“Who are you” The warlock asked, moments before he coated himself in his trademark flames.

Shreika looked at his from under the shadowy veil covering her face, and spoke in a strange voice that was followed by a soft echoed, “I am Shreika, Servant of the void. The mistress sent me a vision about a great battle taking place in the north and as her priestess I came to investigate. I have deemed it necessary to save as many of the men within these walls as possible from the magic that their enemies use against them.”

A red streak flew past the two casters before crashing onto one of the many charred corpses littering the ground around them. The figure was the blood shaman who was fighting the great barbarian only moments before.

He stood up and cast his blind gaze towards Shreika, sniffing the air as if to pinpoint her location. She felt the deep and powerful magic filling the hound to overflowing as if some form of powerful god was feeding him energy. With a warlock on one side and the hound on the other Shreika began to panic but quelled the feeling and any other emotion she was feeling. She was a servant of the void, a blank canvas, emotions were weakness.

The hound released a bestial growl, and revealed his mouthful of fang-like teeth. “You steal essence from the Twin’s mouths. You must die.”

Before he could do anything a cacophony of horns began sounding off from the other side of the keep’s walls. The legion’s reinforcements had arrived. This alarm caused the warlock to spin round and charge though the battling soldiers toward one of the few gaps that had opened in the keeps defences.

Facing her only remaining enemy, Shreika leapt into the air black smoke forming around her and the nearby area. The thick mist blanketed both the priestess and the hound, dampening all senses.

The priestess was part of the smoke and moved effortlessly through it. She was able to easily locate the red hound as he searched for her.

Lunging from above Shreika aimed for the base of the hound’s neck pitch black magic crackling in her palm as she sought to break the connection between the hound and his two god’s.

---

Festus paled as the guard’s corpse stood up, and limped towards his cowering form. Each step panicked Festus more and more. A crazy smile etched itself onto his young face, the grim reaper had come. Yes that must be it, the reaper had come and decided to end his life here because he chose the cowards way out.

What the hell are you doing you idiot. Lift your ass off of the floor and face this like the man you want to be. You want to be a soldier! This is just one of the things you need to face, a challenge sent to you by some higher power. Now get yourself into gear!

Shaking himself from the crippling fear Festus stood up and wielded his green weapon and shield. When he looked at the green object in his right hand Festus could hardly recognise his own weapon. Gone was the bloodied steel that made up his weapon, and what replaced it was a bleached white material, eerily similar to bone. Etched along its surface were glowing green glyphs, which Festus had no idea how to read. The head of the weapon was made with a single long and ridiculously pointed fang, worn from a life’s worth of use. The weight that balanced his weapon had morphed into a small skull; its sadistic smile sent a chill down the warrior’s spine.

The undead corpse had stopped in its tracks the moment he had wielded his new weapon. Festus then slowly waved it from side to side and the zombie’s dead eyes followed it.

On impulse Festus called out; “Sit.” The zombie did so without a moment of hesitation. Amazed at what had happened Festus stared at his weapon once again. “I don’t care how this happened. This is so amazing!”

Turning to face the door, Festus looked back at his new minion. “Follow” he said as he pushed through the door into the maelstrom of combat that was enveloping the castle’s courtyard.

Having appeared fairly undersized when fighting beside the ebon-skinned giant, up close to Shreika, the blood priest didn't look nearly so small. Pumped, blood-covered, and furious at the winged, necromantic thief, Strygwyr pounced forward just as Shreika dissipated into a plume of black cloud. His muscular arms slashed with his blades several times where the caster woman had been only microseconds before, only to wiff through the obscuring mist to his frustration. Ceasing, the hooded beast stood with his guard up, trying to detect her location around him. He could not see the smoke, but the magical affect still inhibited his senses. Had the woman been injured at all, bleeding, pained, he would have instantly honed in on her, regardless of her magic, but as it was, she remained unhurt.

A sadistic grin returned to his face. He loved when his opponents feared him. "You run like a coward. You serve a coward's god." Leaning forward, he stalked a few steps, slowly, hunting in the mist and taunting her. "Your blood will do little to pay for your crimes."

Half expecting it, Strygwyr suddenly felt the black magic attack to the back of his neck through his mane of feathers and spun around sharply, slashing at her in a counter-attack. The spell however, had still gone off, and he felt a soft boom of energy at the base of his skull, ripping apart his bond with his deities. Like a collar coming off, Strygwyr was freed from the Twins' control, freed from their will, but also from their granted power. He gasped and stumbled forward several steps from the shock. The red glow from under his hood went out and he felt momentarily overcome with weakness, and grief. "What?! No!" Even without his powers, he was still a formidable warrior and very dangerous. "Priestess..." He began, as he began to recover from the rend in his sanctity. The magic she used had been divine, and he recognized it as such. Strangely, he laughed. "You try to free me from the will of the Flayed Ones? You fool. My people are their children. I will return to them. I would give my own blood for them." Clearly no offer of an alternative lifestyle would deter the twisted warrior, even if escape were possible. "Your gods and my gods will do battle."

The recoil of the bow's string was a satisfying twang as the arrow shaft was released. Rolan's aim was true - the arrow buried itself in the heart of the rather twisted humanoid running at the wall of the castle. That was just one of them. A large, oblong mass of them was rushing at the walls, siege ladders waving and war cries sounding, as more and more clambered up onto the battlements and hacked down nearby foot soldiers and archers. The sounds of battle were fierce and unrelenting.

Rolan swung back to easily dodge a swing of a lethal, spiked mace his way, and retreated further down the battlements to give himself time to sling his bow and draw a medium-sized, vicious-looking axe from his belt. The barbarian giving him chase bellowed and swung wildly at Rolan once again, a manoeuvre he easily outwitted with a quick sidestep and a slash at the hulking man's thick neck. His axe buried itself in the soft flesh, but Rolan wasn't taking any chances. With his free hand, he drew a knife from his belt and deftly plunged it into his victim's chest, finishing him for good. The bloodied barbarian fell backwards; Rolan sheathed his knife and sprinted up the battlements towards one of the castle towers, fresh blood flying from his flexible leather tunic. The tower was leaking.

"Send them a volley," grumbled Erich to his Signal's Master.

"Right you are Consul," the man replied. He turned to a waiting group of military musicians and nodded. "Archers, if you will gentlemen."

At once the small band blew a brief tune of musically enhanced notes; a soft melody, lasting only a few seconds, sounding better suited to a ball room than a battleground.

The archers of the 11th Auxiliary raised their bows as one. A few seconds passed, and then the air shook briefly as a thousand bows let forth their volley of death. The barbarians, running across the open ground and ill protected from such a strike, stumbled and lurched as their flesh was perforated. Before they could recover, another series of trumpets sounded their sweet song of doom. More arrows, blotting the sun, fell upon the savagemen once more. Hundreds dead or injured - grievous casualties taken so suddenly, was enough to frighten any army. Not these warriors though, they were only enraged by it. They stormed forwards. The archers of 11th Auxiliary released yet another curtain of steel-tipped slaughter.

A channel of emerald flame erupted from their masses. It reached around fifty feet in the air, and then with a deafening explosion, the sky became a beautiful tapestry of spurting fire and charred wood. The arrows fell to the ground, smouldering on the grass. The auxiliaries hesitated, before drawing another volley - the channel of flame came again, but this time, at them.

"I can stop that Consul, but it will drain me," warned Antonius, flexing his fingers in preparation to erect a barrier.

"Don't bother," replied Erich smugly.

Raising an eyebrow at the Consul, Antonius felt the burning need to ask, "what?"

"They're only auxiliaries, don't worry. We have reserves," said Erich bluntly.

The Imperial Wizard grimaced as the column of flame struck the centre of the loosely organised archers, and then exploded. The earth trembled, and visible shock waves sent man and bow flying feet in the air. Such power! Antonius gulped; there was no way on the Emperor's good earth that he could defy such a man.

The surviving auxiliaries, reeling from the attack, clambered to their feet under the vicious barks of their Centurions. Within moments, another volley went up, but this time concentrated on the source of the green fire. Erich squinted as he focused on the dark shadow of arrows falling down on a distant figure of billowing robes. He noted that the barbarians had given this fellow a wide birth; fearful of his power, more than of the missiles coming hurtling towards him.

The man looked up, and at the volley of steel tipped death, and spread his arms.
"Time to show these fools one of my greatest abilities....the one that allowed me to survive my hundred year slumber....." He thinks, with a wicked grin on his face. The arrows pelted him, and ripped his flesh, and after the volley rips though him, he falls backwards....but, about half way though the fall, rights himself back up to his feet. He then pulls his hood down, to show a youthful face, one of around 20 winters. However, his eye..or...eye sockets were only filled with the green burning flames.

"Your weapons of steel cannot halt....my....vengeance!" He roars, before his gaze fell upon the remaining archers, as he stole the life from their bodies, turning them to ash, and their clothing. The arrows fall from his flesh, and his wounds seem...healed. He throws off his robes, showing his body lined with cracks which spew the fire he had spread across the land. In the center of his chest, a large gem, glowing the same emerald green as his flames.

"Look at the monster your empire has created fools! Look at me! See your death, brought about by your arrogance and hatred!" He roars, as he lobs more fire, his laugh crackling. His mind seems to slip him for a few moments, his madness taking hold.

Erich Grimhelm watched passively as the 11th Auxillery Legion was consumed in flames. A thousand men and women, screaming a perfect symphony of anguish. The Hellish quoir washing over him; he paid it little heed. With a grunt, he looked over at the Signal's Master.

"We wait," he said. The Signal's Master complied, ordering the musicians to play a monotone tune. The legionnaires of the 16th Legion halted their march, and brought their shields to bear. No one moved, no one spoke. The only sound was the distant battle of Castle Rivergate, and the crackling emerald flames.

"You can protect us from this?" he asked, not taking his gaze off the monstrosity storming towards his army. The barbarians tailing behind.

Antonius stroked his pencil-thin beard, and nodded after putting to rest some inner turmoil, "yes, I can."

"Tell me, who is the Emperor's Bane? I remember only fledgling reports," Erich enquired curiously.

The Imperial Wizard shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, "he was a man once. One of His Late Majesty Tiberius II's greatest mages. His name is Rinack. A war hero, really; his history is a rich tapestry of glorious victories in service to Tiberius II."

"And what happened?"

Antonius shook his head, "I know not. I was but a boy when, a hundred years ago, the Wizardry Council was ordered to exterminate him on the order of Tiberius II. There was a great battle, and many of my Order were slain in defeating him. The facts surrounding the Emperor's order to execute him have been lost - destroyed, most probably. All I know is broken pieces of his history. A powerful mage. A glorious hero of the Empire. A fugitive. An enemy. Everything else is hear-say."

Erich mused at this, "could we treat him to a parley? See if we can, come to some kind of compromise? With the Emperor's outlawing of offensive magic, I'm sure we could turn over those responsible for wronging him to his mercy."

The Wizard shook his head, "I cannot sense what he is thinking."

"So?"

"I cannot sense anything - it's like he's not even there. This worries me more than anything; no living mortal, no matter how powerful, should represent a void to my mind's eye," replied the Wizard, sweat driving down his forehead in droves.

Erich shook his head, and clasped his hands. "It matters not, Magnus. Protect my men from his fire, and they'll bring him down. Let him come, just a little closer, in javelin range. We'll see how this Rinack likes the taste of magebane steel."

"It wont be enough," said Antonius, "this is no amateur hyped up on their new found powers; this is Rinack. He brought the Empire to its knees before he was subdued - your magebane weapons will be of little use."

"Then we turn back, and let him savage what is left of our people?"

"No. Let him exhaust himself, I may be able to overcome him. It will cost many, many lives," finished Antonius, dismounting his horse. "Fetch my staff, and pray for the Emperor's swift delivery in this fell-matter."

Rinack smiled wickedly, as he watched the men burn to ash, and dust. He then tilted his head slightly, before he started his rant of sorts.
"Look, at what you see before you. Your general giving up helpless women and men, simply because he didn't want to waste the resources to save them....What will happen to you when you are wounded, or if you disagree with his orders? He will give your life up, just like he did with them....but, if you all turn against him, and his pitiful mage....I will not only spare your life, but share my power with you...So, are you an expendable dog? Or are you a man with a will to not only live, but flourish under my wing? Your families...what of them? This general would most likely use civilians for cannon fodder, if he so willing to give up lives....When the barbarians lay siege to your cities, are you going to watch them die...or let me save the......Heed my words, legionaries. For if you choose...poorly, they may be the last you hear!" Rinack shouts, his voice carrying quite far. He then turns, and moves back though the ranks of the barbarians, to recoup his strength. He awaits a spear to the back, or a sword though his heart, for he lacks the strength to really withstand such an attack at this rate. He would see if his bluff paid off.

The Legionnaires did not stir at the word's of their enemy. It would be naive to say however, that they weren't shaken by the thousand smouldering corpses decorating the blackened grass ahead of them. A few whisperers of dissent leaked from some of the ranks, but the stalwart Centurions put those responsible to the sword with brutal efficiency. There would be no turn-coats today, it seemed.

"T'was a grand speech," smirked Erich, "I'm sure it'd work fantasticly on goat herds."

"He's playing for time; he needs to rest," spat Antonius, walking forwards with the gnarled wood his staff held firmly in his hands. "I urge you press the attack, Consul."

"Finnaly!" Shouted Erich, clapping his hands together, "you're speaking my language." He turned to the Signal's Master. "A general advance; we meet the barbarians as equals."

"Aye sir," nodded the Signal's Master.

The tempo of the band increased, and the drummer who had until now remained silent, beat a heavy rhythm. The disciplined squares of Imperial troops marched forwards in two distinct lines. Erich and Antonius stayed well behind the second, surrounded by sixty praetorian guards. The Consul was not a front-line warrior, not like he used to be, it would be folly to show such heroics at the age of seventy.

The barbarians thundered across the planes. Their jeers and battle cries drowning out the fierce shouts of the Centurions, as they battled to keep the ranks of their centuries in fine order. The gap closed between the two forces, and for a moment, every difference between the fighting styles of the Imperial Military Doctrine and the savageman's horde-mentality was highlighted. A great mass of black skinned men, each standing feet tall than their enemy, flailing their arms and shouting. The neat squares of the Imperials, silent and unwavering, marching in synchronised pace.

As the forces came within fifty feet, the Centurions gave a command. Javelins became thick in the air, descending on the bare chested savages with devastating effect. Their front ranks were obliterated, and those behind stumbled over the dead; the savageman's momentum was broken.

The Legionnaires rushed forwards, bringing their shields to bear against maces, clubs and axes. With practised efficiency, they withdrew, lunged, held, lunged, pressed. Slowly, the 16th Legion pushed its way through the masses, leaving behind a dense carpet of bodies. Centurions ran this way and that, blowing whistles whenever they felt the front ranks of their men were growing tired. When this happened, the third and fourth ranks would part, allowing their comrades to retreat through the gaps. This way, the legion would not lose its breath, not for a good many hours.

Antonius scanned the crowd of barbarians eagerly; seeking his target. He knew he had been right - Rinack would have struck by now. The Emperor's Bane was weak, if the Imperial Wizard could locate him, then he could enter his mind and explode his skull. Rather than track the Warlock's energy force, he searched for a void in the masses of life, and it wasn't long before he found it.

Pointing his staff towards the barbarians, he lent the entirety of his power to the attack.

"Feeling tired, are we? Traitor!" His voice thundered toward the weakened mental defences of his enemy.

Rinack kept walking, but, stumbled a bit.

"Funny...you, a mage call me that...out of all people." He replied, in a weak, weary voice.

Something was off, in his mind. It showed, far more stress, and weakness than the imperial wizard would of expected. Far more. But, as the wizard tried to bridge the gap between their minds, Rinack started to show him something, or tried at least...blurry images...him, holding someone, while his knees were touching the stone road of a city.

"Tell me....can you see what I see?" He asks the wizard.

Rinack knew that he was most likely going to die, not that they called his bluff...but...he could at least give a motive, before his execution.

Antonius lost the connection; the world before him vanished and was replaced with a blurry image instead. Whether he looked left, right, skywards or down at his feet, he saw nothing but a man holding someone else on some roadway of an Imperial city - the vaguest rise of Champion's Tower told him at once it was Crimson Sky - the capital. Try as he might, he could not dismiss the image; it seemed that Rinack's power was beyond him, even in his weakest state.

No. He is bluffing. I can force my way through this, not away from it.

With a great expenditure of energy, Antonius stepped forwards and through the image. The din of a distant battle sounded from far off, but gone were the fields of green occupied with the Empire's soldiers and the savagemen. He stood on one of Crimson Sky's main thoroughfares. People rushed this way and that, about their daily business. Something was off though; their clothing told of a bygone fashion, and as he looked towards the Emperor's Grand Palace, he saw construction towers and scaffolding. He had gone back in time.

Not back in time. I am in Rinack's mind. Odd, that he has chosen this place as his last mental defence.

"Show yourself traitor, let us get this over, and quickly. I'll afford every mercy I can provide in ending your life," shouted Antonius. The people passing him paid no heed, as if he were not even there.

When he steps though the image, into the very memory....it was night, late. While he could see the tower still in the distance, the more pressing matter wasn't something he could see...but...hear. Sobbing..pained breathing....it wasn't to far from where he stood, off to the right, down an alleyway.
"Why....why...she was pregnant..." He hears Rinack sobbing, but his voice isn't the raspy deep growl of the empire's bane..it was a youthful, whimpering.
"I...I didn't mean to...She struck me, it was refl-" Said another voice, deeper, more aged.
"Shut it! I can read your mind...you struck her to put her in her place...you.....why...I explained why we were out this late....You're a monster." Rinack sobs.

Shreika looked at the hound, his laughter almost sounding hollow to her ears. But she replied none the less to the lone wolf. “I do not seek to free you from them, for I know of what you have given up to serve under them. I am the same. However, your Gods have no power over mine, and mine has none over them, for you cannot fight with the void, and neither does the void fight back.”

She flexed her fingers as black magic coated them, humming as they seemed to suck the very air out of the sky and pure black wings sprouted from her shoulders. She raised her wings towards the sky and stretched out her plumage as she lowered herself to the ground.

“The question you must answer hound; is will you be able to make it back to them?”

With a flick of her wings, the priestess shot forward like an arrow. Bringing her fist forward she struck at the godless warrior, but his skill still worked and Shreika struck at the open air. Her fists left black streaks in their wake, as if she controlled the very emptiness of the void within those dark black hands. She hissed slightly as the hound’s blade clipped her side, as she flew past him, his blade scratching her through the billowing robes.

Making a quick loop she ascended into the sky again before settling onto the ground and returning to her wingless body and raising her fists into a guarded stance, ready to counter anything he threw against her.

Strygwyr stood ready, muscles tensed, a red, toothy animal, clawed, furry feet poised to react in an instant. The void was indeed an imposing force of eternity, even gods feared it. In that moment, he quickly considered his circumstances. Without his bloodrage and healing, he was undoubtedly more vulnerable than ever. There was a chance that this priestess could kill him, casting his spirit into the emptiness of the void. His mask hid his worried look. Without him, his gods would starve, and his people would perish. If he was taken down now, it would be all over. Without his race to placate them, would the gods of slaughter ever stop? Of course not. Strygwyr smiled at the thought of the Flayed Ones vengefully spilling out of the confines of Xhacatocatl and draining the rest of the world. he knew their thirst and the satisfaction of satiating it. In that at least, he could find some satisfaction. But to see them suffer, lose his home, and risk the utter destruction of the Twins in their their ravenous thirst, was something he could not allow. The void priestess would pay for her insult, and he would prove his worth as a blood seeker.

He sensed the magic building as she prepared to charge in, giving him just enough forewarning to dodge to the side, his blade ripping through her robes and dragging its edge into her flesh as she passed by. Oh, how he had been so lucky. Keeping his watch on her as she landed and lifted her bare fists defensively, he lifted his weapon to inspect the new scent. Shreika's blood trickled along the bright metal. "The Flayed Ones favor me. I shall remake my bond with them in sacrificial blood. Once again, I will share their thirst." Facing her, he licked the edge of his bladed tonfa, tasting her blood in front of her.

Even now, he was playing the mental game, stalling, and yet breaking down her confidence and will. The cloud of black mist was clearing, revealing the two to the outside world and gradually unburdening Strygwyr's senses. The north gate was still closed. Scores of voices erupted in screams just outside the west wall as the archers of the 11th were slain by painful magics. He sensed her hesitation. He had to have perfect timing in order to avoid potentially getting blasted by any of her magic. Taking advantage of a moment of distraction, he charged, exuding raw, primal fear that hopefully will disturb any plans of a spell she may have had. Slashing with the left and then the right, he aimed to take out her fists and neck, as well as whatever was left still standing with the second swing.

Antonius stalked the alley. A child's sobbing echoed from wall to wall; becoming louder, trembling the tiles beneath his feet. The sun had dissipated, shrouding the scene in darkness. White fog was pouring up from the ground, and to the wizard, it seemed things were growing more surreal by the second. He had it in him, to end the Emperor's Bane, he was certain of this. He felt no vast ocean of power - there was nothing preparing to consume him. He was being shown Rinack's start in life, or perhaps, the start of his troubles. A wizard, Antonius was curious by nature, and decided that he wanted very much to see what had ultimately damaged his homeland so severely.

The shadows at the far end of the alley cleared as he approached, and there he saw the lifeless body of a pregnant woman. A shabby man, swaying with drink, stood over her. Hunched on the ground, cradling the woman's head, was a boy - perhaps twelve or thirteen winters - and despite everything being an illusion, Antonius could sense a great power in those hateful eyes.

"I grow impatient," the wizard said, eyeing the scene with irritation. "Show me what you mean to show me, or I will end you."

Antonius, ever carrying the youthful visage of a handsome thirty-something male of princely qualities, had dropped his disguise. With a hunched back, his face appeared heavily aged and shaggy with innumerable wrinkles. Great bushy grey eye brows inclined to form a gnarled frown, and his toothless mouth twisted in anger.

"Show me, Emporer's Bane, show me why it is many thousands died cursing your name," he rasped.

---

The Magnus had vanished. Erich was unsure if this was good or bad, but did not stop to ponder. The left flank was buckling under the tremendous weight of thousands, and he needed to prop it up like he needed to win this battle. He galloped at full speed, pursued by his flustered praetorians, until he arrived at the rear of the left-most centuries. Men were screaming, as their savage enemy tore into the shield wall and dealt death and destruction with the wide arcs of their oversized weapons. Bones crunched and organs exploded; priests and physicians carried out the wounded, but the dead were left to form the mattress of battle.

Positioning himself at the head of the reserves on the second line, he ordered them forwards. They advanced in organised pace, and blended effortlessly with the besieged flank. Whistles sounded, horns blasted, and through a miraculous manoeuvre worthy of an Imperial Legion, the soldiers of the first line slithered through the reinforcements and began a brief march to the rear of the battle. There they would rest, ready to renew the onslaught.

The line straightened, and then advanced. With renewed vigour, the Imperial left flank pushed back its enemy, threatening to envelope the centre mass.

"Hmph. Impatience...maybe I should make it when you flood my mind, my dark power floods yours, making you burst out in rage flame." Rinack growls, from behind the old wizard. "Simple. The whole reason I am the emperor's bane, the whole reason I've been forced to kill as many as I have...is because a guard of your empire killed my wife and child. I killed him....I killed him, slowly. As such, the mage consul decided to send their assassins to kill me....You know the song and dance. All that I am saying is I am in the right here...not your empire. If I was you, I would flee while you can......I just need a few more moments to charge up my next attack..." Rinack says.

The lines of soldiers fell, one by one. The giant Broding walked through their lines, as the only two opponents who could match him were engaged in a duel of their own. The white claws of Dragonclaw ripped through steel like it was mere crude wood, and no line of defense held him. And through the hole he tore came a constant stream of attackers, as the small group of soldiers was ripped apart from the inside. They had been able to resist for as long as they had only because of their excellent training, but with their leader exhausted and their troops outnumbered, it had only been a matter of time. Broding had only sped up the process of defeat by marching in himself, but he wished for this to end as soon as possible.

Lord Polvark himself was surrounded by a group of his elite guard, highly trained men who would protect him from any threat. As the first charged forward, Dragonclaw came from below. He blocked, moving the bone blade to the side, and yet the other end of the double-bladed staff had already come around from the side, it's force only increased. It hit his shield and knocked him sideways, disrupting the charge, even as the second man came in. A spear plunged forward, but Broding simply caught it in his hand, pulling the man forward. It was only a sword swipe from the side, launched by the first of the elite guards, that saved the spearman's life.

Forced to abort his attack on the spear wielder, Broding noticed a third man running for his back, as he tried to surround him. If he did, even Broding didn't know if he could survive the encounter, so instead he turned around the spear wielder, and let Dragonclaw sing. The spear was severed, and soon after so was the man's life. However, he was now flanked by a swordsman on one side, and an axewielder on the other. Instead of protecting Lord Polvark, they had honed in on Broding in order to finish him off, and while another might have used this chance to finish off the royal, Broding knew that doing so would invite a coordinated strike from both warriors, which would be very likely to end his own life. Instead, he rushed to swordsman, who only barely deflected Dragonclaw. However, that had not been the true attack.

Grabbing the poor man's shield even while parrying sword blows with Dragonclaw, Broding twisted around. He used the swordsman's form as a shield, preventing the axeman's next strike, and the force of the turn had undoubtedly broken the shield arm. Then, dropping Dragonclaw, Broding took a hold of the sword. Blood seeped onto the ground, but it had not been in mid strike, and the blade held insufficient momentum to deal any real damage. Sliding his hand along the blade, Broding held the swordsman's wrist on both arms, preventing any kind of strike, even while maneauvering himself to make the axeman's strikes impossible. For just a moment, Guntra looked into his opponent's eyes, and instead of fear, he saw resolve to fight till the bitter end. Great, inhuman muscles coiled, and with a single powerful pull, both of the man's armored arms were ripped from his body. Like a fish on land, the torso fell down in a pool of his own blood, twitching and screaming.

This left Broding with a gash in his side, facing the axe wielder bare handed. This was a dangerous position, as his opponent was quite skilled, but Guntra held the knowledge and skill of every warrior whom's heart he had devoured. Taking a step forward, he invited attack, feinting with his left hand. His oppoent didn't take the bait however, but instead struck low, trying to take down Broding's legs. A quick step back dodged the strike, but the axe wielder was back in form before Broding could launch an attack of his own. Smiling, Broding realized he was facing the most skilled of the three men.

Charging forward, the ebony giant dropped all forms of defense. Realizing this opportunity, as well as the danger rushing towards him, the axe user dropped his shield, realizing what good it had done his friend, and grabbed the axe with two hands. Pain bit deeply as Broding's fist found the man's chest, but even as this happened, the man got as close as he would ever get. Putting all his strength behind it, he struck for Broding's head, the axe striking the giant's skull just before the wielder was launched across the room with a defining crack.

In the corner, the man with the axe chuckled, as blood dripped down from Broding's face. it wasn't a fatal wound, but it had been a good hit. Broding smiled, as he felt the damage to his skull. Walking towards the man, he uttered the same phrase that he had uttered before, given to a defeated, yet worthy, opponent. "Gul Amun". With that, he reached down, and took the man's armor. Flexing his hand backwards, his fingers forming a strange vise, an almost mystical energy could be felt as a small prayer was offered to the many Gods of the Gung. Broding's large, muscled arm shot forwards in a move similar to the striking of a snake, and the fingers dug deep into the man's skin, bone and flesh being pushed aside. Grabbing onto the heart, Broding ripped it from his opponent, and devoured it in a single bite. He could feel it sliding down his throat, the opponent's soul trapped within it. He could see the memories of this fallen opponent, his motives for fighting. The flames of courage that had burned in his heart became one with the flames of Amun, and Broding's own flames.

Broding looked up from his bloody feast. Next up, he would kill Lord Polvark himself. This would end the battle for the keep, and the small group of barbarians that had entered it before the gates had closed, 500 at most, would have taken the keep. The castle would be completely theirs, and despite the forces that Broding knew had amassed outside of it's walls, they would hold it. He himself had seen the hell caused by these walls to his people, he would love to see them used against his opponents.

Lord Polvark was no warrior. He was a statesmen, a great reformer, beloved by the citizens of the Empire for his tender care to their needs and welfare; despised by an Emperor whom only cared for the iron fist of oppression. His assignment at Castle Rivergate was nothing short of a collection of negative variables and circumstances. As the battle raged on around him, he took time to reflect upon his life.

He had no sons, or daughters - nor a wife. Lord Polvark was a demonic creation, or so his father had often told him, for his love was for other men. Whilst not a crime in the Empire, homosexuality carried an intense stigma, especially amongst the ruling classes. Perhaps if, as his father had put it, he was born "normal", then he could have risen to greatness. Though, as another of his Praetorians fell with a cleaved neck, the Lord of Castle Rivergate wondered why he had burdened himself with life at all. Had he ever known happiness? Denied his parents' love, scolded by an Emperor who sought to see his people suffer needlessly, and now abandoned in his moment of greatest need by the Gods of old - Gods that he had dedicated a great deal to, and at great risk, to receive deliverance.

Why should he fight? Why should he waste his lifeblood upon the blades of his enemy, terrified and helpless, when he could just submit?

Snatching the silver trumpet from his sergeant-at-arms, whom stood beside him nervously as the battle turned against the Praetorians, Lord Jaques Polvark, son of Frandalmir the Great, heaved the strength of his lungs into the mouthpiece. A piercing sound echoed through the hall, drowning out the sound of bloody slaughter and dancing weapons. The Praetorians, understanding the signal as one of retreat, backed away from the melee and locked their shields. Their enemy pursued them, but they maintained formation as they circled their master in a protective ring.

Lord Polvark shrugged off his sergeant's grip, and pushed his way to the front of his men. Throwing his ancestral sceptre down at the foot of the hulking giant; the hastily emerging Empire's greatest threat, he bowed his head.

"My castle is yours. Do what you will with me, but I ask you to spare those who have fought tirelessly to keep this fortress in the hands of its rightful owner. Their courage and bravery should be apt price, for their safe return to Imperial lands. If you are a warrior of any honour at all, you will pay me this small mercy," he said, with a wavering voice.

"My Lord," hissed the sergeant. "Do not soil your name in the quagmire of surrender. Die proudly, with the Emperor's name on your lips."

"I will not have any more of my men die protecting me," shot back Lord Polvark. "Our cause is lost, we have been bested. Now carry out my final order, and throw down your weapons - all of you!"

The Praetorians hesitated; caught between instinct and duty. One by one, they chucked down their swords and spears. Many closed their eyes, expecting at any moment a foriegn blade to pierce their exposed bodies, or a mace to implode their skull.

Stepping forwards, Lord Polvark was not attacked by the barbarians, even as they yelled their jeers and curses at the surrendered Praetorians. He unclipped his armour, and threw the chest plate to the ground.

"Do we have terms?" He asked the giant.

---

Antonius shrugged at Rinack, "how many families did you destroy in your path of so called justice? How many orphans, widows and bastards did you create? The Empire would have brought enlightenment to the far reaches of the world, were it not for your selfishness; for your blinded rage. Prepare to die, Rinack."

Summoning his power, Antonius threw out an open palm. Rinack's memory shattered around them, as if made from glass, until they both stood in a black void. He hefted his staff, and pointed at the warlock.

"Let us end this; the Emperor has no command over my magic here," he spat.

A large ball of orange flame, twisting and turning, appeared at the head of his simple oaken staff. As the seconds passed, it grew larger, until it was the size of a small child.

"DIE!"

The ball of flame shot forwards, directly towards Rinack. Antonius smiled victoriously; expecting any moment that the last of his enemy's mental defences would crumble.

The Gung had many aspects and traditions that they were proud of, but they were not a sociable people. They had no trade relations, and even clashed quite often with the other Great Clans that inhabited the jungles of the north. Of the Gung that had gathered to witness their leader's battle, very few had any idea what was going on when the man they had identified as a fellow of some importance, potentially a Shaman or Chieftain of the Iron Men, seemed to throw away his weapons. However, those that did understand spit on the ground, and made a ward against evil spirits. Among the Gung, who were a fierce warrior culture, surrender was the equivalent of blasphemy. To die after surrender would be to abandon your soul to be reborn as a tree, or a worm, and incapable creature. Only a true warrior would find glory and the ability to fight once more in a new life, a second chance at victory granted by the Gods. It was a disgrace, and it was an equal disgrace to slaughter those who were unarmed. Usually this issue was resolved through banishment, and the coward would die in the wilds, where it was hoped they might find some form of redemption.

Broding stood above the coward before him, and made a sound like the growl of an animal. When he spoke, it was a heavily accented version of the Imperial Tongue. Unlike his looks would suggest, he had been highly educated by his tribe's shaman. The Avatar of Amun, after all, needed to be able to handle his blade not just with strength, but with wisdom as well. "You would wipe the name of you and your men into the dirt? It would be more merciful to let them die as men, then to let them be coddled as children, helpless to decide their own fate." Broding stabbed the Dragonclaw into the ground, bone blade slicing through the gritted stone, leaving not even a blemish upon the strange weapon. As he held up a hand, one of his men placed an axe in it, which he held out to Lord Polvark. His eyes held a lust for battle, but also a sense of honor. Through the hearts and memories of so many warriors, Broding had not only learnt skill, but also a form of compassion all of his own.

"I shall grant you a warrior's mercy, and nothing more. If you wish to save those who serve under you, then don't coddle and cry. Fight for it, and carve your destiny with your own two hands. To fight for yourself is the only right given to us by the Gods." Broding throws the axe into the air, and it clatters to the ground. He makes no effort to protect himself, but rather gestures for his warriors to stand back. Obeying, they formed a ring around the area, large enough for uninterfered close combat. "You may not be a warrior, but you are a man. Do not fight for the dreams of your leaders, do not fight for the hopes of the future. Choose your own path, little man, and then face even the greatest of odds with a heart of steel. Take the weapon and face me, and if you win, you have my word as a warrior that both you and your men will be released. If not, then I shall grant them a warrior's death. That is all the mercy I have to give."

Shreika cleared the mist she had placed over her opponent, revealing the battlefield that surrounded them to his senses. As the smoke soaked into her robes, some of the priestess’s power returned to her. She watched the hound carefully, eyeing as many of his movements as she could, aiming to reverse the next attack he made.

I will only have one chance for this move to work, so I must timed it as well as I possibly can.

Taking a deep breath, her opponent took his chance to dive in, swinging his blades in a deadly arc towards her fists and neck. Ducking under the weapons she then followed it up with a quick back step. The hound’s attacks didn’t stop there however, and the black priestess was soon doing nothing but evading the speeding blades.

The storm of blows seemed to have no end, and Shrieka had been cut and grazed countless times, and despite her best efforts blood trickled out of the wounds, no doubt exiting her opponent and making him even more frenzied. This second wind he had achieved however, lead to him overextending a swing. Capitalising on the mistake, Shreika weaved past his arm and shoved her palm into his stomach. The magic of the void, once again contacting the hound, this time launching him away from the priestess, singing his stomach as the void tried to strip the flesh from his bones.The new distance created by Shreika's attack allowed some breathing room and with it Shreika began to charge her next spell. Subtly building the magic and weaving the intricate strands together to form, what she believed was the spell she needed to win this duel.

Now with the spell prepared, she only had to wait for the right moment to unleash it.

Lord Polvark let free a long lasting sigh, and his heart sunk into the deepest depths of his stomach. He had gambled on the savages being open to reason, and romantic notions of honour; he had failed pitifully, in such a way that would justify his father's scorn. To fight and die, allowing his men to be slaughtered like lambs - even though each was a lion - or to submit and die, with likewise results for those he hoped to save.

"To the Fire with it," he grunted at last. Looking up at his killer, Jacques managed a weak smile. "You remind me much of my father; you two would have gotten along famously."

With a shrug, his backplate clattered to the ground.

"My name is Jacques Polvark, son of Frandalmir the Great," he said; his voice growing bolder. He unfastened the buckles on his wrist guards, and let them slip from him. "Late Lord of Castle Rivergate, former Civil Minister to the Emperor, and once beloved by many of the common man."

He knelt low, and went about removing his shin guards. In a form of hysteria, he chuckled to himself, in an attempt to bludgeon the creeping sense of dread taking over his body. He didn't want to die, though he often wished for it, and now as the Ferryman was staring him down, he wanted more than anything to survive; to flee his sacred Imperial duty, to find his mother and apologise for what his sinful affliction had put her through. To find the tomb of his father, and offer his forgiveness to a man who only knew strength.

"My name is Jacques Polvark. The Afflicted. The Man-Lover. Shame of Frandalmir the Great, disgraced of the Emperor's favoured," he continued with growing delusion, as he finished loosening his shin guards. "I have fought tirelessly to achieve in a world riddled with adversity, with death, dishonour and corruption."

Standing to full height, Jaques looked the giant in the eyes with an expression of the hardiest iron. "My name is Jacques Polvark, and were it not for people like you , like the Emperor or like my father, then people like me could forge a better world."

Flexing his lanky form, the Late Lord of Castle Rivergate clicked his neck from side to side. His dread had rescinded; there was a beautiful poetry in the words of his adversary. He would die a man, in a world that had sickened him from the moment he crawled from between his mother's legs. He bent low, and grabbed the axe in one hand. It was heavy - the years he should have spent in the drill yards, he had spent sneaking around his father's estate, embroiling himself in explosive love affairs with any who would have him. Though Jacques was a clever man.

He had removed his torso armour, because it constricted his shoulders.

"I am Jacques Polvark," he said, hefting the axe.

He had removed his wrist guards, because they would have slowed his swing.

"I have lived a sad life, though no sadder than most," he continued.

He had removed his shin guards, because they would have stifled his speed.

"For all the widows, for the children who grow up without parents; for the common man, who is restrained whilst his loved ones are butchered by those with weapons. For those who gave their last for a better world, and for those," he paused, and pointed the axe at the giant. "For those whose memories and souls you have devoured and defiled. For those and many more, I fight."

Jacques, cold and indifferent to everything around him, charged forwards. He stopped abruptly, then jumped left, then right, zig zagging his way towards the giant in an almost clumsy fashion. As he brought the axe to bear, his enemy shoved a meaty arms-worth of death at him. Jacques ducked low, and rolled, coming up to shove the head of his axe into the giant's shin. Stepping back, the tip of the giant's knuckles grazed his nose, but Jacques resumed his offensive immediately after a brief stumble. He brought the axe high, catching the giant's forearm. A great fist caught him in his unprotected face; splintering his eye socket, and reducing his already injured nose to a bloody pulp.

Blinded by stars, Jacques jumped backwards and snarled at his enemy through bloodied vision. His lungs heaved with effort, and the pain in his face was almost overpowering, but somehow, the Late Lord of Castlegate was not cowed.

"Come at me, monster, come at me and let's end this," he spat, "I've enough left to reap your evil from this world."