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. 

[i]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[/i]. 

"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.