The wind howled through the ravines as the Stormguard and their companions marched beneath pine and frost. The path narrowed into stone-clawed trails, and ahead, the cliffs rose, sharp and gray against the sky. This was the land of the Skarnulf.
When they emerged from the killing fields near Cliffvale, Stormwake was the last to follow.
As they traveled deeper into the highlands, Stormwake rode silently. He turned to Altan and spoke in a low tone.
"The task has been done, and I sent word," he whispered. "To the Black Vein. It will be passed to Warden Kael."
Altan nodded.
By the time they reached the outer watchfires, word had already passed ahead. Bruga's return, alongside foreign companions, stirred the warriors at the gate. The advance guard saluted as Bruga approached.
"Bruga of the Ashhowl," one called, thudding a fist to his chest. "Your father and brothers await in the hearthhold."
Bruga nodded. "I bring guests."
The gates opened. What awaited them beyond was no simple hall, it was a fortress hewn from mountain stone. The main clanhouse loomed like a black crown of cliffs, its walls streaked with iron seams and firelight flickering in carved wolf-maws.
Inside, the elders stood. And at the center, Bruga's father, a towering figure clad in iron-dyed fur, ember-forged pauldrons braced across his shoulders, and a great beard streaked with ash and gray. Behind him stood Bruga's two brothers: Vargan, broad-shouldered and sardonic, and Hjald, taller, quieter, with cold eyes.
"Why have you come?" the father asked, his voice a weight of stone.
Before Altan could answer, a messenger stumbled into the hall, bloodied, gasping. "Orcs... goblins... from the frozen sea. They've breached the northern border. Thousands."
The father's expression didn't change. He only said, "We will talk after the battle. Come, if your blood is strong enough."
By dawn, the army had reached the borderlands.
The borderlands were a snow-laced plain, flanked by black pines. Mist clung to the edges of the forest. In the distance, the goblin and orc horde massed like a stormcloud, over five thousand strong. At their head, emerging from the haze, strode a towering orc lord, eight feet tall, flanked by shamans with tusks painted in blood and elite guards in boneplate armor.
Bruga's father narrowed his eyes. "Orc shamans. This will be difficult."
Only 2,500 Skarnulf warriors had been gathered in time, summoned by warhorn and flame. Too few. The attack had come swift as a winter flood.
Stormwake's hawk launched again, circling high. When it returned, it screeched low over his head. Stormwake turned to Altan. "There are hidden movements in the treelines, left and right. Two more bands, waiting to flank us."
Altan nodded. He turned to Bruga. "Tell your father."
Bruga reported swiftly. His father responded with only a nod toward Altan. "Good eyes," he said. "Then this is what we do."
He pointed to the ridgeline.
"When the battle starts, you will lead five hundred to the right. Clear the trees. Root them out. Can you do it?"
Altan didn't hesitate. "Two hundred will be enough."
That drew a brief smirk from Bruga's father, amused but silent. He nodded once, then turned to Bruga.
"You take your brother Hjald. Lead another five hundred to the left treeline. Burn it if you must. Do not let them encircle us."
Bruga nodded.
The warriors formed up, shields rising, steel ringing through the cold.
Bruga stood beside Hjald, his armor already steaming with latent heat, Pyrebite in hand.
His brother Vargan stood nearby, adjusting the grip of his stonemaul. "Let's have a bet," he said with a grin. "Whoever kills more orcs or goblins wins your armor."
Bruga raised an eyebrow. "And what do I get in return?"
Vargan smirked. "My hunting horn. The carved one. The last gift from father."
Bruga considered, then clasped his brother's wrist. "Deal."
They turned to the front.
The mist parted. The orc lord raised a jagged glaive and roared.
And the battlefield trembled.
The clans didn't wait. At a signal from Bruga's father, a warhorn blew, long and deep. The warriors began to march, first a walk, then a brisk stride, then a jog that built into a charge.
Across the field, the orcs began their own charge. Goblins surged forward in chaotic waves, shrieking as they met the Skarnulf shieldwall.
Bruga's father led from the center, his great axe in hand, elite clansmen flanking him like the jaws of a wolf.
The clash came like thunder.
The front lines erupted in blood and screams. Goblins hurled themselves at the shields, stabbing with crude blades and rusted spears. The Skarnulf met them with axes and hammers, crushing bones, splitting skulls, tearing limbs from sockets. Frost-coated blades sheared through green flesh. Screams filled the morning air.
A goblin leapt, only to be caught mid-air by a clansman's spear, skewered and slammed into the snow. Another had its head caved in by a hammer, blood splattering across the warrior's face. Bruga's father swung his great axe in arcs that sent bodies flying, one blow cleaving three goblins in half, the next breaking through an orc's breastplate with a burst of bone and flame.
The elite clansmen fought like wolves in a frenzy, biting, howling, slamming their shields into skulls before driving axes into the exposed throats. Snow turned red. Steam rose from spilled entrails. And through it all, the howls of the Skarnulf echoed.
The center held, but barely. The flanks had already moved, but their fate was unknown. The front braced for another surge.
Then the mist shifted again.
From the fog behind the collapsing orc horde, five shapes emerged, giants, twisted and troll-born. Towering beasts with leader-skin stretched over warped muscle and bone, clad in jagged stone armor and wielding tree-trunk weapons wrapped in iron bands.
The trolls stomped forward, the earth shaking with each step. They slammed into the center of the Skarnulf line, sending warriors flying, smashing shields like driftwood.
Bruga's father stood at the center and cursed. His eyes narrowed as the line buckled under the weight of the troll charge. Blood sprayed. Bones cracked.
One troll grabbed a clansman, bit off half his torso, and hurled the twitching remains into another rank. Another smashed three warriors into the ground with a single sweep of its club, the impact turning snow into a crater of gore. A third troll swung blindly through the ranks, its tree-trunk mace catching a shield wall mid-formation, crushing spines, helmets, and splitting a body in two.
A warrior screamed as a troll stomped down, booting him waist-deep into the frozen earth before grinding him into paste. Another troll swept its hand like a scythe, launching two screaming warriors through the air like broken dolls. Snow turned redder. The line staggered.
Bruga's father growled beneath his breath, his voice grim and edged.
"I hope the flanks are cleared," he muttered. "Or this will be a losing battle."