"Their islands were pillaged and scorched by the Atroxi barbarians, the same ones I had once tried for peace with."

"Prepare yourselves!" Silas shouted as he watched another wave of orcs arrive by longship, their numbers more than doubled from last time. Guardsmen hurried to prepare their spears, poking them out of the palisade's reach. Archers brought up bows, some waiting while others drew back arrows. Silas watched the orcs ahead charge forth, the heavy snowfall making it difficult to see what weapons they were holding.

"I can't make it out, but their equipment seems different from before," Silas said. He squinted, trying to get a better view. "Give me the spotting glass."

"If they're smart, they'll bring plank bridges for the barbed wire and trenches," Gruk muttered as he handed him the brass cylinder.

In a second, Silas had the extended tool up to his eye, the glass focusing on the oncoming force. He could see them for what they were, their gear familiar in a daunting way. Silas could almost recognize the elongated cudgels they carried, the shape resembling….

"Oh no."

"What is it?" Gruk asked.

Silas snapped his gaze to the archers and exposed guardsmen, who were still on top of the palisade's wall walk.

"Get down now!" he shouted to them. "They have War—"

He was cut off when something smashed against his left arm, the heavy weight violently throwing Silas back. Everything slowed to a crawl, Silas' vision blurring as blood speckled everywhere. The orc only processed the moment right as he started falling, followed by the sensation of agonizing pain.

Silas had been struck by a spear arrow, its impact throwing him off the wall. He managed to catch a glimpse of Gruk's face as he fell, the older orc watching him with complete shock. Silas could only watch as the wall's top grew distant, the world falling around him. After that, darkness followed.

Helen was tackled to the ground just as a spear-sized arrow grazed past her, the air around it whipping with violent force. She got a glimpse of the arrow as it made contact with a nearby tree. It shattered into a shower of splinters, tearing out a good piece of the thick trunk and sending out a loud crash.

The guardsman who had saved her looked at the tree with a bewildered look before focusing back on Helen. "Are you alright, Marshal?"

"I'm fine," Helen muttered as she shoved the young lad off. "Everyone! Keep your bloody heads down, and don't peek! Archers! Regroup on me, now!"

Guardsmen shouted and called to each other the warnings as they moved back from the steps that led to the wall's top. Helen had been on the wall walk just a short minute ago, hoping to catch a glimpse of what the orcs were doing. She didn't even notice the arrows coming.

'Those bastards are like mobile ballistas,' Helen thought as more of those monstrous projectiles began striking the wooden palisade, their impacts shaking the wood despite its supposedly strong foundation.

As the archers all moved to group around Helen, she counted them off one by one. Thankfully, none had perished from that first volley of arrows, which should've brought relief. Instead, that twisted sense of dread from before deepened even more. She shoved that aside and focused.

"Alright, I have the sense of a plan," she began. "Even if those orcs are as stupid as rocks, their volleys won't be completely random. We just need to pick the right time to return arrows."

"That's your plan?" one of the archers asked, genuinely shocked. As he said this, one of the others nearby smacked him in the back of the head.

"Do you have a better idea, dunghead?" the young guardswoman asked. "Or do you suppose we'll do a better job being static targets?"

"Hopefully nothing so daring," Helen muttered as she dug into her side satchel. She brought out a couple of small stones, each with a mirror-smooth side that was scrawled with glowing glyphs. Runes inscribed with projectile spells. The group of archers all turned to the stones, and their arguing quelled immediately.

"A little gift from Dahlia," Helen explained. "I'll take the risk with the volleys, using these runes. Once they focus on me, you should get a chance to loose some arrows onto them."

"That's risky," a guardsman said. "Are you sure about this, Marshal?"

"I don't suppose any of you are capable of dodging those arrows?" Helen asked, her thumb pointed at the tree that took the arrow meant for her. The archers all turned to the destroyed trunk, the enormous arrow still lodged in halfway.

"I suppose…" the first archer said in a meek tone, "This plan could work."

The rest nodded.

"Good," Helen grunted. She stood up, gesturing for the group to position themselves at the far end of the wall, where the stone ground rose into a cliff that oversaw the beach. They followed without complaint, bows ready in their hands.

Helen watched them go before she looked back at where she was tackled to the ground. Right there in the dirty snow, her steel helm lay there. She picked it up, shaking off whatever slush and dirt had gotten in it. While Helen was sure the thing wouldn't really protect her from a direct hit from a War Bow, she knew that it was better than nothing.

"Time to get to work," Helen murmured as she hurried to the risen rocks on the palisade's leftmost side. She climbed the ragged stone, her boots nearly slipping on snow a couple times. Thankfully, there were no fatal slips.

'Easy part's done.'

Helen huffed as she reached the top, her hands gripping onto the cold rock. One more heave, and she'd be in full view of those orc archers. She waited for a moment, glancing over at the palisade to her right. Arrows struck it at seemingly random intervals, each volley a mixup of sorts.

'Maybe they are stupid enough to just loose arrows at random,' Helen realized. She cursed her luck some more, her mind racing with a way to find an opening that wouldn't get her immediately killed. She pulled back one of her hands from the rock, using it to dig through her satchel of runes.

With a steady hand, Helen pulled out a Night Spray rune, the purple glyph humming in her palm as she gripped it. She counted the arrows that came in, trying to find a noticeable pause.

Each one was like a crash of wood and splinters, their arrowheads striking against either stone or wood. The palisade would not hold long if this continued. Helen tried, really tried. She couldn't find a pattern to the madness.

"Damn these bloody fucking orcs…" Helen cursed. She took in a deep breath, the cold steel of her helm sticking to her sweat-covered forehead as she contemplated. Gritting her teeth, she came to a decision. "Fuck it."

With a heave and small prayer to whatever god was watching, Helen brought herself up over the rock's peak, exposing herself. She knew where those archers were. She had seen their group before that guardsman saved her. All Helen had to do was aim her rune.

"Night Spray!"

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Elena stared at the rough iron tip of the massive arrow, which was only a few hairs away from her eye. The projectile had smashed through the wooden palisade she had taken cover behind, its shaft protruding partway through the wall.

With a trembling breath, the archer stepped back from the iron tip, her hands gripped tightly around her bow. Before she could even recover from the close call, something hot speckled all over her right side. Almost immediately after, a headless body dropped next to her. Elena froze, feeling the sick sensation of warm blood trailing down her face and hands.

It all stained the snow like paint on canvas, a vivid sight that shook the young woman to her core.

Screams and shouts began to ring out in the cold, the falling snow nearly muffling their cries. Elena could see how the wounded were pulled away from the wall, some missing entire arms while others were clearly dead.

They knew the orcs were carrying War Bows this wave. They had extensive training to prepare for an event like this. So why was it all going to hel?

'Where is Squad Seven?' a part of her asked. 'Who is still alive?'

Elena searched the surviving guardsmen, who all moved to gather pikes and whatever runes the Wizard had made for them. She spotted Petrov quickly amongst their ranks, still uninjured, as he grabbed a long spear. Arno was with him, helmet fitted loosely around his head. Yet Rolan was nowhere to be seen. Elena felt a spike of alarm accompany her realization.

Despite feeling sick to her stomach, she risked a glance at the corpse that had fallen near her. The bloodied patch on its sash said Eight, so it wasn't from her squad. Still, Elena couldn't help but feel a pang of grief over the fallen Raven. She left a quick prayer to Freyja before she moved on to the next group of surviving guardsmen.

"Rolan?" Elena called as she shoved past rushing guardsmen. Another fellow archer was being dragged back from the walls, his arm reduced to a bloody stump that trailed red onto the crystalline snow. She watched them go, their screams of agony haunting her.

An explosion rang out from the other side of the wall, shaking the ground beneath Elena. She nearly stumbled from the sound alone, which threatened to burst her ears.

"They've reached the rune mines!" someone shouted. Elena recognized the voice, her head swiveling to the source.

"Prepare for contact, Ravens!" It was an older man, blood running down his forehead. Savard, leader of Squad Nine. He soon met Elena's watching gaze. "You! I need archers to focus on those damn War Bows!"

"I… I'm not sure if I can," Elena admitted in a shaky breath. She looked down at her half-bow, which she soon realized was covered in blood. The recollection of that dead man still shook her.

Savard didn't seem to notice her plight as he stomped right up to the archer. "I've got orcs shooting the heads off my men!" he grabbed Elena's shoulders, shaking her straight. "I don't care if you've lost your senses! Get to that perch, now!"

He shoved her in the direction of other bowmen, who were already moving up the wall steps to get to higher ground. Elena swallowed and forced herself to follow them, her steps shaking as she climbed the snow-covered steps. Her grip on the bow tightened as she neared the top, where fellow bowmen coalesced like a unit.

Shouts and screams surrounded her like a tempest of sound, every word, every order becoming inaudible to Elena. Still, she did what she had been told. With a shaking hand, Elena pulled an arrow from the quiver at her waist. She crouched behind the roughly made parapet at the top, despite knowing that it wouldn't survive a direct strike from those deadly orc-made arrows.

Elena took a deep breath of the cold Frost air, her hand notching the fletching on her bowstring. Other archers before her were already loosing arrows at the orcs below, their faces painted with a multitude of expressions. Anger, grief, and fear. Elena did not let those emotions control her aim as she stood from her spot.

The harbor of Yorktown was no longer recognizable. The battlefield it was now was littered with corpses, oily blood, and ash, turning the heavy snow into a slush of muddled browns and reds. Some of the bodies were still on fire, purple and orange flames indicating that they had been hit by both Fireball and Night Spray runes. A couple of orcs were stuck within the barbed wire, struggling to get untangled as arrows and rune projectiles were loosed upon them.

Elena did not allow herself to focus on those details. She instead set her gaze upon the backline of the invading forces, who were busy sending spear-like arrows into the walls of their defenses. At the moment, it didn't seem like they even noticed Elena and her group.

A blessing, to be sure, but one that wouldn't last long. The guardswoman held her breath as she raised the bow, its string taut on her fingers. She focused, singling out of the orc archers. He had bright red warpaint on his ugly face, which thankfully had no helmet protecting it. He was shouting at the others in his troops, guiding their aim and giving orders.

Elena let loose her arrow. She quickly moved a hand back and grabbed two more from her quiver, notching them on the string just as the first projectile was sent flying. One after another, the archer sent out a volley of three arrows toward the brute. One missed, hitting nothing but the stone harbor. The other two struck the orc leader, scoring the upper chest and his neck.

The orc stumbled back from the impact of the arrows, blood visibly spurting from their strikes. Elena let out her breath at the sight, her bow lowering as she watched the other orc archers break attention from the wall. The bowmen who were with her took the opportunity not long after.

"They're open!" one of them shouted, his longbow raised. "Get them now!"

Arrows flew toward the distracted orcs, who all noticed their mistake too late. While most of the loosed projectiles missed their mark, it was enough to throw them off. Elena could feel a little of her confidence returning at the sight of orcs being peppered with arrows, some falling to them whilst others were injured.

However, their opening did not last long. A couple of the orcs moved to take aim toward the wall, specifically the area where the bowmen were perched. Elena felt her heart sink at the sight, her hand fumbling for her quiver as she shouted.

"Take cover—!"

A spear struck one of the archers in the chest, crushing his ribs with an audible crunch as it threw him off the wall. The rest of the guardsmen took cover after the first strike, cowering behind the rough parapets as more projectiles followed. Elena did her best to make herself as small of a target as she could, the shouts and screams of battle growing louder around her as orcs finally reached the walls.

Felix didn't need messengers to let him know that their Fireball defenses had gone off. Even in the bustling noise of the longhouse, he could feel the booms across the island. After the second one, the entire place went dead silent. Felix held himself together as he turned to the nearest messenger, one who had arrived from Helen's defenses.

"Update?" he asked, despite knowing that it'd be late news.

"Last I saw from them," the messenger panted, "They were pinned by arrow volleys. Marshal Dunn told me to ask for more runes and support archers."

"We're short on both, unfortunately," Felix said with gritted teeth. He cursed himself for not training more archers. The task of bringing up a battalion of rangers was on him alone, and while the Captain did his best to bring in as many recruits as he could during the past year, he had underdelivered. Hard. "Do we have casualty reports on Nodes Three and Four?"

"Last update was twenty minutes ago," a scribe said as she scribbled on the map. "Twelve dead, five of them archers. Even more injured, the number inconclusive. The runner had to retreat after the War Bows were deployed."

"Has Elaine come back yet?" Felix asked.

"Not yet," another said. "It hasn't even been a tick yet, Captain. She might just be arriving at the Northern Front."

Felix cursed silently. He desperately wished they had some spell crystals to go around if only to check on whatever was happening. A deep darker part of him went against that wish, if only so that he wouldn't lose his mind over how fucked they were.

"Where the hel is Falrick?" Felix growled under his breath. The Wizard was nowhere to be seen, his status unknown. Some witnesses reported him leaving the town and heading east toward the mountain, while others said that he was making some ritual circle within New Aldren. Either way, he wasn't around, and Felix doubted they had enough time and resources to go looking for him.

The best he could do was hope that the old geezer had some grand plan in the works, one that could probably give them an edge.

'Look at you,' whispered a thought that had crept into his mind. 'Already going mad.'

Felix ignored it, focusing on the map in front of him. Pegs were being moved around like pieces in a game of Regicide, each one marked with the number that correlated with a squad. He felt sick at the comparison between some children's game and his own men's life hanging by a thread.

"Captain!" a voice cried out, the messenger barely crossing past the longhouse's doors. Just from the bewildered eyes and desperate movements, Felix could tell that something had gone horribly wrong.

Falrick's only good hand shook as he finished the last of the glyphs, his bones creaking in protest as he stood straight. Chalkdust coated his robes, along with some unseemly residue of whatever that necromancer had done here.

Obviously dark magic, judging from the faint scent of embalmment potions. Falrick could swear he could catch the stink of sulfur somewhere. With a shake of his head and a small prayer to Azlene, the elderly spellcaster sat down in the middle of his ritual circle. He fiddled again with his prosthetic hand, which replaced the one he lost to that Beholder user so long ago. Falrick was sure he would die there, killed by the same man who surely ended Isabelle's life.

Things, however, had taken a different turn. Seamus had saved them, using a casting that Falrick thought impossible. It was clear that there was something more to the young man, more to him than even Yorn had realized.

"I'm sorry, my Jarl," Falrick whispered as he opened his eyes. He felt at the pin on his wide-brimmed hat, the memories of a better time flashing through his mind. "For everything."

With a shaking breath, Falrick began to chant.

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