Trinton heard an earth shattering roar as he made for the gate, and turned to see a horrific monstrosity in the form of a massive barbarian surge into his men. Bloodied screams took to the air, as the spear wall folded, and the giant's comrades drove forwards into the breaches. He'd left his men for five seconds, and already his absence was wrecking Rivergate's chances of survival. Realising that the gate's mechanisms would have to be left to whoever was there to do something about them, he trotted back towards the melee.
Casually, he raised his whistle to his lip, and fired shrieks into the air repeatedly. Again and again, he emptied the contents of his lungs into the now-moist mouth piece. Exhausted from the fighting, as he was, the weight of his armour was heavy on his shoulders, but a cool summer breeze revived him as it washed over his exposed perspiring face.
"To me, to me!" He shouted. Soldiers who had been descending from the eastern and western wall, and the south eastern and south western towers, ran towards him. He was the only captain in Rivergate's roster, Lord Polvark's second in command in the grand scheme of things. His word was practically the Emperor's. "Rally to me!"
Ten, then twenty, then fifty, and then eighty miss-matched men-at-arms, peasant militia and disgraced legionnaires assembled behind him. He cast down his hatchet, exchanging it for a longsword and a towershield brought forwards by one of Rivergate's quartermasters. A young squire bearing the coat-of-arms Trinton did not recognised, presented him with a simple skull cap and a damp rag. He used the rag to wipe the vomit from his face, and then planted the bowl-shaped helmet on his head. The screams of the faltering defenders at the gate reached their peak, and Trinton Ironspike, loyal Captain of the Empire, and stalwart defender of the Emperor's claims, pointed his sword towards the throng of bodies.
"For the Emperor!"
The Imperial defenders stormed onto the flanks of the barbarians from the east - reinforcing the bulging line, and then forcing it backwards.
"Cut them off, cut through them!" Shouted Trinton, blasting his whistle between words. "Make safe the gateway!"
The Captain and his men cut a bloody swathe through the barbarians, slicing through the narrowest part of the choke point. One of the savages swung a mace at him, but he easily caught it with his shield, sprung his knees forwards and struck the man in the neck with his sword point. Not stopping to admire his prowess, he barged the barbarian out of the way with his shield, and hacked at the arm of another as he stood strangling one of the Emperor's men. His abrupt plan was working, if they could secure the gateway with sturdy shields and iron hearts, then the savages caught in the courtyard would be cut off and dealt with.
A double bladed lance caught Trinton across the face, gorging his left cheek and gauging his eye. The force of the attack sent the man spinning on the spot, and he fell to his knees. His vision had halved, and what remained was a reddish haze. His face was on fire, as if someone had thrown boiling water on it.
"On your feet, little Iron Man," grumbled a deep voice behind him in broken common tongue.
Trinton, despite his grievous injury, stood and turned. He looked up at the gigantic monster before him, and not for the first time that day, his heart sunk to his stomach. Even with both eyes, and twenty years taken off him, this opponent was well beyond his skill. Still, if Trinton was anything, it was that he was the Emperor's man, one who would not cower, and one who would do his duty to his dying breath. Besides, he was old, and his busted knee was driving him to an undignified retirement.
"Alright, you tall bastard, let's have at yer!" He shouted, and ran forwards.
The lance swept at him, and he raised his shield - not that it did him much good. He stumbled wildly to the left with the weapon's impact, and he was barely able to recover as it came at him again. He brought his sword up to meet it, but the weapon shattered at the hilt and a spectacular display of shimmering metal shards. There was nothing for it. Trinton ran forwards with everything his troublesome knee would give, and held his shield in front of his mass. He collided with his enemy, throwing his weight into the attack, but the hulking giant barely moved. Trinton looked up at snarling teeth.
The line of bodies felt soft as he hit them, but the ground was as unforgivably hard as he struck it and rolled several feet. A pain seared his chest, and he knew a rib or two had been cracked. Struggling to his feet, he drew his dagger, and pointed it limply towards his doom. If Trinton Ironspike was to die, then it would be fighting - not cowering, no, never cowering.
"Again," he wheezed, spitting a blood through broken teeth. He stalked forwards, preparing to strike low even as his opponent brought down that dreaded lance from above.
"It is time," said Lord Jacques Polvark calmly. "We go to the gate."
"Right you are my Lord," replied Polvark's Seargeant-At-Arms. "Alright men, it's time to get into this war!"
The sergeant's words were met with enthusiastic cheers from Polvark's personal guard - a hundred strong assortment of hardened warriors. Together, they turned from the keep's crenelations, and started to descend the stairs that would take them to the courtyard. Lord Polvark was at their head - a tall man, in beautiful ornate steel, flanked by a billowing blue cape and grasping the regal sceptre of his House. He was not a stupid man, as he no doubt suspected the defenders often thought him. Quite the opposite, he was a thinker. His men were the best of the best, as far as Rivergate went, and he was not about to waste them so early in the fight.
"How long since you sent the runner?" He asked to his sergeant.
"Six hours ago sir. Bastion La Tour de Garde should have received news by now, and surely, Lord Grimhelm is on his way," replied the sergeant gleefully.
"We can but hope," said Lord Polvark.
