The river of fire atop the moat refused to die.
Oil coated the water's surface and burned fiercely, the flames swallowing the entire ditch and lighting up everything around it. The heat pushed the mist aside, revealing the ground beneath the battlements—sodden earth and clinging mud, the moat gleaming with fire, and the land beyond.
On the far side, where the forest met the open ground, a solid mass of orcs pressed forward. They spilled from the trees like a black tide rolling toward the water.
The orcs never slowed.
Fascines had been thrown across the moat to form a makeshift bridge—bundles of logs and branches lashed together and stacked until they half-sank into the burning surface. The oil-soaked timber blazed without end, and onto that unsteady causeway climbed orcs and Minotaurs. The bridge shuddered under their weight. Water and flame sprayed upward with every step.
The Minotaurs crossed first.
Their enormous bodies stepped onto the piled logs, driving the half-submerged bridge deeper. Burning water rose to their waists. Each hoof crushed flaming bundles, flinging mud and sparks into the air. The structure rocked and settled lower, yet it held as thick legs drove forward through the inferno.
Flames licked and danced around the fascine bridge.
Beneath the surface, logs groaned and shifted. Underfoot, the muddy bottom sucked and squelched.
Harsh, guttural breaths cut through the fire in time with their strides. One after another. Orcs and Minotaurs poured onto the crossing without pause. The bridge burned and sank, but it did not break.
Across the river of fire, the invaders kept coming in an unbroken flood.
*****
From the battlements came the voice of a Dawi.
Korr's voice rolled along the wall.
The Dawi archers lined along the parapet drew their bows in unison until the staves bent to their limits. Arrowheads aimed straight at the orcs pouring across the moat.
"Now." Korr said.
"Loose!"
Bowstrings snapped.
Hundreds of arrows flew at once, darkening the sky before they plunged downward.
The front ranks of orcs crumpled as shafts struck home, dozens falling in a single heartbeat. The warriors behind simply trampled the fallen and kept running. Arrows jutted from backs and shoulders; bodies piled atop the fascine bridge.
A second volley followed before the first had even finished falling. The Dawi archers were already nocking fresh arrows.
Shafts rained into the middle of the bridge.
Orcs running along the narrow crossing stumbled and toppled over the edges, plunging into the burning water. They thrashed and screamed as flames clung to them.
The bridge listed. Orcs fighting for balance tangled together while arrows and thrown spears punched through them. Still the forest beyond the moat kept vomiting more orcs. When one lane clogged, they simply flowed around the bodies, the next warrior filling every gap without hesitation.
Behind them came the heavy orcs in plate.
These were different from the rest. Thick steel plates layered over their chests, each plate riveted to the next. Prominent iron pauldrons jutted from their shoulders. Gauntlets reinforced with heavy leather covered their forearms to the seams. Their helms came down low, shielding forehead and cheekbones, leaving only narrow slits for their eyes. Their shields were broad enough to cover an orc's entire torso and then some, faced with additional steel plating.
Arrows hissed down from the wall.
The armored orcs raised their shields. Shafts thudded into wood and steel, some splintering, others ricocheting away. One lucky arrow found the gap at a gorget and punched through an orc's throat. The others simply closed ranks, shields overlapping, and kept advancing behind a moving wall of iron.
*****
At the forest's edge, a clearing had been hacked out of the trees.
Stumps bristled across the ground. Branches lay tangled where they had fallen, and orcs trampled over them as they worked. There, the orc siege engines stood ready.
Catapults.
Thick wooden frames lashed together, crossbeams heavy enough to take the strain. At the end of each long arm hung a thick leather sling. At the opposite end, a massive wooden tub filled with stones served as the counterweight, bound tight with rope.
Teams of orcs hauled on the ropes. The counterweight rose, the long arm bent downward, and the sling dipped toward the ground.
When the arm was fully cocked and locked, the orcs loaded the sling. The stones were jagged, unshaped boulders—each one so heavy it took two orcs to lift it into place.
One orc sprinted forward and hacked the release rope with an axe.
The arm whipped upward.
The sling described a perfect arc and snapped open at the top of its swing. The boulder flew free.
It spun through the air toward Damu's wall with a low, heavy whistle.
The sound reached the battlements first—deep, blunt, unstoppable.
A Dawi soldier hugging the parapet heard it and started to raise his shield, but he was already too late.
The boulder smashed straight into the crenellation. Stone exploded. Shards sprayed outward. The shockwave rippled along the entire wall. The soldiers beside the impact point were hurled to the ground by the blast and flying debris.
The orcs had not brought just one catapult.
Four of them stood spaced along the tree line.
Orcs cranked, loaded, and fired in sequence—sometimes all at once. Stones flew one after another, or in sudden salvos, arcing toward the battlements.
A boulder struck the walkway and rolled, tripping a running Dawi and sending him sprawling. Another smashed into a wooden hoardings. Splintered timbers crashed down onto a Muwa winged soldier below.
The moat still burned, turning the ditch into a river of fire. Bright orange-red light washed upward across the wall.
Hot wind rose from the flames, dragging thick smoke with it. The smoke rolled over the battlements, blanketing everything.
Inside that choking haze, the catapult stones kept coming. Direction and sound were swallowed by the smoke; there was no warning.
Dawi soldiers crouched behind their shields, then rose to hurl spears or shove ladders away. Elsewhere they hacked at the ropes of grappling hooks that kept hooking the parapet. Everywhere they moved at a desperate run.
Wherever a stone landed, Dawi fell.
Grappling hooks flew up from below in steady streams, iron claws biting into stone. Ropes dangled like spider silk.
Then the catapults switched their loads—buckets of broken stone and gravel were poured into the slings. The projectiles burst apart in mid-air and sprayed across the wall like hail.
Stones rattled off helmets, cracked faces, punched into arms and throats. A soldier who had dared lift his head toppled backward. Another clutched at his eyes and dropped to his knees.
Muwa winged soldiers trying to take flight were caught in the storm. Jagged fragments punched through outstretched wings. Feathers and blood scattered. Wings folded. The soldiers faltered, lost height, and spiraled helplessly downward.
Dawi racing to cut ropes or push ladders staggered and fell where they stood. Some made it only a few steps before a stone took them.
After each barrage, the wall was left pocked with empty spaces. Shouts rang out to close the gaps.
Below, the orcs were already climbing again—more hooks, more ropes, more ladders slammed against the stone. The first orc to crest a ladder thrust his head over the parapet and took a spear through the face. He dropped away, but another was already scrambling up behind him, and another behind that.
Between Damu's wall and the river of fire, the battle ground on without pause.
*****
Down on the narrow strip of ground between moat and wall, a different fight raged.
Warchief Duraha walked among the orcs who had already crossed.
He wore lamellar armor—steel plates laced tightly together, covering him from shoulder to forearm, chest to thigh, with no gaps. Orc blood spattered the plates in dark streaks.
A long, reddish-brown mane spilled from beneath his helm. A jagged scar ran from his right eyebrow all the way to his left jaw.
In his hands he carried a massive greatsword.
The blade was broad and thick, the edges blunt and squared. From pommel to tip it was longer than Duraha was tall.
He gripped the hilt with both hands and swung the sword up and over his right shoulder, laying the flat against his back. The pommel rested behind his shoulder; the tip nearly brushed the ground behind his left heel. With every step the sword swayed, its point almost scraping the mud.
Duraha broke into a run.
An orc ahead raised a shield. Duraha twisted at the waist as he charged, driving the greatsword in a huge diagonal arc from high right to low left.
A low grunt tore from his throat.
The blade came down. The shield split in two. The orc's left arm flew away with it. The warrior collapsed.
The orcs around him took a step back.
Duraha did not stop.
Still in the follow-through, he bent his knees and shifted his weight onto his right foot. He hauled the sword back up in a wide, powerful sweep, both arms crossing his body. When the blade reached chest height he pivoted toward the next orc rushing in from the right.
His shoulder slammed into the orc's torso first. The short, heavy charge knocked the warrior off balance. Before the orc could recover, Duraha planted his right foot and lifted the greatsword straight overhead.
For half a heartbeat he held it there, point to the sky.
Then the roar came.
"HRAAAAAGH!"
The sword dropped like a falling tree. The entire weight of the blade and Duraha's strength drove straight down through the orc's helmet. Steel and bone parted. The body split cleanly down the middle and folded to the ground on either side.
The sword tip sank into the mud. The impact jolted up through the hilt into Duraha's shoulders. He twisted his wrists and wrenched the blade free.
Behind him came the Dawi.
Six of them, armed with halberds—long shafts tipped with axe blade and spear point. They wore thick leather and layered steel cuirasses. They followed close on Duraha's heels, moving along the base of the wall.
"I'll take the front." Duraha growled. "Keep up."
"Understood, Warchief!"
The six answered as one. Their halberds slanted forward.
An orc lunged at Duraha's flank. The nearest Dawi drove a spear point through its side. Another Dawi pivoted and buried the axe blade in a second orc's ribs as it tried to climb the wall's slope. A third thrust his halberd into a gap in an orc's armor; when the orc grabbed the shaft and pulled, two more Dawi closed in and hacked the arm away with axe heads.
Duraha kept moving along the wall.
He passed beneath a ladder crawling with orcs and swept the greatsword in a wide horizontal cut. The blade sheared through the wooden rungs. The lower half of the ladder dropped away. The upper section tore free and fell, orcs tumbling with it.
"Damn it." Duraha muttered, eyes narrowed.
"They've brought plenty."
Orcs were swarming up the wall's slope now. Ladders multiplied—three, four, more every moment. Fresh warriors kept pouring across the burning moat. The flames raged, but they could not hold the tide back.