At dawn, cold rations were passed wordlessly through the warbands. No fire. No idle talk. Only mist and the scent of wet pine bark. As the last crumbs of hardbread were tucked away, horns blew low, not for alarm, but formation.
Moorfire and Blacktide assembled in tight array. 480 strong, the cohort stood at the forest's edge in precise lines. Connach's command warband held the center. Ten Moorfire warbands flanked them left and right. Ahead, twenty more moved in staggered vanguard formation under Connach's direct command.
Scouting ahead were the Qorjin-Ke, Stormguard's ghost walkers. Five elite scouts, bonded to hawkbeasts that circled above the canopy in wide, soundless arcs. No signal had come yet from the Stone Circle. No sign of Warden Kael.
Only the Qorjin-Ke's last glyph pulse: "Circle misted. No movement."
Connach's gut churned.
They marched through the forest under dim sky. Trees grew thick, many gnarled as if twisted by time. Visibility narrowed. Sound fell away. Even footsteps seemed swallowed. Trees divided the cohort, yet formation remained intact by horn chime and sigil light. Each warband followed pulse runes affixed to their warleader's back, a guiding thread in the pale gloom.
Half a day's march. The forest gradually thinned.
Then, a clearing.
The trees ended in a wide, circular vale surrounded by broken stones and ancient standing pillars. At its center, the Stone Circle: weathered monoliths arrayed in a perfect ring. A single, jagged central stone rose taller than all the others, its surface blackened and runed, almost molten in shape. Mist coiled around its base like a living thing.
And still, no sign of Kael or the Veilguards.
Connach signaled halt.
"Hold here," he ordered. "Eyes wide. Nothing steps forward until I say."
His voice was low, but every warleader passed it down.
The cohort slowed to a crouch, watching the mist.
Then it happened.
From the treeline to the west, five figures broke into view, Qorjin-Ke, running full tilt, cloaks shredded, blood smeared across their arms and faces. They ran like death was behind them.
Connach didn't wait.
"SHIELDS FRONT!"
The front lines drew their crescent shaped Boeotian shields in a smooth motion, locking into a defensive stance as the signal passed through the ranks. Most warriors kept their shields strapped to their backs during marches. Now they came forward, gripped and ready.
"FLAME SIGILS!"
Across the vanguard, warriors touched their falcata hilts. The runes along the blades flared red hot, igniting with contained fire, heat and glow coursing through the steel.
"ARCHERS, PYRESHOTS AND ICESHARDS READY!"
Urekh and the bowline warband drew their enchanted shafts, half tipped with flame sigils, the others with frost. The Pyreshots glowed ember-red at the nocks, the Iceshards shimmered cold blue.
"Whatever's chasing them," Connach growled, "freeze it. RELEASE!"
The air split as the first volley screamed forward, ice and flame clashing in color and intent, aimed at the unseen thing in the mist.
Each Iceshard exploded in a radius of cold force upon impact. A ripple of blue light surged outward. Those caught in the outer blast slowed, limbs dragging like frozen branches. Those in the inner radius were encased in ice instantly, lifeless statues frozen mid charge.
"Firaen, Bradan, WITH ME!" Connach barked.
Three more warriors joined without hesitation.
They broke formation, sprinting across the clearing to meet the Qorjin-Ke. Connach's boots pounded over wet loam, falcata drawn.
"Get them back!" he shouted.
What came out of the fog made every breath catch.
They were humanoid, but twisted. Grotesque in form. Grey skinned with sinewy limbs, some short and hunched, others tall and skeletal. Bulky torsos twitched with unnatural muscle. Fingers ended in claws. Fangs jutted from wide mouths, eyes glowing faint like coals behind glass.
Then the Iceshards struck.
The first rank shrieked, sharp, high pitched cries that tore through the clearing like glass on stone. Their flesh burned cold, limbs locking as frost laced across sinew and bone.
Connach dropped low, cleaved one creature that lunged for the lead scout, grabbed the scout's shoulder, and shoved him toward safety.
"Go!"
The others flanked him, Bradan throwing a torchlike flame sigil to cover the retreat, Firaen guarding the rear with twin daggers that flared hot as cinders.
Behind them,
"PYRESHOTS, RELEASE!" Connach shouted.
The Moorfire archers loosed their next volley. Fire bloomed.
The impact set the frost covered beasts ablaze. A roar of heat and light ignited the clearing. The first rank collapsed into ash and howls.
Connach turned and ran.
"WARDRUIDS!" he bellowed. "ready and create trench!"
The Qorjin-Ke crossed the clearing, sprinting through the last stretch. One scout was severely injured, dragged by two others. Another staggered, bleeding, but kept upright.
The moment they passed into friendly lines, the wardruids stepped forward. Staffs slammed to the ground. Runes sparked.
Earth shifted.
A trench opened across the front lines, wide enough to catch a charge.
Warhealers were already tending to the injured scouts. Bandages laced with silverroot wrapped the worst injuries, and salves were applied with practiced hands.
Connach exhaled. Just once.
They had survived the first charge. But the Stone Circle still stood waiting, cloaked in mist and silence.
Then, the sound of steady boots behind them. Blacktide had reached the front. And with them, Nyzekh. The Virak'tai Warden moved like shadow between gaps in the lines, his masked face unreadable. He halted before Connach.
"Fast response. The trench was the right call," Nyzekh said simply.
Connach gave a nod. "We hold until ordered otherwise."
Nyzekh turned to the Blacktide. "Make ready. Blacktide Cohort, frontline."
He raised his hand and whispered a phrase into a rune shard.
A brilliant flare shot into the sky, red and gold.
A signal. Contact confirmed.
From the warcamp far behind, another Stormguard cohort would soon march to meet them.
The Stone Circle had been found. And war had begun.
Then in the thick mist, shadows moved.
Nyzekh's voice cut across the line. "Flare!"
Archers drew and loosed flare tipped arrows. The sigils burst mid air, casting searing red light over the clearing.
The mist parted. Another horde.
More grotesque shapes rushed forward, faster this time.
Connach raised his arm.
"ICESHARDS! Target the largest monster!"
He waited a beat, watching.
"RELEASE!"
The ice barrage slammed into the enemy's front. As before, a pulse of bluish hue exploded outward on impact. Those in the outer edge staggered and slowed. The largest monster at the center froze mid roar, ice climbing up its body in jagged shards until it shattered where it stood.
"PYRESHOTS, READY! RELEASE!"
A final volley of fire streaked through the haze. Flame met fog, turning night into a brief sunrise of ruin.
Nyzekh stepped forward.
"Blacktide, forward!"
He moved to the front, flanked by Ryoku and Bruga, with Wen Tu forming the rear point of their triangle formation. Behind them, the Blacktide cohort advanced in perfect step. The Stormguards, two hundred strong, marched at the center. On their flanks, Skarnulf's hundred Stormguards took position on the left, while the Virak'tai, one hundred dark elves, held the right. Behind them, the eighty Stormcasters moved into place.
A total of 480 warriors marched as one.
Wen Tu raised his staff. Roots answered.
A living bridge of bark and vine surged over the trench, growing fast and firm underfoot. As the Blacktide crossed, Wen Tu whispered a final command.
The bridge pulsed with green light.
And then the Blacktide struck.
They cut through the third wave like scythes through grass.
The Moorfire followed in awe, eyes wide at the carnage the Blacktide unleashed. Creatures were hacked limb from limb, their bodies igniting as flame sigils carved through bone and sinew. The stench of burnt flesh mixed with the shrieks of the dying. Then, a monstrous roar tore from the mist.
Another horde emerged, charging the Blacktide's exposed left flank.
Connach didn't wait. "Threnari left flank, on me!"
Two hundred and forty Moorfire surged forward with him, forty wardruids and warhealers among them.
He raised his blade. "Threnari right wing, cover the right flank!"
Connach's left flank smashed into the enemy, shields raised, falcatas glowing with flame. The monsters shrieked as steel and fire tore into them. The Threnari line held firm, formation tight, carving through the horde with brutal precision. Limbs flew. Black blood sprayed. Searing blades bit into muscle and shattered bone. Bruga met the horde at the center, roaring as he broke through a cluster with his twin axes, each strike a thunderclap.
The field became chaos, mud slick with gore, the screams of the dying mixing with the war cries of Stormguard and Threnari. One wardruid called down a pillar of fire that engulfed a beast mid-leap. A warhealer dragged a wounded fighter to safety, warding off a monster with a glowing spear.
Steel met claw. Sigils flared. The mist turned red.
And still, they fought.
Another wave attacked the flanks. The Threnari never panicked. And in the heart of battle, Vaegor of Clann Aerdan, wardruid and stormbreather, lifted his staff high and began to sing.
It was an old song. A song of the mist, of monsters and stone. Of the heroes who rose from Threnari blood and earth.
His voice carried over the field, steady as drumbeat, sharp as storm.
O come the fog and beastly tide,
From stone and mire the fiends did ride.
But we are sons of moor and flame,
And none shall break the Threnari name.
We've sung in blood and stood in fire,
When mountain fell and gods drew nigher.
The roots run deep, the wind runs true,
And still we stand, the red and blue.
By elder oath and clanstone bound,
We'll not yield this hallowed ground.
Let shadow come, let thunder cry,
We are the storm, and storms don't die.
So raise your blades, and hold the line,
The old song calls through ash and pine.
For every hero buried low,
A thousand more shall rise and grow.
Every Threnari knew this song. From hearth to village, from coastal moor to inland vale, it was sung in festival and funerals alike. As children, they had chanted its verses while mock battling with sticks, imagining monsters in the dusk. And now, grown and bloodied, they sang it as they hacked and slashed through the real ones.
Around Vaegor, the flames burned brighter.
The Threnari line surged anew.
And the Stone Circle bore witness.
The monsters reacted.
When they heard the song, they lost cohesion.
Somewhere amid the singing, Tuarin grinned through blood and mud. "Was my singing that bad?"
Eorlas didn't look back. "Next time we sing the Warsong, don't."
Just when they thought the last wave had broken, when silence threatened to settle over the field,
a roar tore through the mist.
Not shrill like the others. Not animal. Something worse.
A shape loomed, rising out of the fog.
Eight, maybe ten feet tall. Towering. Misshapen.
A grotesque monstrosity of fused flesh and armor-like bone. Eyes burned red beneath a skull helm fused to its head. Its arms dragged heavy blades formed from its own jagged limbs.
It stepped forward with a crunch of charred soil, smoke bleeding from its skin.
The warline froze.