Somewhat orderly formations marched forward until volleys of arrows shot out toward them. When the first few cultists fell to the arrows, their lines broke ranks into a wild charge at the fort.

Mark felt his conviction tested as he watched the blanketing army charging from all directions. They had killed many, but there were still thousands of cultists in this final force bearing down on them.

The arrows dropping men as they charged stirred the enemy into a frenzy, but they wouldn’t do much in the way of casualties. Not against an army of this size.

Pivoting from his spot on the wall, Mark didn’t know where to look. The cultists charged into the trench from all directions; their zealous fervor drove them, pushing them onward even as their comrades got stuck by wire and impaled on timber stakes.

The cultists that pushed in the same direction as the previous attacks moved the fastest since many corpses still lined the way, and soon, they were climbing up and out of the trenches.

Flaming arrows lit the last patches of Greek fire, and flames dotted the trenches, but several flaming cultists here or there were hardly enough to halt the attack.

Marching on, the enemy then met the flamethrowers as they burst into action, sending streams of fire across the lines of their enemies and dozens upon dozens into wailing retreat as they burned.

Several lines through the deathly traps and attacks were formed, leading toward the wall. Out of reach from the flamethrowers spitting fire, cultists charged down their new corridors carrying ladders. Cauldrons of boiling tar greeted the first to reach the wall, and they fell to the ground in screaming agony as the boiling liquid splashed across them, dropping the ladder. But the cultists behind them ignored the danger and continued the charge, picking the ladder up as several of them fell to arrows and pushing it up against the wall.

Already? Mark spotted the first cultists ascending the wall. He didn’t have time to think. They hadn’t done enough damage; it would be lost if the cultists took the wall this early in the battle. They were simply too greatly outnumbered.

Raising a palm toward the cultists, thunder crackled, and lightning shot out, blasting three of the cultists, two of which were already climbing over the wall.

With the attackers dead, two ferals from a nearby platform threw small vials of Greek fire at the ladder they had been given, setting them alight.

I need to get there. Mark realized. He couldn't sit back and watch from here; he needed to be at the outer wall, even if it increased the threat to his life.

“Imperator!” Acolytes called out as Mark jumped from the wall, sliding down one of the ladders and dashing across the Low District.

The wall was too long for him to defend every inch of it, but he would at least help the weakest sections, and if one enemy ladder had already reached this spot, he was sure another wouldn’t be far behind.

Climbing up one of the archery platforms beside the wall, he met his defenders with a nod and cast his view out toward their enemy. Another ladder was moving toward the wall, and Mark shot it down with a ruthless blast that blew the thing in two and killed several cultists.

There were more, but without a means to scale the wall, he realized that the section had been secured fairly well and turned to his left. Screams echoed out, and while he couldn’t see much from where he stood, it sounded as if the battle had reached his people.

“Hold the wall. Don’t slack for even a second,” Make yelled and descended the platform in seconds, bouncing into a run and charging for the next sign of an impending breach.

His eyes widened as he spotted several cultists battling against his people on their platforms beside the wall. Thankfully, there were a few mercenaries who had aided the archers in their defense and were engaged in the battle with them. Without them, the poorly trained ferals likely would have fallen already.

There was no need to help the capable warriors in the melee, so Mark climbed up an abandoned flamethrower platform that had run out of fuel, leaned over the side of the wall, and shot his lightning at the ladder they had climbed up, blowing it to pieces and sending several fried cultists falling to their deaths. Without reinforcements, he felt confident his people would finish the rest and turned to the next section of the wall.

Mark could feel his energy starting to wane, but at least he wasn’t overheating with his infernal suit. It was clear already that his power had taken an upgrade. Maybe his blasts of lightning themselves were not stronger, but they didn’t need to be. The limited nature of his suit had always been its weakness, and that had undoubtedly been improved.

Scaling back down from the platform, Mark charged across the Low District and then back up the first archery platform he spotted, panting when he reached the top.

A flamethrower nearby puttered out its last breaths of flame, covering half the trench with stubborn fires, but the cultists found a path through the fire toward them.

“Up here,” Mark yelled, and the mercenaries complied, climbing up from their separate platform and onto the one Mark stood on.

Firing again, he destroyed a ladder before it even reached them, sending the cultists carrying it into flight, two of them accidentally running into the flames and becoming human torches.

But instead of their reinforcements pushing on stubbornly as they had everywhere else, they turned and started to move toward their left.

They’re not going to keep attacking?

A horn sounded, and Mark swung toward his right.

They had a breach.

“Anyone good with a sword, follow me,” Mark roared, and the mercenaries and a few ferals followed him and climbed down from the platform.

Mark was surprised by the courage of their mercenary hires in battle, but then again, they were Imperials. They likely feared their enemies far more than the ferals within Fort Winterclaw.

As they ran, Mark called for any nearby soldiers not actively repelling the attacks to join, and soon, their numbers swelled to a few dozen. However, his eyes widened in horror as they reached the breach.

A dozen or so ferals aided by a couple of mercenaries were already being pushed back from the wall, where three ladders had been pushed up against it, and cultists were swarming over.

Charging toward them with his troops at his back, Mark shot at the cultist flank, sending several of their charred remains flying backward and forcing their formation to turn toward Mark and his charging reinforcements.

He fired once more as they neared, blowing apart several cultists only seconds before his men extended their spears and slammed into the enemy. The combined attacks sent their enemy reeling in disarray, many of their front liners dead and those remaining under attack from all sides.

Stumbling, Mark fell back, leaving his troops to clash into the melee. Falling to one knee, he heaved, trying to catch his breath and recover some energy.

More cultists were climbing over and into the fort, but at least the momentum on the ground had been altered, and many were climbing over just to enter a chaotic fray of battle and be cut down seconds later.

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A moment later, and to his relief, Mark spotted another group of reinforcements coming from the opposite direction, led by Henric and a couple of mercenaries. They wasted no time, charging straight into the fray, and once again, Henric’s skillful use of his blade was on display for any cultist unlucky enough to meet it.

At the rear came the robed Altono. The man had been told to remain within the Imperial District but had come out on his own accord and began healing wounded soldiers.

Mark’s face twisted in disbelief as men who looked to be on or near their deathbeds climbed back to their feet and regripped their weapons to reenter the melee.

Altono was already looking a little weary after healing a half dozen men. Still, Mark now understood how the Archbishopric could stand as a rival to the Imperium with powers like this.

“Save your powers,” Mark called out, halting the stumbling priest as he made his way to another wounded. It felt callous to condemn a man to his death potentially, but they needed some of that healing power in reserve. “Don’t exhaust all your power,” Mark said, staggering toward the healer. “We might need it.”

Altono wordlessly nodded, seemingly too tired to even give a proper response.

“You’ve done enough. Everybody counts, and you just bought us a few more. Now take some rest,” Mark said, patting the man on the shoulder as he reached him.

Bolts flew over them from acolytes taking positions on the inner walls, hitting cultists climbing over the wall and sending their bodies tumbling down upon the comrades who desperately fort off the enclosing wall of swords, axes, and spears that surrounded them.

We’re doing it, unbelievable. A smile tugged on Mark’s lips as he watched the crumbling attackers. Their reinforcements didn’t stop streaming into the action, but they had lost all momentum, and it had turned into a relentless killing field with new bodies becoming fodder for the slaughter.

But the reprieve didn’t last long. A runner from the other side of the wall came shouting at the top of his lungs, “Enemy breach!” repeatedly.

Forcing himself to his feet, Mark pulled some jerky from his coat and chewed it down without taking a breath, hoping it might help in his recovery.

“Henric!” He shouted as the battle began to die down. The cultists flowing over the wall had stopped, and the defenders cut down the last of the stragglers.

“Soldier,” Mark said, stumbling toward the defenders and pulling a man by his shoulder. “Make sure the enemy's ladders are destroyed.”

The greasy feral nodded and ran toward a platform beside the wall where a couple of archers still stood.

“The rest of you, we’re not finished,” Mark commanded

Stabbing a wounded man through the neck, Henric straightened and turned to the voice of his Imperator. It had been an exhausting battle.

“Atlas,” Henric said, wiping his face as he walked through the crowd of warriors finishing off the last of the squirming cultists.

“There you are, Henric,” Mark called back as he spotted the man pushing past a couple of others. “There’s another breach. We don’t have time to rest. Gather the men.”

“Of course there is,” Henric groaned. “You heard your Imperator,” he shouted. “Let’s move before those bastards get any closer to our necks.”

The men were weary but understood the implications of the cultists breaching the walls and followed the command.

Marching toward the breach, feral commoners—women and children mostly—fled from the fast-moving battle, heading toward the High District and inner walls carrying whatever they could.

As they got closer, they realized that the walls were taken, and a handful of ferals who put up a fight were killed as Mark led his soldiers toward the invader's position.

“We can’t, not here,” Mark halted the group.

“You’re right. We’ll be slaughtered on even ground. We need to fall back to the Inner walls,” Henric said.

“Wait, not quite,” Mark replied, ordering the troops into retreat with a wave of his hand. “The alley between the High District and the Imperial District runs between both walls, giving both sides an advantage over our position.”

“You can't seriously be suggesting we go there? It’s a dead end, Imperator.”

“I’m aware. But we need to stop them here. They won’t be able to attack us with more than three or four men at a time, and we will be able to rain down hell on them from both flanks. Let the enemy think we’re surrounded. If we can draw them into that death trap, maybe we can land a killing blow on their force.”

“And if we fail?”

“I thought you were prepared to die, Henric?”

“Damn it, fine,” Henric grunted. “At least I'll die against impossible odds.”

Lined up against a pocket that was formed between the two adjoining walls, the remaining defenders raised their shields in a defensive line as screaming cultists charged down the narrow alley between tightly packed cabins toward them.

Unlike the bows, when the acolyte crossbows shot out, they delivered deadly and decisive strikes, piercing straight through the enemy’s wooden shields and cutting them down.

Mark knew he didn’t have much energy but fired once at the charging enemy anyway, blasting a hole through their lines when they reached within a few yards of their raised spears.

Spears impaled the first cultists, and then Henric and a few of the most elite mercenaries at the front pushed into them from behind their round shields and stabbed out, cutting down the first cultists to engage in seconds.

Within minutes of the slaughter, the entire alley had been crowded by practically frothing cultists, seemingly having been driven into a mindless fury at the chance to kill Mark.

At his back, a rope was dropped from the walls, held by a couple of ferals. Mark looked up. He hadn’t planned on escaping this battle, but he couldn’t keep firing without energy, and standing at the back of his men, not doing anything, didn’t provide much value.

He glanced around once more at the furious battle and took hold of the rope, pulling himself up as others standing on the wall pulled the rope up. Within seconds, he was upon the wall.

“Keep helping the others,” he commanded, running for the nearest ladder.

"Imperator," Elwoen said, crossbow in her hands.

"No time," Mark barked. "And just keep shooting."

Rushing straight through the Imperial District, Mark charged onto the throne ship and straight into the cockpit. Shooting his hands into the controls, he jolted the ship upward, lifting the vehicle into the air, and swung it around toward the attackers. He wouldn’t climb high for this maneuver. He wanted his enemy to see him. To drive fear into their hearts.

Hovering above the chaotic melee, Mark turned the ship’s nose down to point at the cultists, drawing a reaction out of them as they looked up at the menacing ship, just in time to see the crackling flash of power spark out and burst through their ranks, killing dozens in seconds.

Mark aimed up a little and fired again, flinging a wave of his enemy’s soldiers through the air. The ship lurched as its energy ran dangerously low, but Mark ignored its warning and fired again, and with a flicker, the lights went out.

Screams sounded across the cultist army, not just because of the clumping men who were just fired but because the throne ship was falling down.

It had barely been a few yards above their heads, and the ship crashed down upon dozens of cultists, which softened its landing and crushed their bodies. Mark was lurched from side to side and flung from his chair, he was left groaning on the ground, but the ship also filled the alley, splitting the enemy’s force in two.

It didn’t take long for cultists to start climbing over the top of the metal construct, but Henric and his elites quickly cut down the confused and shaken warriors at the front.

Jumping down from the throne ship once they climbed it, more cultists charged to reinforce their allies, but for every cultist that made it over, another took a bolt from the acolytes atop the wall.

The battle reached a deathly crescendo as the cultists climbing over the throne ship thinned, with bodies littering every inch of the ground, some piled atop one another.

Finally gaining the strength to stand, Mark pushed himself up. The ship was still dead of energy, and nothing happened when he slapped the button to open the hatch.

I’m stuck, aren’t I? Mark groaned. He wanted to be out there helping his allies. Not that it mattered; Henric had pushed the last of their attackers up against the throne ship, and he and his exhausted men cut them down.

With their forces split, hundreds of scattered cultists began to pillage the Low District. Squads of ferals and Imperials alike were sent from the inner walls on hunting missions, and battles continued in minor skirmishes across the fort.

**Callum**

Panting, Callum pushed his tired body on, knocking the shield away from the injured cultist and driving his sword through the man’s chest. It was his eleventh kill, and every muscle ached.

“So many,” he wiped his brow as he watched several cultists setting a cabin alight. He had come with a small group to finish off the remainder of their enemy’s force, but they had fallen in the series of skirmishes they had fought.

He could barely hold his sword up and was outnumbered six to one, but he couldn’t just sit back and watch as the fort was set ablaze. Even if they had won this battle, what chance would they have at surviving the wargs if the fort was destroyed?

Come on, you worked hard for this. This is what it means to be a warrior. It's time to prove yourself.

Callum bit down and charged, screaming a battle cry in a desperate attempt to motivate himself.

But his jaw slackened when he was almost within reach of his enemy. Who are they?

Broad, muscle-toned warriors with faces of stone charged into the fort. Their figures were similar to men's, but he knew they weren’t just because of their size. No human was capable of that kind of speed and strength, and they cut through cultists as if they were animals for the slaughter.

One man, a visage of stone, reached the six cultists before they set the cabin aflame, and with several swift movements, he danced through their numbers with inhuman precision, cutting their bodies into ribbons of flesh with his axe, passing through bone and flesh as if it were butter.

Lip trembling, Callum’s slack-jawed mouth mumbled as the man turned his bent brow on him. He remembered stories from his childhood. The type that was told by drunk men trying to scare children in the tavern:

“Trolls.”