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"Well, if we're going to have our troops cut thin, I suppose it's better to have the remaining ones be of more capable stock," Ronin said grimly as they arrived by the wall. Upon seeing the legionaries, he continued, "Ah, I'd assume these are my men?"

The captain nodded, affirmative was his reply to both of those sentences. "Indeed they are. Among the finest of the finest. The greatest men you should find on the wall. All yours." he clapped Ronin on the shoulder and then walked to find his own squad.

Ronin's legionaries saluted him and stood straight like metallic statues.

Gailen leaned against the wall, waiting for Kælan.

Yalveni sighed and looked at the troops once more and thought of ways to utilize their strengths and weaknesses.

Yalveni saw that the troops were just as badly-armoured as they had been when he had first seen them. The legionaries were all right, but the guards were lacking in helmets (they still had their shields and weapons, though). The militia were armoured in only leather, with most of them using hoes and hatchets as weapons. While not true weapons, the hoes would work well to prevent orks from scaling the ladders, while those with axes could slay the orks that had already made it over the walls.

Yalveni had faith, even if Navar didn't, "I never been one for speeches," he said clearing his throat, "So I'm not going to give one. You know your limitations, and you know that we're what's holding them back. I don't need to tell you that. You know the dangers and you know the risks." Yalveni clenched a fist, "But also know that even though I may not be from here, and even though you may not know me, that I'll fight beside you, and if you give your all, I'll do the same. This may not be my home, but if you are willing, I'm willing as well, to fight and die for Palmu. I'll stand fast, if you will. We'll all fight or die, well and together. And even if we can be killed, so can orks. Despite what some would say," he looked at Navar, "you can defeat them. And just know that even though I don't plan on dying, and even though I don't know you, it's been an honor, just to be here and to have a purpose."

The Wall

The soldiers raised their weapons and began to hit the handles on the open palm of their other hand. The cacophony spread to the rest of the soldiers assembled on the walls and a huge rousing roar rose into the night sky, spreading through the army like a contagion.

Navariësé withdrew her bow and aimed it in the direction of the orks. She had gotten an arrow ready but would not fire untill Yalveni gave the order to fire or when a volley of arrows was fired.

The Baron's Armoury

Kælan quickly and silently came over to Gailen. He looked rather hurried. He beconed Gailen to follow him and hastily left the armoury. Upon leaving the armoury, they retruned to the baron's quarters, to find them empty, the Baron and his men having made for the wall already. The battle was to begin sooner than expected. With hurried feet, Kælan led Gailen out of the quarters, out of the palace, into the plaza and towards the wall. Perhaps one hundred metres in front of them, where the crowd of the disorderly once stood, near the wall, was now the baron and his private army, preparing to scale the stairs up to the ramparts.

Ronin returned the salute. Being not entirely familiar with all the formalities of the military, he simply said, "At ease, men. Looks like we've got quite the night ahead of us, so we need to use what little time we have right now to prepare any way we can. First, I'm going to need everybody's name. I'll go first - I'm Ronin Nādo."

The legionaries took the chance to introduce themselves. In order, there was Comites Pripes Alejandres, Comites Seces Marces, Comites Trijes Valeres, Comites Cirires Vores, Comites Pirires Jules, Comites Zij Zores, Comites Zivej Cudes, Comites Octes Teres, Comites Nejes Majes and Comites Zedes Rodes. That being, in order of seniority, with Alejandres being the closest to the rank of centurion.

Yalveni waited for the battle to begin, his right hand resting on his sword, before he finally drew it.

Gailen took a breath, glanced at Kælan, and proceeded towards the private army.

The Wall

The baron assembled his forces on the wall near to Yalveni. His force was small (but larger than Yalveni's bunch) and well-equipped, their armour and weapons paid for by the baron. They were all strongly-built, all well-paid and all bristling with a hate of orks and a desire to serve their master to the bitter end. Gailen caught up with them. About fifty metres down the wall, he could see Yalveni and Navariësé.

"Alright, good to meet you all," Ronin said. Before he gave them any plans for the battle, he looked to see which of them were carrying bows. He also looked around to see if there were any potential spots in the immediate vicinity for archers to take cover.

Most of them still had at least one pilum, but three of them had used both of theirs in the battle and now had to use some bows. As for cover, there were the crenellations on the wall and the stone pillars that supported the gatehouse.

The Wall

Barely had everyone assembled, in ones and twos and threes, in ragged huddles, in messy groups, in bunches of formations that trickled along the length of the walls, that the orks had prepared their battering rams and had moved them further into the city. Their advance had been delayed by the want and opportunity of loot. Many houses had been raided and now lay a great burned mess, testament to the destructive power of the terrible orkish war machine. The flaming ruins now marked the mequë as they advanced down the streets and towards their prize: The Governor's Palace. They were only slightly impended by the small manner of the giant wall, but they had enough ladders and enough orks to scale them. Then, they would burst open the great gates of wood that guarded the entrance and storm the plaza, ransacking freely. The city would burn in a great funeral pyre. The dark smoke would mar the land for years to come. It would be smelt, the crackling would be heard, the great black column would be seen for miles and all who dared defy the god of darkness, the king of debauchery, the sovereign whose reign was divine and his empire absolute, would know that they had lost and they would flee until hunted down in great numbers like rabbits running from bloodhounds. And thralldom would come to them and they would be humans no longer, but slaves, slaves to teh great evil that marshalled before them. Palmu stood now, not just a trading capital, but as the sign of human and elven defiance against the orks. Its loss would not just be economical. It would not just be cultural. Its loss would be a complete and utter failure for mortal life. Its end would signal the end of all things. And its end was to come. The orks were at the walls. The ladders were there. The battle had arrived. And just as the orks rested the ladders against the stone, there was a flash of light and a whip of lightning and many goblins and orks fell back in flight and fright, as a glowing, pulsing circle, a great and holy energy, surrounded the walls and began to rise in a great sphere, forming a dome above the Old City, with not one part of it exposed to the evil of the orks. With a shimmer, the shield was complete and sealed shut. From the inside, it was invisible. To the outside, it looked like a film of stone had been thrown over that part of the city. It looked opaque from one angle, just a suggestion of a presence, but from another angle, it looked solid, a great cliff of rock. The shield had been risen. It had risen like the city which had risen from the grave.

The Valley of Palmu

Ash. Strips of magma. Flame in the air. Smoke in the air. Death in the air. Fate and destiny buried under a pillar of fire. Bones and crumpled bodies littered the ground, which had once been a hilly valley, now levelled by a pitched battle which was now over. Black scales and red scales, blue scales and yellow scales. Golden scales. They covered the wasteland like shells on the beach, numerous and glinting like glamorous goblets in the tempest flames that swirled around. The maelstrom, the inferno, passed over the valley, swooping back like a hawk over its feeding ground, or a guard patrolling his city. With a final explosion, the combat was brought to a definite end. The great black dragons of Norkel stood perched on the great monolith that rose out of the fire-churned plateau. They had lost many of their number and the survivors went without much of their poisoned blood, the blood that wept from their wounds and melted what little patches of green remained. What a great and terrible sin, what a horrible sight to behold, a whole valley turned to flame, a whole forest devoured by ash and soot. The sky choked. Death reigned and it reigned alone, no queen or prince or princess or duke paired with it. And it revelled in its loneliness and celebrated in its hatred. It was reviled and it loved it.

And then the dragons were in the air and they were soaring through the smoke, smashing through the marching columns that had formed and carrying them away on their wings, trailing the flames like some comet come to pass on its orbit. And, for the sake of all humanity and all elves, may they crash to the ground like comets come to pass and expire, or drop like flies swatted from the sky by the hand of a god. But sadly, that day would pass. The dragons were on their way to Palmu. And, for all his greatness, Lokve could not contend with them and Norkel grinned most devilishly in his enemy's shame, in his enemy's failure, in Lokve's sadness.

The Palmuian Sea

Wind swept his face. Wind swept his beard. Wind swept his very heart and made him know of great hopelessness, tugging most viciously on his heartstrings, forcing them this way and that way. And then he turned his back on the wind and cursed it and he cursed the rain too, for good measure and a well deserved measure. And he looked up to the sails and commanded they be raised. And he was Centurion Gaius Bararus of Socra, elected to lead the first force to secure the docks of Palmu from whatever orks had taken hold there. God was on his side and many other gods too. His sailors were working like they had been inspired by divinity, pushing themselves beyond what they would normally have been able to do. His mission was the most important of them all. He had to save teh city.

"Faster, men! Sail! By the gods! Sail! [&@%!] sail! The winds will push us forth or, by god, I will curse them to the name of Norkel! So I say, sail, men, and let Lokve fill your hearts!" he commanded, surrounding his mouth with his hands, magnifying his voice.

He looked around the sea, where the waves bashed against his ship, and saw another few triremes following him and mimicking his ship's movements. Their captains were giving similar orders. They had to. Time was not their ally today. It was set against. By the gods, it hated them. And they hated it. The feeling was mutual and of little concern to the greater needs of the world and to destiny. The ships would either make it there or they would not make it there. If they made it there in time, then they had succeeded. If they were late, they may have well have been crushed by a wave and plunged to the depths of the sea, to do battle with the coldness of water, for in being late, they would condemn the world to a coldness of heart and of hand never seen before, not even in the furthest north or in the most unmoving, unbeating heart.

Navariësé waited for the order to fire before unleashing her arrow. She kept an eye on the wall she and Yalveni had been assigned to protect. "Show these [&@%!]what the men of Palmu are capable off." She said to the fighters near her.

The City

To the orks beside the shield, it looked as if nothing had been there and then suddenly an arrow was flying through the stone. The another one. Then some javelins. Then a few rocks. And then all people armed with some projectile was lobbing or throwing or tossing or firing at the orks which could not see what or who was attacking them. Many squads were decimated by the invisible terror and the goblins began to panic. Many fled into the burning alleyways, spreading terror. Panic infected one ork to the next, sneezing through their ranks like a poisonous contagion or a gas released out into the dawn air.

Navariësé unleashed her arrow at the same time as the others and continued to fire at the horde. She made sure her arrows were fired at the same time as the others to be more effective.

The City

The orks had brought out their shamans. They marched in order, not taking their eyes off of the obstacle, off of their target. They carried staffs, thin and made of bone, with a skull as the head, like a skeleton without the arms and with one long leg. The skull pulsed with an unholy energy. A black light danced inside its empty eyesockets. The eight shamans, for all shamans operated in groups of eight, one shaman for each tribe of ork within the army, one shaman to oversee the spiritual teaching of the orks, to show them the pedagogy of Norkel, that his darkness was all knowing and all encompassing, that his reign was never-ending. One shaman for every eight of the shield. With a chant of darkness, a guttural growl, the shamans unleashed their dark magics upon the shield, leeching energy from it, sucking the magic from it like a vampire with its sharp fangs clamped upon a victim's neck. The black magic struck the bright energy of the shield, stripping away the shield bit by bit, ripping at it most tenderly, the claws of an animal around a carcass of its prey.

Navariësé aimed for the nearest Sharman and fired an arrow at it's mouth.

Navariësé's arrow arced into the air. It reached its crescendo, before it plunged down towards the shaman. And then it was gone. The shaman, so intense was his magic, supreme was his concentration, that a shield of evil had formed around him, protecting him from harm as he worked away on the shield. Norkel's doing for Norkel's bidding.

Navariësé realised her arrows would be of no use against the shield. "If you know any magic, use it against the sharman!" She told the men as she readied her next arrow and would fire it as soon as the next volley of arrows was unleashed.

The City

Any magic that the soldiers possessed would have been of little help against the shaman, who was well-versed in the art of fighting with magic, able to craft the most delicate and terrible of spells to cause any amount of ailments to appear on an enemy. He could fabricate death if he so wished or strike a man down with crippling pain. His entire life was dedicated to the evil and malevolence of Norkel. Norkel's power coursed through the orks veins, empowering him, strengthening him, filling his mind with the knowledge of all things evil. Only a person skilled in advanced magic could challenge such a being.