotted muscle and fiber were almost impossible to slice through, but enough to draw blood. Invigorated by this, the Seeker once more sliced in, too close to swing Dragonclaw properly, but instead of knocking him away, Broding simply watched the red blade slice for his neck.

Red blood dripped along the blade, onto the floor.

Muscles tensed, Broding held the bladed tonfa in his left, free hand. The sharpened iron bit deep into the flesh, but the giant didn't even wince, as if pain didn't apply. He was hardened to such thing, his pain threshold inhuman. Even as his blood hit the floor, Broding's own grin grew. Teeth caked in dried blood from the hearts he had devoured, eyes burning. In those eyes, the death of demons could be seen, the will and strength of mind to kill even the very Gods. A true Warrior, who would fight till the dying breath, regardless of pain. Regardless of loss. Regardless of mercy. In those eyes, Strygwyr could read his own death written out for him, as he realized that nothing but the killing blow would kill the Gutra.

Dropping Dragonclaw, which had occupied his right hand, Broding ignored the small cuts the beast made to his torso and left arm. No serious damage was dealt, as the Seeker was unable to put any force behind the blow without his feet on the ground. A mangy dog haging in the air, Strygwyrr would witness the massive obsidian fist draw back, muscles tensed and coiled. The entire massive, muscled body shifted as, blurring through the air, the fist smashed into the Seeker, who was left incapable of dodging to the side of this blow. Any normal human's neck and spine would have been shattered by the force of the blow, as the Seeker crashed into the castle wall with a loud crack. However, even for one augmented by service to the Spirits of Slaughter, it was like getting hit by the charge of a Plains Drake. Ribs were cracked and bruised, as the now bloody giant slowly walked towards Strygwyrr.

Strygwyr let out a yelp as he slammed into solid stone. Bits of rock wall fell with a small cloud of dust behind him as he crumpled to the ground. The fortress wall had been the softer of the two hits he had just taken. Momentarily dazed, he shook his head and rolled onto his front. On his tonfas and knees, he staggered, crawling a few steps with his arms as he tried to get up, struggling for breath. The warrior's strength was incredible. One solid hit had nearly broken his body completely. His ears perked up quickly. Broding was approaching, like the slow march of death, and Strygwyr felt an electric surge of panic. "Flayed twins... send me strength." He prayed shakily, as he more actively began to scramble to his feet and move away. The pain was slowing him dangerously. Healing as rapidly as possible, but far from whole, he dive-rolled away at the very last second, seeking to distance himself. The chase was on once again, with Strygwyr seemingly at the disadvantage.

Now actively running, and occasionally even tripping and crashing into things, Strygwyr looked avidly for his next opportunity. Jumping off crates and structures, he eventually gained the height of an inner wall inside the courtyard. The barbarians cursed at him, jeering at him, for his lack of honor. Strygwyr looked back down at them with a sneer, as if he had eyes. But, there was also a startled young infantryman upon that wall who hadn't been expecting a violent and bloodthirsty monster to appear at full speed. Yet, to say the boy was actually upon that wall any longer though would have been a lie, for by the time you read this, his feet were dangling above it, his body suspended on Strygwyrs two blades as he was lifted up by the furious seeker.

The blood of the naive young man was refreshing as it rained down from his wounds, and Strygwyr's malicious grin returned. Promptly he turned, and with his own enhanced strength, hurled the gravely wounded body over his shoulder at Broding to knock him down. Strygwyr's sly smile and viscious chuckle revealed that he yet had tricks up his sleeve, and he was about to use them. "You are indeed a great warrior, Chosen of Amon." He started. "The Twins would approve of your worship. It's too bad you have chosen to die." In a sadistic mannor, the blood hunter still seemed pleased about the prospect of killing Broding, nonetheless. Holding his blades out to his sides he opened his arms, calling to his masters. "Flayed Ones, hear me. Be it your will, I invite you... Come to me. Let your will be mine and take what is yours!" Even as he spoke, something seemed to be changing. A soft red glow began to come from under his hood, where his eyes should have been. Strygwyr's heart sped up and he seemed to grow just a little in size. What faced the barbarian warrior now, was a possessed jackle, devoid of fear, crazed, and blind to all but its starvation for vitae. Strygwyr crouched low on the wall, senseless to reason or even language as he 'stared' maniacally at the large warrior. In but a single breath, he launched himself in a series of super-fast, violent attacks that were clearly more powerful than before. The beast was insane, moving so fast and cutting the warrior as if he were a doll. This time, Strygwyr wasn't dodging. He was too close! Broding was going to have to get him out from inside his defenses or lose a leg, if not more.

Rinack, soon his strength returned.
"Rusty...but the scraping of steel, wares away at rust..." he thinks, as he pushes himself forward with the tide of fools he was using for shields. He moved to-

"Look at him...just like his father....." A voice sneered in his mind. "Pathetic...and weak..."

Rinack's eyes went wide. The memories of the past were flooding in again. He knew it would happen, but this fast? This soon? No, he won't let it stop him. Now again.
Rinack, his will hardened, the rage he felt taking away the tired ache in his bones, pushes forward though the barbarians, raining green fire down upon the foolish imperials. When he reached the large metal wall, the wall of shields.

"A shield, is a wall of weak metal, held by a strong man. The best way though a shield, is to target those behind them. Not with blows, but with fear.".

And so, Rinack did. As men retreated behind this wall of steel, Rinack set them ablaze with his spells, and stole their lives without a second thought. Their life energy tasted sweet, yet metallic...like blood. He savored the taste, as he went about his rampage, making sure to target those feeling, over those who were fighting. Once in a while, he would use a body a shield, hoisting them into the air with an arm, dropping them when the volley of arrows stopped. He seemed...unstoppable.

Lord Polvark grimaced as a youthful face - a girl - no more than fourteen winters, surely, twisted in anguish moments before it was engulfed in an emerald inferno. Flames licked at the front ranks of the praetorians, causing several of them to step backwards as their shields heated to the point of spawning blisters across their wrists. It was a fell thing, for the very force of Mother Nature to be twisted and turned into evil. Lord Polvark held up the regal sceptre of his House, and mumbled a few words that his father had taught him as a child.

More flame came down upon the retreating soldiers, but this time it froze above their heads, twisting and turning in hungry frustration before dissipating. Lord Polvark was no mage, nor a sorcerer or wizard, but the heirloom of his bloodline was an enchanted relic of the Black Age. By saying the words inscribed upon the silk-threaded handle, and lending one's own life force to the powers that dwelt within, the sceptre's wielder could deflect the aggressive magic of others. Though a novice of its understanding could only do this for a short while, as was in Polvark's case.

Perspiring with heavy exhaustion, and his mind clouded by a dense thicket of fatigue, he dropped to one knee. A piercing pain stung in the dephs of his brain, as though he'd spent the previous night drinking ale. He was grabbed by two pairs of hands - his men had seen him fall, and were preparing to whisk him away to the safety of the keep. He shurgged them off.

"No, I am all that stands between this castle's fall and the evil that surrounds us," he said weakly.

His men obeyed, and released him.

"How many have we saved, sergeant?" Polvark asked wearily, using the cold stone of the keep's wall to support him.

"As many as we're going to, my Lord," said the sergeant grimly.

More fire came pouring down on the praetorians. Lord Polvark lent what little he had left, and again repulsed the devouring wall of laurel flames. This time he fell on his arse, and could not get back up. Lord or not, his men made the decision for him.

"Alright lads, we've done what we can," bellowed the sergeant, "make for the keep!"

The praetorians marched backwards, eyeing the carnage before them, and deflecting the odd strike as and when it appeared. In the middle of it all, stood a man clad in robes too big, and too concealing for them to catch a proper glimpse of his true form. To the eagle-eyed, he seemed to be smirking, and as he raised his palm, the organised retreat broke into a panicked rout. Flames licked at the backs of the soldiers, blistering their skin beneath their armour, but they dared not turn to look, nor stop to fight the blaze eating away at them. When the great oaken doors of the keep slammed shut, and the screams of the wounded and dying drowned out the carnage outside, the sergeant saw that only seventy of his men remained.

"By the Emperor, what evil was that?" he asked, wiping a black smear from his face. "Have the savages gained themselves a warlock?"

---

The 16th Legion marched through the thick forest. Divided into innumerable lines of soldiers, it was vulnerable - if their enemy came upon them now, they would be unable to form up in an organised fashion. The strength of any Imperial Legion was its ability to form ranks, to move and to fight as one coherent combat unit. The heavily vegetated north was ill fitting terrain for them, and partly the reason the Emperors had never fretted too much over conquering it.

Lord Erich Grimhelm was confident though. The barbarians were not smart, though some scholars back in the Heartlands often professed otherwise. Skirmishing lines, scouting parties and the use of signallers was beyond them. They were what they were often called - savages; backwards, big but dumb, brave but wasteful. The Consul of the Imperial Senate had many times sent them sprawling back over the borderlands, usually with ease, but then it was always on his terms. This would be the first time he was actively reacting to them, rather than the other way around. It did not bother him either way.

Antonius had kept him posted on Castle Rivergate's situation throughout the day-long trip. He was almost certain that he would arrive too late to save Lord Polvark, and if that was the case, he reckoned that a retreat was in order. On an open field, he was confident he could drive away five times his number. Hemmed in by tree lines, and blocked by an occupied fort, he figured he'd be lucky to drive away half. Everything was hinging on Polvark's ability to do his Earth Mother given duty, and hold that piece of rock to his dying breath. The Empire's northern frontier depended on it.

Festus stood on the ground floor of the gatehouse with his back against the door. Sweat dripped down his face as the tortured screams of the soldiers being slaughtered rippled through the dimly lit room. A look of concern passed across his features.

I have two choices here: I could stay inside here in relative safety, with the gates closing themselves I only have to worry about the ones who have broken through; on the other hand I could run out there and fight alongside the other doomed guard. However, as soon as this door is opened I won’t be able to stay here because there will be people who will have seen it. HE shook his head and sighed, sliding down the door to sit on the floor. “I feel so helpless” he whispered to himself.

Suddenly a wave of sickening energy rolled over Festus and flowed through the building. Seconds after it had passed and the body of the sentry lying in front of him sat up and looked straight at him, giving out a deep and low grown.

---

On her perch above the inescapable slaughterhouse, Shreika watched as the wall of steel clad soldiers were met by a flame wielding warlock. The cloaked figure threw great gouts of green fire at the soldiers, the first few of which were stopped in their tracks and were destroyed, Shreika guessed it was the effect of some kind of magical item since after a few volleys vanished a man close to the center of the ranks collapsed, but got up again before once again saving his men from the flames and collapsing again this time unable to stand up without help.

The ranks soon began backtracking towards the keep behind them. This orderly withdrawal soon fell to pieces and the ranks broke as the warlock raised his hand. Fear drove its stake into the hearts of the warriors as they knew they would not be saved from the magic again.

Leaping from the tower, Shreika dived in front of the wall of fire forming into a woman with black, silky wings, clothed in a hooded black robe. As soon as she hit the floor, the Shreika stood up and spread her wings, a plume of black cloud shooting out of her feathers. With this smoke she formed a hasty shield against the flames, letting the void absorb the violent magic. Unfortunately she couldn’t save all of the fleeing soldiers and they fell to the ground, their screams barely leaving their throats before the flames turned them into ash.

The flames subsided and the keep gate had closed, leaving Shreika standing in front of the warlock, her robes leaking a thick black smoke.

A wave of wicked energy then crashed through the castle, hitting the corpses of men and beasts alike, causing the recently deceased to rise once again.

Rinack's large, sick demented grin, hidden by his hood, turns to an ugly angry scowl.
"What the....undead. It had to be undead? Damn...." He says. He knew, he didn't have enough power to destroy all the undead raising up via the power of this...demon he faced. This woman in blac-

"No! You vulture! Give her back, or take me with her!"

Again, his memories flooded in, the pain growing. This time, he grasped the sides of his head, and fell to one knee.
"Gaa! Shut up! Shut up!" He screams, his voice sounding...scared, but pained. He stood, taking in deep breaths. His body shook, the pain and rage shaking him.
"Who are...you?" He asked the woman in front of him. He was sure..sure, he had seen her somewhere before. Was this a side effect? No..no...maybe? Whatever the verdict, he shook it off. While looking at the woman, he surrounded himself with green flames, hoping to keep the dead away from him. He had a plan...stall. Stall, then burn them all.

Broding held up Dragonclaw, as a red blade ricocheted off the dragonbone pole. He pushed forward, and the Seeker was flung back, but only for a second. With a speed and fury his opponent attacked, and for the first time during the fight, Broding was pushed to the defensive. Unlike when he had the advantage, those blows had enough force behind them to deal some serious damage, even to the warrior who was believed to be Immortal. However, besides the sheer power of the attacks, Broding was driven into the defensive by an almost instinctive fear. The inner knowledge, somewhere inside him, that he was facing something that wanted nothing more than to kill him. A killing will stronger than any hate or fear known by man, a murderous intent so powerful it was almost physically manifested, a frenzy instilled by the spirits of slaughter. And at that moment Broding quite literally growled, his mind rejecting the notion that any opponent, even for a moment, had panicked him.

Sweeping aside another attack, Broding moved forward. The hound, like a shark engaging it's prey, shot forward instantly to take advantage of the new situation, both blades flashing forward. However, Broding instead grabbed Bloodseeker's head, holding him just outside the blade's reach. The incredible length of the giant's arms allowed for him to hold the smaller Strygwyrr at sufficient distance, that the blade's didn't reach his chest. However, it would be but moments until the Hound realized this, and instead struck out at the arm holding him. As such, Broding, who had also taken into account how the battle around him had evolved, realized an opportunity to destroy two opponents with a single stone. Or, rather, projectile. Laughing, Broding threw Bloodseeker straight at the mysterious woman, a streaking red comet of whirling blades hurled with enormous force, like the world's most deadly close-range catapult.

As Strygwyr drew back to slash at the arm that held him off, he was surprised to suddenly be grappled and lifted. "Eh?!" Being grabbed by one with such incredible strength was a very bad thing. Wrestling was not a blood seeker's forte. He could be pinned, not to mention bones broken. But even as he began to struggle, he was launched ten feet in the air with a laugh. A red ball of flailing carnage and teeth, he had no control over his flight as he landed badly atop some poor, unfortunate person. Some of his own black feathers flew off into the cloud. It was little better than slamming into another wall. His mind coming back to him, Strygwyr assessed the immediate situation. Broding was now some distance away. Behind him was Lord Polvak and his men, and before him were two casters, one smelling like toxic ash and the other, whom he may have landed on, was a woman, smelling a bit like chicken. His maw forming a frown of clear disapproval, he turned his blind head toward the scent he recognized from earlier. The man seemed to be groveling..., or crazy, but in either case, Strygwyr hated magic users. He got up once again, with some discomfort, trying to decide who was the biggest threat around him. The gate had by now dropped down, completely closed, and they were all trapped within the keep's walls. Suddenly, the blood hunter gasped with realization. The dead were rising nearby, with the essence to support them seemingly coming from this bird-like woman before him. He growled and bared his fangs at her. "You steal essence from the Twin's mouths. You must die."

The 16th Legion crawled slowly from the dense tree line east of Castle Rivergate. First, in huddled and disorganised masses, came the archers of the 11th Auxiliary Legion. These conscripts were inferior to their professional counterparts, mostly being made up of men too old to serve in the real legions, and women. For an Imperial woman seeking advancement in His Majesty's military, the auxiliaries of the frontiers were often the only way of showing their potential. Whilst not barred from conventional enlistment, the strenuous training routine designed to harden men in the Legions, was often too much physically for the finer sex to overcome. When a woman did pass the drill masters' tests, one could expect her to become a Captain within three years, having showed inhuman resourcefulness and strength just to get her foot in the door. For the rest, however, commendations from serving with the irregulars was the only other route.

Scattered around the 11th Auxiliary Legion, dozens of Centurions from the 16th were barking its soldiers into loose formations. Children, no older than eight winters, came forwards on the back of carts laden with arrows, and distributed the projectiles at various points across the assembling army. State-issued short swords, no more than two feet in length, were also plied to the auxiliaries - whom more often than not, couldn't afford their own personal weaponry. Whilst they wouldn't be expected to stand in battle against a determined foe such as the savagefolk of the north, it always helped to be prepared.

Behind the widening clump of archers, came the almost beautiful squares of the 16th's legionnaires. Each man wore silver chain rings overlapping blackened boiled leather. Their tower shields, almost as large as a man, gleamed with polish, and the short swords in their hands glimmered in the afternoon sun. At the head of each square, easily recognisable by their crimson plumbed helm, was a Centurion. Centurions were elite warriors, veterans of battle bred for leadership, and each one a loyal servant of the Emperor to no matter what end.

The 16th came to a shuddering halt fifty yards behind the auxilleries. As Lord Grimhelm rode between the rigid formations, he heard gasps of dispair, and not just from the auxilleries. Looking forwards, he understood why.

Castle Rivergate burned a green glow, and around her, an almost endless horde of black shapes stirred. The sound of battle was thick in the air, and the ageing Consul of the Empire knew that Lord Polvark still held the keep. He hadn't come too late, he could make a difference.

"The world's greatest warriors are gathered here, I am sure," mumbled Antonius, riding up behind the Consul.

Erich raised an eyebrow at him, "these savages? Greatest warriors?"

"Not they Consul. There is one who leads them, a giant of a man, pulsing with energy not meant for the hands of mortals," replied Antonius, suddenly stern with trepidation.

"I killed a giant once, when I was a bit younger than you," chuckled Erich, much to the Magnus' dismay, "got under his skirt, stabbed him right in the balls. When he stumbled, I climbed atop his knee and rammed it through his eye. I do not fear large beings."

"Rinack, the Emperor's Bane-"

"I killed a warlock once. He threw a fireball at me, and I my shield at him. Seared the flesh on my chest, and both arms - damn hurt, let me tell you. My shield caught him in the neck, pushed his windpipe out the other side. Of this, I do not joke," interjected Erich with a sly smile.

Antonius, Imperial Wizard, sighed at the Consul's confidence. A gesture quickly picked up by the wily general.

"Relax, Magnus, I know what dangers we face here today," said Erich. There was no humour this time. "If we fail in putting down this incursion, and destroying these fell-creations, then the Empire will fall. Make no mistake, if the savages are able to gain momentum, then the dwindling strength of our peoples will be unable to repulse them. This ends here, and today."

"I cannot defeat the giant warrior, nor Rinack. His power is beyond me, beyond any of those serving the Emperor," said Antonius, growing increasingly anxious.

"Then do not fight him; do what you always do, what you are supposed to do, and protect my men from his machinations," Erich grunted. He was becoming frustrated by the Magnus' fear of the enemy, and the man's lack of confidence.

Not wanting to allow Antonius' words to deter him, Lord Grimhelm urged his destrier forwards at a steady gallop until he was at the head of the auxilleries. In his lightweight, elaborate ceremonial parade armour, he truely looked every quality of some great king long forgotten. Drawing his sword, and pointing it at the sky, he spoke to his army in an attempt to stifle the seeds of cowardice.

"Soldiers! Soldiers! Soldiers of the Emperor! Stand, stand and be counted!" He yelled, his ancient voice becoming hoarse almost instantly. The Centurions closest to him, repeated his words down the line, until several reverberations were shooting through the ranks. "Today the savage men of the north, dirty in their ways, dishonourable in war, have fallen upon the Empire in its time of greatest weakness! Shall we surrender? Shall we present them with our wives and daughters? Shall we jar a dagger into the eyes' of our sleeping sons?"

"NO! HARAH!"

"Well, why don't we just down our weapons, pull down our britches and let 'em fuck us?"

"HARAH!"

"No? Well, it was just a suggestion. So the only thing we can really do, from this point on, is march forwards and FUCK THEM INSTEAD!" Erich broke into a coughing fit; his old lungs straining to rise to the challenge of conveying such a tenacious speech. No one laughed, or were disheartened by this; he had seen many winters, and had led the Empire to many victories. He would lead them to one more, they were all certain.

Retiring to the rear of the army, and deafened by the thundering applause of his men as they beat their swords against the wood of their shields, Erich nodded at his Signal's Master. The man, who was tall but scrawny, held a purple coloured flag high in the sky. Horns sounded all across the 11th Auxiliary Legion, and the mass of archers started a slow walk towards the castle - even as the savages scrambled to meet them.

The horns of the arriving forces did not startled Rinack. It wasn't the marching steps that sent a slight shiver down his spine....He smelled...no, tasted a mage among them. He licked his lips, not out of hunger, but out of fear. He would need to remove that mage, otherwise things could get messy if the mage got of a lu-

"Rinack, You've been charged with the murder of a imperial guard, your wife and child...You're sentence is death...monster...."

The memories flood a little bit more, but rather than dropping him to his knees like before, this one angered him. "And so, I remember why I am here...why the empire will burn..." He growls, as he turned, and rushed though the broken wall, with the barbarians, dodging the undead, and heading straight for the 16th, anger in his heart, pain in his eyes....rage fire, in his hands.