The host of knights burst forth from the temple, their boots pounding against ancient stone as they descended the broad steps with purpose. At their head charged Ulric, sword drawn, his cloak billowing in the wind.

  Outside, upon the dark earth, a horde awaited—Orcs and other foul creatures, hulking and snarling, their breath steaming in the chill air. They hissed and howled as they caught sight of the onrushing warriors, scrambling into crude formations, their guttural cries rising into the night to shake mortal hearts.

  “It’s been too long since I’ve tasted man-flesh!” bellowed one—a massive red Orc clad in blackened mail, hefting a heavy spear and jagged shield. It loomed ahead of its kin, confident and cruel.

  But before the brute could finish its boast, an arrow whistled through the dark and struck the gap in its neck-guard. It gurgled once and fell.

  “And today will not be the day,” declared Gil’Galion, his voice like silver and steel. “Astur ed gevannar!”

  Before the body had even struck the ground, another arrow sang from his bow.

  With a roar, the knights crashed into the enemy line. Baronsworth, Karl, and Fredrick fought beside Ulric at the fore. Steel met flesh, and the clash resounded across the ruined courtyard. The defenders carved through the Orc ranks with disciplined fury—a whirlwind of shields, blades, and righteous fire.

  “Fight! Cut them all down!” Ulric roared, his sword flashing in a deadly rhythm.

  The Orcs fought with savage ferocity, but they were no match for the tempered might of the Knights of the Flame and their hardened companions. Within minutes, the ground was strewn with corpses—hundreds of wretches, lifeless and broken. The few who survived turned and fled, wailing into the mist.

  “Well, that was easy,” Ulric muttered, wrenching his bloodied blade free.

  “Too easy,” Karl said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Agreed,” Baronsworth answered grimly. “These creatures offered too little resistance. Something’s wrong.”

  Even as he spoke, Gil’Galion—his keen eyes fixed on the distance—raised a hand.

  “Be ready. A second wave approaches—larger this time.”

  “This was merely a scouting party,” Fredrick growled, tightening his grip.

  From far below the steps, the dreadful sound of war drums began to rise—slow, thunderous beats, like the pounding of a giant’s heart. The ground trembled. From the roiling mist surged a horde far greater than before: hundreds, perhaps thousands, racing madly toward the temple, shrieking and snarling like beasts unchained.

  “Shield wall, men!” Ulric bellowed, his voice cutting through the storm. “Protect the temple at all costs!”

  At once, the Knights of the Flame obeyed. Shields locked, spears braced, they formed a living wall at the top of the stairs—a bulwark of faith and steel. Behind them stood the others, blades drawn, eyes fixed upon the dark tide rushing forward.

  Then a terrible voice rose from the ranks of the enemy—a voice like gravel and rot, thick with malice.

  “The hour of your doom is at hand!”

  Baronsworth seized a heavy shield from the fallen Orc captain at his feet—its iron face slick with blood—and ran to the line. Karl and Fredrick flanked him, taking their places beside the Knights of the Flame. Together, they braced for the coming impact.

  The Orcs surged forward, crashing into the wall with bone-jarring force—snarling, roaring, hacking with crude blades. Yet the line held. Shields ground against shields; boots dug into stone; and the defenders fought back with grim resolve.

  Baronsworth cleaved through his foes with mighty swings of his longsword, each blow felling another beast. Karl, cool and disciplined, thrust his spear over his shield in precise arcs, piercing throats and chests with mechanical grace. Fredrick, eyes alight with holy wrath, matched them both in fury—his blade flashing in the chaos, cutting down every Orc that dared draw near.

  Soon the temple steps were slick with blood and strewn with corpses, but still the enemy poured forth.

  “Stand your ground! Don’t give them an inch!” Ulric roared, his voice ringing above the din of war.

  The shield wall remained firm—unyielding, unbroken. Though vastly outnumbered, the defenders held the high ground, fighting as one. But all knew: if the line broke, even for a heartbeat, they would be swallowed by the tide.

  Behind them, Gil’Galion moved through the chaos like wind through trees. His bow sang again and again, each arrow finding its mark. With keen eyes he sought the weak points in the line and loosed his shafts to ease the pressure.

  “Your bow strikes true today, Gil’Galion!” Karl called, moments after the Elf felled an Orc clinging to his tower shield.

  “Blessed are we to fight beside a mighty Elf prince!” Fredrick cried, blood and sweat streaking his brow.

  Still the enemy came. The dead rolled down the steps in waves, but their kin clambered over the bodies without pause. The air was thick with blood, smoke, and the cries of the dying—an endless cacophony of terror.

  Gil’Galion’s final arrow sang through the air and vanished into an Orc’s throat. He reached for another—and found none.

  “Cursed creatures!” he cried. “My quiver is empty, yet their horde swells still!”

  “Then take up a shield!” Baronsworth shouted. “Stand with us before we are overrun!”

  Two knights fell, struck down in the blink of an eye. Seeing the breach, Gil’Galion cast aside his bow and drew his blade—a curved sword of Athelian steel, etched with runes, gleaming with deadly grace. Snatching up a fallen knight’s shield, he dashed forward to fill the gap.

  With a cry in his tongue—sharp and melodic—he joined the line. His sword flashed faster than sight, a blur of brilliance and blood. Orcs fell headless at his feet, their bodies tumbling into the ranks below. His Elven grace was terrible to behold—beauty turned to wrath.

  But even Gil’Galion’s fury could not stem the tide.

  The shield wall wavered. More knights fell—some dragged screaming into the enemy mass, others crumpling where they stood. The line thinned. The gaps widened.

  And still the horde came on.

  Baronsworth’s blood surged. A crimson haze filled his sight; the roar of battle dimmed to a steady pulse. Heat rose in his chest—his old battle-fury, the curse and gift of his line.

  “Enough!” he bellowed, his voice cracking like thunder over the chaos. “I will send you all back to the darkness that spawned you!”

  He hurled his shield at a massive Orc bounding up the steps. The iron disc spun through the air and struck the brute square in the face. The creature fell at once, limp and broken, tumbling backward into its kin, sending several more crashing down the stair like stones in a flood.

  Then Baronsworth drew Lightbringer with both hands.

  A blinding flash rippled along the blade as he charged forward—breaking the line, plunging into the horde.

  And there, he became death incarnate.

  He moved like a whirlwind, cleaving through armor and flesh as if they were parchment. The legendary blade thrummed with purpose, its song carried through every stroke. Orcs fell in droves. Heads rolled. Limbs flew. The precision of his strikes defied reason; his movement, almost otherworldly. His mastery of the Asturian fighting forms was absolute.

  Even Karl, who had fought beside him countless times, could only stare in awe.

  With each blow, the enemy turned their fury toward him. No longer did they strike wildly at the line—they rallied to bring him down, to silence the fire that cut through their ranks. But none could match him. He was relentless, a force of living steel, and every Orc that dared approach met a swift demise.

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  “Come! Taste my blade!” he cried as he struck. “If you seek death—I will gladly deliver it!”

  The defenders’ spirits surged. With renewed strength and courage, they pressed forward, rallying to Baronsworth’s side.

  Fredrick and Karl closed in, guarding his flanks. Their blades rose and fell in steady rhythm, each stroke answering the other. Orcs dropped before them like grain before the scythe.

  From the mist came Gil’Galion, with a cry in Elvish that rang clear and bright through the din. In a single bound he was at Baronsworth’s back, their shoulders meeting—an unbroken circle, the calm heart of the melee.

  Baronsworth fought with the force of a rising dawn—each blow falling like sunlit thunder, splintering shield and bone. His every strike carried the weight of pure will, fierce and final.

  Beside him, Gil’Galion moved like moonlight through drifting leaves—turning, slipping, cutting with unearthly grace. Where Baronsworth blazed, Gil’Galion glided; where one struck with the crushing weight of the forge, the other wove like water through stone.

  Together they were day and night entwined—a living ring of steel and light. The tide of darkness crashed against them and broke, leaving the ground strewn with the shadows they had slain.

  “Fight, men!” Ulric’s voice rose above the clash. “Courage—for the gods are watching! Send these creatures back to the pit!”

  He plunged into the fray, old but unbending, striking with the surety of long memory. Fredrick joined him at once, shoulder to shoulder.

  “Just like old times!” Ulric laughed, driving his sword into an Orc’s chest. Blood spattered his armor.

  “We’ve faced worse than this,” Fredrick growled, wrenching his blade free.

  Then Baronsworth’s warcry shattered the air.

  “I AM MAGNUS!” he roared. “TERROR OF MY FOES! NONE OF YOU PATHETIC BEASTS CAN SLAY ME!”

  It was not the cry of a man, but something greater—something fierce and timeless. The sound rolled through the valley, echoing off the cliffs and the temple walls, a reverberation that made even the boldest falter.

  The foe hesitated.

  Weapons lowered.

  The howling ceased.

  And then, from within the host, a trembling voice broke the stillness. “Ark-s?n!” an Orc commander rasped, pointing a claw at the radiant sword in Baronsworth’s hands. Murmurs spread like wildfire. Fear took root and bloomed.

  “Yes,” Baronsworth bellowed, raising the blade high. “This is the Orcslayer! Bane of your kind! A gift from the gods—and with it, the promise that I shall not perish until every last servant of darkness lies dead at my feet!”

  The Orcs began to fall back, forming a wide ring around the defenders. Whispers turned to panic. Moments before, the tide had seemed ready to consume the temple. Now, hesitation clouded every monstrous eye.

  Baronsworth smiled grimly. The bluff had worked.

  “Is that all?” he called out, voice edged with scorn. “Is there not one among you with courage enough to face me? No? Then begone, vermin! Return to your holes! I’ve had my fill of blood for today. Run, and perhaps I’ll spare your miserable lives a while longer.”

  But his words had scarcely faded when the horde parted—and something vast emerged.

  Each footfall struck the ground with a deep, shuddering thud.

  A hulking silhouette began its approach.

  Gil’Galion’s eyes widened, the color draining from his face.

  “A cyclops,” he said quietly.

  The creature stood twice Baronsworth’s height, its grey skin sheathed in jagged, blackened armor. A single, massive eye gleamed with malevolent hunger; in its hand it clutched a gargantuan club, twisted and stained with dried blood. It halted a few paces from the defenders and laughed—a deep, revolting sound, like stone grinding on bone.

  “Puny human,” the cyclops grunted, guttural and grotesquely amused. “You think we scared? Hah! Master more terrible than you. You be insect. Mosquito. Master’s punishment much scarier than your sword. But reward if we win? Big reward. Brogg want reward.”

  He slammed the club down; the stones shook.

  “Brogg crush puny human, eat your bones, take shiny sword, kill rest of tiny humans! Sword name Orcslayer—not Cyclopslayer! Brogg not scared!”

  Baronsworth blinked. That…was surprisingly coherent.

  The Orcs around them laughed, their voices rising in brutal mirth. The tide of fear shifted; Baronsworth felt it. They were seconds from surging back.

  Think, he told himself. Buy time. Break their spirit. A spectacle.

  He spoke then, loud enough for all to hear.

  “The blade is called Orcslayer because Orcs have been foolish enough to face it the most!” he shouted. “But I was not chosen by the gods to slay Orcs alone—I was chosen to slay evil! And I shall prove it now!”

  He stepped forward, voice steady.

  “I challenge you, Brogg, to single combat. You and me. Alone.”

  A cold knot tightened in his gut as the words left him.

  Brogg grinned.

  “Hahaha! You want the sacred duel? Nok’garok? Brogg accept!” The cyclops beat its chest, roaring with delight and baring a maw of black, jagged teeth. Around them, the Orcs erupted into chants and pounding rhythm. The ritual had been invoked—there would be no turning back.

  Baronsworth felt the choice press on him. He tightened his grip on Lightbringer and murmured under his breath, “Well… this might have been a mistake.”

  Gil’Galion lurched to his side, seizing the warrior’s shoulder with urgent fingers.

  “Baronsworth, this is madness!” he hissed. “That creature is beyond anything we’ve faced. My kin have battled its kind—yes, we have slain them—but only by cunning and numbers. Face it alone and you will perish. Do not be fooled by bulk—it moves quicker than its size suggests, and its strength is monstrous.”

  Baronsworth met the Elf’s eyes, steady and grim.

  “Perhaps you’re right. But we have no other option. If we fight them all at once—Orc and cyclops—the temple falls and everyone dies. But if I face Brogg and win, it may break their spirit. They’ll flee. They’ll believe I am truly chosen. It’s our best chance.”

  Gil’Galion searched his friend’s face, then lowered his hand.

  “Then all I can offer is this: Gevannar anoth-moranen, mira.”

  Baronsworth nodded. “Thank you, Gil’Galion. Take the others into the temple. Fortify it. Guard the wounded. Should I fall, that is where you must make your stand.”

  The Elf’s jaw tightened; they saluted in silence—each hoping it would not be the last.

  Baronsworth faced Brogg again. “Come then! Let us end this! Or are you afraid, beast?”

  Brogg let out a thunderous laugh. “Hah! Puny reck! I not afraid! YOU choose where YOU die!” He turned to his kin, arms raised. The Orcs answered with a ritual cry—raw, rhythmic, triumphant. Brogg drank in their adoration like anointed blood.

  Baronsworth slipped back toward the clearing beneath the temple steps. The black mist thinned here; the air felt cleaner. He drew a long breath. The corruption is weaker in this place, he thought. Perhaps here, I will be strengthened, and my foe’s edge will dull.

  Behind him the Knights had formed their final bulwark—shields locked at the top of the steps, a last line to guard the temple entrance. Fredrick stepped forward and inclined his head.

  “May the gods grant you victory.”

  A measured sound rose then—slow and deliberate—of shields being struck in unison.

  It was a warrior’s prayer, a resonant salute from the knights that Baronsworth felt in his bones.

  “Godspeed, Baronsworth,” Ulric called, voice steady with pride.

  The Orcs spread into a broad semicircle. Brogg stood at the center, grinning and dragging its club through the dirt.

  Baronsworth marched forward; each step felt heavier than the last. He reached the center and raised Lightbringer, its edge catching the pale light.

  “You will bleed, creature!” he cried.

  Brogg snorted, lifting the club high.

  “PUNY HUMAN, NOW YOU DIE! BROGG CRUSH!”

  The beast charged.

  The ground trembled with each step. Baronsworth stood his ground until the last possible moment—then rolled aside.

  The club crashed into the earth like a meteor, sending dust and shards of stone flying. Baronsworth didn’t stop—he stayed in motion, dodging a sweeping blow that would have shattered bone on contact. Then another. And another.

  The creature was fast—far too fast for something its size. Each strike came wide, brutal, and wild. Yet Baronsworth had begun to see the rhythm: the twitch of the shoulder before a downward smash, the pivot of the hip before a backhand swing.

  He kept his distance, always just beyond the arc of the blow.

  But he could not get close.

  The cyclops had reach—terrible reach—and any attempt to close the distance ended in a brutal swing that forced him back. A single mistake, a single misstep, and the battle would be over. No armor could protect him from such strikes.

  Breath ragged, he circled the beast, eyes sharp for the break in its frenzy—a fleeting gap where Lightbringer might strike true.

  The Orcs howled and jeered from the perimeter, their laughter rolling through the dark like a tide. The knights stood silent above, watching their champion fight for all their lives.

  Baronsworth tightened his grip on the hilt, holding the line between life and death, each heartbeat an eternity.

  Each of Brogg’s attacks came harder, faster, more desperate than the last. The cyclops was growing furious, its rage amplifying the strength behind every wild swing. Baronsworth dodged again and again, narrowly avoiding each brutal strike, but the strain was beginning to show. His legs ached. His arms trembled. Sweat stung his eyes.

  Then—he faltered.

  A thunderous swing came low and wide. Baronsworth leapt back but landed off balance, his boot skidding across the dry ground. The next blow was already descending—a massive overhead strike that filled his vision.

  There was no time to run.

  With a shout, he raised Lightbringer above his head and met the blow head-on. The force slammed through his arms like struck iron; sparks leapt as wood split against the singing steel. The sound rang across the valley—a single, searing note that stilled every voice.

  A chunk of Brogg’s crude club—nearly a quarter of its length—snapped free and spun away, landing harmlessly several feet off. The rest crashed into the earth just inches from Baronsworth, sending up a spray of dust and splinters.

  “By the gods…” Ulric breathed, his eyes alight with awe and fervor.

  Baronsworth stood trembling beneath the fading echo, Lightbringer still raised, the blade unbroken and bright.

  He gasped—alive, but only barely.

  But Brogg did not pause.

  The cyclops snarled and lunged forward, ramming the now-sharpened end of its ruined club like a spear. Baronsworth spun out of the way in a desperate pirouette, the jagged tip grazing his shoulder.

  For the first time in the battle, Brogg overextended.

  Baronsworth saw the moment—the smallest crack in its defense. He could strike now, but the risk of a counter was too great. Then his eye caught the dry, loose earth at his feet. A wild thought came to him.

  Risky. But it might just work.

  He kicked up a cloud of dirt straight into Brogg’s single eye.

  “GAHH! PUNY HUMAN—NO FAIR! I KILL YOU!”

  The cyclops shrieked in rage, staggering, swiping blindly through the air with deadly force. Baronsworth didn’t wait. He dove low, rolled behind the flailing brute, and brought Lightbringer down with all his might against Brogg’s ankle.

  A gut-wrenching snap of splintered bone and torn sinew rang out, followed by the cyclops’s ear-splitting howl.

  “MY LEGSIES!”

  The creature stumbled, collapsing to one knee, club dragging behind it as it tried to regain balance. Baronsworth had wounded it—badly. The tide was turning.

  Not wasting a moment, he rolled again—this time to the other side, hoping to strike at Brogg’s back. But the cyclops had learned. Through the pain, through the dust in its eye, it remembered the warrior’s movement—and swung.

  A devastating backhand blow, wide and low—right where Baronsworth would land.

  And this time, he was unable to dodge.

  Next: At Wits’ End

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