The hills around Aughk'tor were a strange sight. The grass blowing in the wind had an odd, tranquil appearance. One that was destroyed by the nervous, milling soldiers standing in rigid ranks across the hilltops.

Graiden stood at the front of his men, heavy mantle in place over his polished armor. It did not shine in the light of the sun, however, because there was no sun to be seen today.

Rain fell in a soft mist across the ground leaving mist to snake around the boots of every soldier. Apparently the orcs did not care about fighting in the wet weather. From the looks of it, they would not have cared if there was lava following them as they scarred the land under their feet.

Behind Graiden stood two thousand Sahn-Raidar soldiers, every able dwarf, and a good portion of the fighters from both Ky'lei'mei, and Uhm'trimbyha. It was still difficult to think of the Sahn-Raidar soldiers as his men. Sure he had ordered them about plenty before, but he knew the outcome of this battle and the ones to follow would rest heavily on his shoulders.

These two thousand lives were his to command and protect, and that was not a weight he would wish on his greatest enemy.

Graiden's thumb absently brushed against the heavy symbol he wore around his neck. Justice and balance. Two things hard to find in war. He said a silent prayer as the shapes on the horizon solidified into the tall and rotund forms of giants, and the orcs heavily armored around them.

Everything was silent save for the pattering of the rain. It was as if the ground itself was taking a breath, and preparing to be torn asunder from the feet of greed and murder.

A ripple went through the orcish side, and the echoes of some garbled order rang out in Graiden's ears. He did not need to understand the words to know what was coming. He straightened his shoulders and ground the end of his polearm into the dirt.

The orcish side charged, and the footsteps of the giants reverberated across the ground making it tremble beneath all of the men readying to defend.

They disappeared behind the crest of one hill, and Graiden hefted his weapon into the air. "Hold the charge!" he yelled, and with the aid of Typhon's magic his voice boomed out effortlessly to the ears of every man behind him. He drove the butt of his weapon into the dirt once again, the soft jingle of the three rings through its haft a comforting reminder of his faith, and his past.

He heard the rustle of blades coming free of scabbards, heard men shouting in defiance to their own fate.

As if in mockery of their defiance the skies opened further. Lightening cracked across the sky, and the rain began falling in sheets. The gods of rain and thunder seemed to be at odds with his own, today.

"Archers! Draw!" he called, and he knew that hundreds of bows were pulled taut, their wielders nervously glancing to the rain. "Third mark!" he called, and every bow angled up in the sky. Graiden waited patiently, he knew this volley had to hurt his enemy, he would only get one more, with the weather and the speed of the incoming charge. "Loose!" he yelled, and the twang of strings was a symphony behind him.

The arrows and bolts arced through the air, and many wavered and fell early due to the gusting wind and the rain. They bounced off of armor and shield, but many more found targets and struck true.

"First company, ready shields!" he called, his voice already straining at the volume required, even with the aid of magic. Rain splashed his face and soaked through his cloak, making it heavy and cumbersome.

Men stepped up around him in one fluid movement, shields rising to the ready, rain tinkling off them in torrents to leave muddy lines in the soggy grass beneath their feet.

"Volley incoming!" Graiden called, hefting his own buckler. The shields raised before the arrows were even seen, volatile streaks of black that swarmed through the air. Every man ducked behind a shield as they whistled and fell and Graiden winced, steadying himself.

No other feeling was akin to staring down a volley of arrows.

Nothing felt so much like mocking death, and despite his years of training and his familiarity with such a situation, some small part of his mind bade him to flee from them, to seek some solid form of shelter. But instead he called out to his men in reassurance, and grimaced when he heard more than one man cry out in pain.

When the sound of failing arrows ceased, he spoke again without hesitation. "Face the charge!"

The orcs were now atop the closest hill like a herd of wild boar ready to stampede throughout their ranks. The orcs slowed just long enough for their grinders to reach the top of the hill, and they came rushing towards Sahn-Raidar with all the force of a sea borne storm, screaming out calls of their victory.

Graiden felt every ounce of his calm demeanor vanish, and as the first orcs engaged he was there to wield his spear relentlessly, watching the grinders as they did their gruesome work and praying one more silent prayer, as his spear met his enemy.

His prayers were answered in a strangely precise fashion, as lightning like bolts collided into the first of the orcish war machines, metal screeched and howled, only just audible about the chaos in the grasses, and the machine felt short, just in front of a burly soldier who was as pale as death. The man with only the reasoning of living in his mind, attacked the orcs without a second thought.

A few orcs pushed through the lines, hacking and slashing into teal and black armor with abandon. As soon as they were enthralled in their battle, Graiden gave the signal, and a horn note echoed across the plains. The dwarves and uhma'zarhin's flooded in, from behind other hills and shattered into the orcs flanks, leaving them trapped and surrounded.

The uhma'zarhin's rushed forward with long weapons, driving them into the legs and chests of the orcs who had quickly turned, and the second row of fighters wielded swords finishing off the foes their front line had disabled.

The dwarves rushed in with axes and hammers swinging, crossbow men behind them fired wildly into the orcs. They cut a thin swath through the middle of the orcs.

The orcs response was to push forward into Sahn-Raidar, bullying them and pushing back their line, shattering it in places to give room for the heavy grinder machines to push forward, as they were unable to turn quick enough to threaten the dwarves or the uhma'zarhin's.

Graiden was preoccupied with a large group of orcs, and did not see the second grinder fall, but he heard it, and he heard his men cheer, their resolve strengthened as they worked in tandem with every ounce of will they had to push the orcs into a rout.

It felt like ages that he stood there fighting, stood there bleeding and trudging in the mud with sweat and gore lining his face like tears. It felt like ages and the faces all looked the same, for they all held the same expression--hatred and thirst for his blood.

But no ages passed, and though his breath came in short, painful gasps, and the rain no longer felt cool on his skin, they did indeed rout the orcs.

With a final volley, and some strange magics, the orcs retreated. Graiden called for his men to stay as they were. There were too many injured, and terrible conditions for a chase.

The gods were telling them to be cautious, and he would heed them.

He never got a chance to rest, for as the orcs fled his men came to him in droves asking for orders, and bringing reports. His vision was blurry, and his armor padding stuck to him like some ill second skin. He watched as the healers flooded the space, tending to wounded and pulling them out of the still worsening weather.

He made his way to his tent, and with a sigh found he would have no peace when he entered. Veit was there, a scowl deepening the lines on his face.

"That was too close a call, Graiden."

"Too close?" Graiden asked, his eyebrows raising. "That was a victory."

"Look at our injured. Vauldra will be busy for days."

"We're still standing. We held their assault." Graiden took a deep breath.

"We scarcely held, and you know it! A human has no place commanding fighters such as the dwarves."

"It doesn't matter if it was scarce, or not. We held."

"And we gave up our advantage, not chasing them as they fled!"

Graiden slammed his fist onto the desk. "Had we followed, they would have trapped us and cut us down. Our enemy is not to be underestimated!"

"They're only orcs!" Veit retorted. "My Mother—"

"Is passed, and not here to see you make a fool of yourself, debating things you do not understand."

Veit seemed to grow larger as he drew in an angry breath. Before he could unleash his next torrent of words, there was a knock at Graiden's tent pole, and Beymor poked his head in.

"Am I interrupting?" he asked, staring at Veit.

Veit harrumphed, and stalked out of the tent with murderous anger in his eyes.

Graiden pulled his soaked cloak from his shoulders and dropped it over a chair with a sigh.

Beymor chuckled. "That one's pride ain't going to earn him any favors."

"No, it isn't." Graiden said, giving Beymor an exasperated look. "You come to tell me I did it all wrong, as well?"

"Nah. I came to offer ya a drink, and thank ya." Beymor hefted a bottle, and sat down across from him. "Even with the rains, that was well fought."

"I have a feeling that they are capable of much worse than that."

"Aye. Of course tha are, but we'll take em as they come. For now, we're ahead."

Graiden chuckled at his tone. "Ahead?"

Beymor nodded. "They're testing us, if you ask me. They're looking for a weakness. And even with characters such as Veit among us, it'll be a difficult thing to find."

Graiden grimaced. "They hold most every advantage over us."

Beymor grinned. "I won't tell em' that."

"I suppose I won't, either."

"How many did we face, today?"

Graiden dug his fingers into his scalp. "Under a thousand."

"Testing," Beymor agreed, with a shake of his head.

Another quiet knock sounded, and Graiden looked up to see a small, rain drenched gnome in the doorway.

"Donovar?" Graiden asked, eyebrows scrunched.

He sighed. "I came to help."

"You want to fight?"

Beymor looked over the gnome with a pensive glance. "He's small but hell, we can use all the help we can get."

"I will not fight." Donovar shook his head, an almost shameful look in his eyes. "But I can help you. I've been hearing people say that these orcs are too tactical."

"They are, compared to what we've fought before. They're still skirmishers, but their leader knows how to wage a war."

Donovar shook his curly mass of hair from his hood. "Then I can help you outsmart them."

"With what?" Beymor asked.

Donovar plucked a small stone from his pocket, but in it a dozen holes were bored, with a fuse sticking from the top. "Light them, and throw them into your enemy. It will shroud them, but cause them to cough, tear up."

"What in the name of the eight horned devil possessed you to make this?"

Donovar looked at Beymor as though he did not understand. "I made them for rioters, for the gnomes in Rastridge. They said they didn't do enough. So I thought they could be useful, here. I have others, too."

Graiden grinned. "Show me."