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?" 

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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 [i]reacting[/i] 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.