Nerum leaped from the battlements.
One powerful flap of his wings sent him soaring upward. He did not pause in the air but pressed on, gliding north until he reached the battlements on that side. There he hovered for a moment, wings half-raised.
A faint glow kindled at their tips—the light of manifestation. Not bright enough to burn the fog away, only a small, steady radiance.
Even through the mist it was unmistakable: a vivid yellow sphere bloomed at the edge of one wing. Nerum lifted it higher.
A Muwa winged soldier perched along the wall caught the signal. He raised his own wings. The same yellow light answered, gathering into a perfect orb at the wingtip before rising.
The next winged soldier took it up.
Then the next.
One by one the glowing spheres appeared along the battlements, traveling north in a clean, unbroken line. The signal raced from one end of the north wall to the other.
Mau's eyes followed the chain of lights. They floated above the fog like a string of lanterns.
For a heartbeat the wall fell silent.
The quiet did not last.
From somewhere beneath the battlements, deep inside the fog, came the sound of logs rolling across stone—heavy, dull, unstoppable. The noise did not rise from a single point. It rolled along the wall in several places at once: thud, rumble, thud, rumble, as though something massive were being shoved down the slope toward the moat.
Splash.
Something struck the water.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
All at once, from multiple spots.
Mau leaned far over the parapet. Nothing but fog.
Barkh hooked his thick arms across the stone and stared down, eyes narrowed.
Then the fog below the wall flared bright.
Fire.
Crimson flames erupted beneath the battlements, shoving the white mist aside. The orange glow was sharp and clear even through the haze. From a single point the fire stretched into long, flickering lines that broke and rejoined, snaking along the moat. The flames overlapped and thickened, racing left and right without end.
A river of fire poured along the moat. Wherever it passed, the fog curled back as though scorched. Heat rose in waves, lifting the mist; slowly the water's surface began to appear.
Mau's eyes widened.
Another oak barrel rolled down the slope and plunged into the burning moat. It shattered on impact; oil spilled across the water and the flames swallowed it greedily.
More barrels fell from other points along the wall. Each one fed the blaze.
Below, Duraha's soldiers were visible now—shoving the heavy barrels down the incline. The barrels were stout oak, narrow at the ends and bulging in the middle, perfectly shaped to roll under their own weight once started. Lids sealed them tight, each one filled to the brim with oil. When the soldiers tipped them, the barrels tumbled straight down the slope and into the moat.
The impact burst the lids or split the wood. Oil surged out, floating on the surface, refusing to sink. The moat was fed by slow-moving water drawn from the Nauulaat River through stone channels, so the current carried the oil onward. One barrel's spill merged with the next, spreading steadily across the entire width of the moat.
The flames followed, devouring the surface. Heat climbed. The white shroud that had hidden the moat peeled away before the firelight.
The blaze ran unbroken beneath the north wall, turning the whole moat into a single glowing river. From above it looked as though liquid fire itself flowed with the current—orange ribbons sliding over the water, bright and alive.
The firelight reached the far bank and the base of the forest, picking out the dark trunks of trees.
And between them—movement.
The flickering glow dragged shapes out of the mist.
Torches wavered in the forest, answering the fire on the moat. What had been hidden was suddenly, brutally clear.
Orcs.
Not a handful. The entire stretch from the forest's edge to the lip of the moat was packed solid with them. Wherever the light touched, orcs filled the ground. No gaps. Row after row stood behind the first, and more behind those. The mass stretched on until the eye could no longer measure it.
The land beyond the moat had become a living carpet of orcs.
A low roar rose from them—boots striking earth, metal clashing, the heavy snorts of beasts. The whole forest seemed to breathe that sound.
Torches bloomed among the trees: one, two, ten, twenty—more and more, flickering between trunks, reaching deep into the woods. The entire forest was alive with orcs.
Minotaurs stood among them, thick-horned, shoulders like boulders.
Barkh's voice dropped.
"Warchief Korr."
Korr said nothing. He leaned against the parapet, eyes sweeping the far side of the moat.
"By setting the moat on fire we burned the fog away."
Korr said quietly.
"Now everything is plain to see."
The ground around the moat had been laid bare.
And in the water itself—massive shapes half-submerged, only heads and arms above the surface.
Scrags.
Several of them, spaced along the moat.
Iron chains circled their necks, the other ends bolted to heavy stakes driven into the bank. The chains were long enough to let the creatures move within a limited range.
Their mottled green skin was covered in sores. Long necks curved forward; arms and fingers dangled like ropes.
In their hands they clutched crude bundles of wood—thick logs and thin branches lashed together with rough rope, bark still clinging to them.
Orcs and minotaurs had cut the timber in the forest and hurled it across the moat. The scrags caught the bundles and shoved them underwater, piling them on the bottom.
One scrag bent, scooped double handfuls of mud from the bed, and jammed it between the logs. Another did the same. Log, mud, log—layer after layer until the piles broke the surface and formed crude bridges.
Makeshift causeways rose in several places. The logs were crooked, gaps showing between them, the whole structure clumsy and unstable.
The river of fire reached them.
Oil-soaked flames raced across the water and licked the dry wood above the surface. Branches caught instantly. Smoke billowed.
The scrags began to scream.
One at the edge, still shoving a fresh bundle forward, saw flames crawl across the back of its hand and dropped the wood with a howl. It plunged deeper into the water, then burst up again, gasping.
The surface was burning. Oil floated everywhere.
The creature dove once more. Its chain snapped taut, choking it. It thrashed upward, arms aflame, slapping at the water. The fire would not die.
Screams tore along the moat as the flames spread. Scrags writhed, dove, yanked at their chains, kicked up burning water. Their struggles churned the moat into foam and spray.
From the far bank the orcs bellowed—raw, thick voices, impossible to tell whether they were orders or fury.
Arrows hissed through the air. A scrag clawing up the bank took a spear in the back. Another, whose stake had torn free, tried to flee; a second spear from the trees punched through its side.
Still the orcs kept throwing logs. Bundles and whole trunks crashed into the moat from every direction. They hurled more onto the burning bridges, then scooped mud and flung it, trying desperately to smother the flames.
And then the orcs charged.
They poured onto the makeshift bridges, shoving and jostling, shields slung across their backs, heads lowered. Others lifted shields in front as they ran.
The log causeways groaned and creaked under the weight. Flames licked the edges.
One bridge tilted. The lead orc stepped into fire, lost his balance, and plunged into the moat. The next orc twisted aside, leaped across the gap, and kept running. Branches snapped; the whole structure shifted, but the orcs never slowed. When one fell, the next simply filled the space. From the forest behind them, more orcs streamed forward without end.
Minotaurs waded straight into the water beside the bridges. Their huge bodies pushed through burning oil and floating timber. Flames clung to their hides, yet they did not break stride. More minotaurs followed, cutting through fire and water, driving toward the wall.
Orcs who had already crossed reached the slope beneath the battlements. Some hoisted ladders; others whirled hooked ropes above their heads, building momentum.
The Dawi soldiers packed the parapet shoulder to shoulder.
Korr's voice rang out, calm and heavy with command.
"Throw."
Barkh already held a spear. He leaned out, took aim at the firelit mass below, and hurled it.
Mau threw as well—arm shaking, aim uncertain, but he put every ounce of strength into the cast.
All along the wall the Dawi leaned forward and unleashed a storm of spears and arrows. The shafts hissed downward through the firelight.
Korr remained leaning on the parapet, eyes on the horde.
The river of fire still flowed. Beyond the moat, from one end of the forest to the other, countless orcs waited their turn. More ran across the bridges; more minotaurs waded through the flames.
Korr turned his head toward the soldiers lined along the battlements.
"Since the bastards have set foot on our land—Damu and the Tharn Forest…"
His voice was low, steady, final.
"…they will not leave it alive."