The gates leading out into Castle Bathory's courtyard creaked open just wide enough to allow Yorrek to step out from the interior of the citadel. Nervous faces of castle servants - women and men too old or weak to fight - peered out from between the iron-banded doors before pulling the gates back shut. Dull, heavy thuds sounded behind the sturdy wooden beams as the servants inside set about barring the gate shut behind Yorrek.

The manicured gardens of the castle's courtyard were unrecognizable from when Yorrek had seen them last. Lush bushes and shrubberies had been buried under a thick blanket of dust and ash, crushed underneath rubble shed by cannonball damage to the citadel's spires, and then trampled underfoot by the Royal Guard gathered in the courtyard for their final stand against Ulrek's forces. Stately trees that had stood since the childhood of Yorrek's great grandfather had been crushed under the weight of so many falling bricks and stones, reduced to splintered stumps poking weakly from underneath the omnipresent rubble. Only one tree - an ancient and gnarled holly tree planted at the very center of the citadel's courtyard - still stood. It too was heavily damaged, with entire boughs snapped off and its glossy leaves caked in dust, but it remained standing, its battered silhouette rising up into a hellish sky cast red and orange by the setting sun and by the fires burning unchecked throughout the city beyond the citadel's ramparts. Stormy gusts had bellowed the flames generated by Ulrek's bombardment and by the Madness the night before, setting significant portions of the Capital ablaze. Ash and dust carried on the wind, as did the cacaphony of battle.

Thousands of shouts and screams melded together into a single, roaring din carrying over the walls. Even now, Ulrek's hordes were charging the walls of the ramparts, their battlecries mixed with barked orders of the defenders on the ramparts who set about thinning the Baron's approaching ranks. Yorrek watched as archers fired through the crenelations on the ramparts, down onto the teeming attackers charging at the walls. Crossbowmen loaded their bows behind the cover of the battlements before pointing the bow out through the crenels, firing off a bolt, and reloading again. A few servants even filled ceramic vessels full of boiled lard from one of the boiling cauldrons placed up on the walls, covered their openings with burning wicks of cloth, and then hurled the vessel over the wall where it would burst with flaming grease amidst the attackers. Ulrek's forces responded in kind with crossbow bolts shot up from over the walls, most of which plinked harmlessly against the battlements. A few bolts from the attackers found their way through the crenels and found their mark on the guardsmen on the ramparts. Anguished shrieks rang out from atop the walls as the occasional arrow embedded itself in an archer. Yorrek winced as a servant manning one of the grease cauldrons caught an arrow to the side and lost his footing, falling with a crunching thud amidst the soldiers gathered in the courtyard.

Yorrek made his way from the gate to a gathering of pikemen gathered in a disorganized cluster before the near-breach in the wall created by the Baron's most recent cannon bombardment. Some two hundred faced the damaged segment of the wall, watching arrows arc over the walls with wide, fearful eyes and filthy dust-caked faces. Anxious, expectant eyes converged upon Yorrek as he approached his soldiers.

"Commander," one of the guard captains recognized as Yorrek approached. "I thought you'd be staying with the Prince."

"You know I couldn't let you lot have [i]all[/i] the fun," Yorrek said with a toothy grin, glancing around at the guards around him. Yorrek had expected a round of laughter there, or at least a few genuine chuckles. Yorrek's grin melted away in the face of silent, empty stares from his men.

"I'm not an orator, men," Yorrek admitted with a sigh. "I wish I knew how to give you a rousing address and inspire within you lot some glimmer of hope in this dark hour. But I do not have the words in me, and I regret to say that there is no hope for any of us today. Ulrek's hosts and mercenaries outnumber us more than ten to one, and those Madness-gripped lunatics outnumber us greater still. For those of us inside this courtyard, this will be our last night on this mortal plane, so abandon any notion of mercy or honor when we face Ulrek's gathered multitudes.

"For us Royal Guards, there is no hope. But for our sovereign, for our families and friends beyond those walls, for our children and their children after them, some hope yet remains. If we can [i]destroy[/i] his army, if we can [i]kill[/i] the Usurper on the field of battle, then our wives and children will never know life under the heavy yoke of King Ulrek Bathory.

"That is what separates us from Ulrek's gathered hosts. The men we will soon be facing are motivated by greed and fear; desire for the freely-flowing gold vespers of the Baron's squandered fortunes, desire to keep their skins attached to their bodies. We are motivated by something greater: hope for our posterity. And so in a few short hours, when death looks you in the eyes and that terrified voice in the back of your head begs you to turn and flee for dear life... drown that pitiful, mewling voice out with one last defiant cry and make death take you thrashing and screaming! 

Before Yorrek could incite the men into a rallying cheer, a bellowing roar from over the wall stole the attention of the guards. Frantic eyes went to the walls as archers on the ramparts confirmed everyone's fear.

"Ogres!" Screamed an archer on the wall. "The ogres are coming!"

"Concentrate your fire on them! Give them every-" Before the bowman on the ramparts could finish his command, a giant, wart-covered arm reached over the rampart and seized him, ripping him down off the wall. The archer's command turned into a frenzied scream, punctuated suddenly by a wet, popping crunch that could easily heard even over the sounds of battle. Mammoth ogre arms thrashed through the crenels of the ramparts, clawing at any defender within reach. The defenders on the wall pressed for the guard towers and stairs so as to get down from the walls and away from the reach of the ogres. Another terrible roar, and the wall shook as something heavy on the other side of the half-breached wall collided against it. Bricks tumbled down away from the nearly-breached wall, allowing Yorrek and his pikemen glimpses of the ogre battering against the breach. Yorrek could see the terror in the eyes of the guard, some backing slowly away from the wall.

"Form ranks!" Yorrek ordered, gesturing for a long pike from one of the guardsmen standing nearby. The pikeman handed his weapon to over to Yorrek, who briefly examined its long iron tip before pointing it toward the battered wall, raising it up to a 45 degree angle.

"Do not fear, good men," Yorrek ordered as the guards closed in together in a wide U-shaped formation around the breach, their spearpoints trained against the crumbling wall. "Ogres are strong and and their hide is thick, but do not think for a second that they are invincible! Their hide is thin at the groin, under the arms, and the neck. Press your pikes against these points, and brace the shaft against the ground! Let the brutes impale themselves on our pikes! We can kill them, but we must not fear!"

The ogre roared again as it threw its weight against the wall. The wall heaved and bowed, bricks tumbled off the wall and rolled down to the feet of Yorrek and his gathered pikeman. Yorrek glanced around to his men, and watched their wide and fearful eyes narrow into a furious gaze, their gauntlets tightening upon their pikes.

The ogre gave another roar as it threw itself against the wall one last time. The wall failed at last, bricks and rubble cascading down around the ogre as it stumbled through the gaping breach in the wall. Lumbering in through a curtain of dust was a twelve-foot tall ogre, its broad meaty shouldered embedded with no fewer than 50 arrows. The beast gave a furious roar as it laid eyes upon the gathered pikemen. Yorrek responded with his own battlecry, squelching the terror in the back of his mind as he gripped his pike and charged headlong at the monster.

The ogre was momentarily stunned as the screaming pikemen charged in behind Yorrek, confused as it had never before seen an enemy run [i]toward[/i] it. Confusion turned to rabid fury as Yorrek planted his spearpoint deep into the monster's inner thigh, wedging the butt of the pike down into some rubble at his feet. Yorrek abandoned his pike and narrowly evaded the ogre's retaliatory lunge, drawing his sword as he charged toward a second ogre pressing in through the breach.

The ogre behind him howled in pain as it foolishly pressed its weight against the wedged pike. The shaft snapped under the beast's weight, but not before the pike's iron tip was driven through the thick hide down into the bone. It was enough time for the pike-armed guards to converge against it, planting their spearpoints against the distracted ogre's throat and then jabbing in with all their might. Dark red blood gushed forth from the heads of the pikes in spurting pulses, and the ogre slumped over sideways and bled out upon the rubble.

The second ogre was now upon Yorrek, throwing a heavy fist down at the guard leader. Yorrek sidestepped the ogre's blow and hacked at its heel with his sword. It was as if Yorrek had hit his sword against a tree trunk, as his blade only cut through an inch or two of warty, calloused skin. The ogre stepped away and swatted at Yorrek, ripping his red cloak right off his shoulders but narrowly missing him. His men had now caught up with Yorrek, and surrounded the second ogre with a wall of spearpoints, trying to press their spears against the ogre's thin skin under the arms or the neck. The ogre parted through the wall of spearpoints, shrugging off a few that embedded themselves in its shoulder and sternum, and then swatted at the pikemen. Half a dozen men were sent sailing into the air, and another handful were torn apart, their torsos torn from their legs. Horrified screams rang out as the ogre grabbed another soldier and threw him hard against the wall. A spray of blood was left upon the stones where the man impacted, his body tumbled down onto the rubble in a twitching heap.

The ogre snapped the pikes poking out from its skin as easily as dry reeds, stomping down on another pikeman before turning his attention to Yorrek. The ogre tried to grab him, but once again Yorrek stepped just out of reach and retaliated with a powerful chop to the ogre's hand, managing to sever one of the monster's digits. The ogre withdrew his hand and inspected the bloody stump where his index finger hand been seconds before, howling in pain. Taking advantage of the beast's distraction, Yorrek scrambled for a discarded pike laying upon the rubble, hoping for enough time to take up the pike and thrust it up through the ogre's chin. Yorrek had almost seized the pike when a thick bloody hand seized [i]him[/i].

Yorrek winced under the ogre's vicelike grip. He could feel his ribs snapping and collapsing under the ogre's remaining fingers. The ogre held Yorrek up to his wart-pocked, flabby face, regarding the guard leader with a contemptuous sneer. The ogre opened his mouth, revealing an arcade of worn, yellowed teeth, and lowered Yorrek face down into his open maw.

Yorrek tried to wriggle free, but the ogre's grip was unrelenting. Even so, the constant flow of blood oozing out from the ogre's hand provided just enough lubrication for Yorrek to slide his right arm out from under the ogre's fingers. Yorrek felt the monster's disgusting breath hot on his face, his head just inches from the warty lips of the man-eating beast, when he released his arm from the ogre's grip and planted his sword deep into the ogre's temple. The ogre's eyes immediately rolled into the back of its head and its grip tightened. Yorrek felt his ribs all snap, and he tasted blood at the back of his throat. With a throaty wheeze, the ogre tumbled over, collapsing face-first onto the rubble with Yorrek still clenched in his fist.

From the ogre's death grip, Yorrek could only watch as another ogre made its way through the breach. Through the ogre's giant legs, Ulrek's men charged in through the breach, silhouetted through the smoke and dust against the burning city behind them. With a roaring charge, the Baron's men clashed with the guards. The jarring clanging of sword meeting sword rang out as the fighting began in earnest. With each breath tearing at his lungs, Yorrek knew that he would not be able to guide his men through the remainder of the battle.

He hoped that his men fought bravely as his breath weakened.

[hr]

Lord Orrin Goutfoot watched from atop his pony as the front of the Baron's army pressed in toward Castle Bathory. The dwarven lord was far behind Ulrek and the mercenaries at the front of the army, still stuck in the market square after the city's populace turned against the Baron's forces, several hundred paces away from the walls of the citadel. The mob had succeeded in separating the front of Ulrek's army from the rear, and from atop his pony, Goutfoot could see that the Baron was making no effort to try to rendezvous with the beleaguered rear forces. Ulrek's knights and men-at-arms tasked with defending Lord Goutfoot and his cannons had done a respectable job keeping the mob away from the dwarven cannon teams. Even so, Goutfoot's patience had run out.

"The Baron has abandoned us," spat Goutfoot, turning to a few of his dwarves in earshot. "I should have never followed him into the city. This is his battle to fight, not ours. Let's turn around and get out of the gates, I'm not loosing my cannons!"

"As you wish, Lord Goutfoot!" One of the dwarves affirmed, eager to try to escape this madness. "Turn the wagons around, boys, we're leaving!"

Lord Goutfoot guided his pony through the ring of men-at-arms around the cannons toward a mounted knight holding back a gaggle of men armed with tanning knives. The knight brought his sword down on the clavicle of one of the tanners, drew it, and lopped the head off another in a fluid motion.

"Ser knight!" Goutfoot called out, not knowing the knight's name. "We are falling back out of the city to regroup."

"The Baron gave us no such orders," the knight replied.

"The Baron has abandoned us, you boy!" Goutfoot chided. "Your Baron has left us to our fate. Are you going to continue to fight for him, knowing he wouldn't come to your aid?"

"I am not afraid of some enraged serfs," said the knight. "But I am afraid of what will happen to my kin if the Baron knows I deserted him."

"The Baron isn't leaving this place alive. Neither will we if we don't leave now. Help us leave this place."

The knight gave another glance at the castle, and then back at the city gate behind him.

"Retreat!" The knight cried out. "Fall back outside the city!" Horns rang out through the remainder of the Baron's forces, now slowly ceding ground against the surge of enraged citizens. Despite the fact that the majority of the Baron's remaining men were now falling back, the citizenry had no intention of allowing them to escape alive, and their assault remained just as vicious as ever.

Lord Goutfoot watched an old man ignite a grease-soaked table with a torch on a balcony overlooking the main thoroughfare, and threw the burning table down onto the soldiers below. Windblown embers erupted from where the table landed on the cobblestones, carrying on the wind throughout the dwarves and the Baron's men. On the roof of another house, a pair of boys had assembled jars and vases full of pitch. With a torch, they ignited rag wicks coiling down into the jar before casting them down on the retreating army. The jars splattered with with a spray of burning sludge, sticking onto the shields of retreating yeomen and men-at-arms. Embers scattered from each shattered vessel, whipping through the army. Goutfoot, however, noticed some of the sparks come dangerously close to one the wagons laden with firedust. The dwarven lord's eyes widened as the danger of the present situation manifested itself.

"Cover the wagons!" Goutfoot screamed. "COVER THE WAGONS!"

Goutfoot stumbled from his pony and barged through the men at arms pressed tight around the wagons bearing the cannons and their firedust propellant. The dwarf lord scrambled up onto the firedust wagon and frantically drew rolls of leather over the firedust barrels to protect them from errant embers. But the scrambling dwarf must have presented the boys up on the roof with an enticing target, and a well-thrown jar full of burning pitch burst upon the wheels of the wagon. Goutfoot had just enough time to watch an ardent droplet of burning pitch splash up onto a barrel full of firedust. The long, smoky tongues of flame licked at a patch of exposed firedust on the top of the barrel, and in the blink of an eye the world was consumed in a brilliant flash of orange fire.