The weather on Itrea had improved dramatically in the past day. The storm had swept past, and in its wake the ground was scrubbed clean of blood. Aughk'tor was bustling, as more Sahn-Raidar men arrived and were escorted through.

Beymor disliked being inside the walls while fighting still raged in skirmishes outside. The orcs had not retreated far, and had a habit of attacking once again in small groups, ensuring no one was well rested, and no commander had time to tie his boot laces. But now they had reinforcements, and would rout the orcs. They would send them crawling away, or so he hoped.

Along with Sahn-Raidar, the Uhma'zarhin's had arrived in force and Aughk'tor was nearly bursting at its seams with all the people it contained.

He hoped that one day, the people that filled his city would not all be fighters. He hoped that they could be artists, musicians, crafters. He hoped that one day, instead of watching clerics carry wounded and bloodied men through the streets, that he could watch as children ran and dogs barked, and that he could see flowers grow. Instead of rubble, every building would be a beauty to behold, instead of dirt and dust and waste. One day, the city would shine like a gem under the mountain peek it called home.

Eventually, Aughk'tor would be perfect. But today was not that day, and a bitter thought told him that it may be a day he never saw.

As the last of the soldiers made it through the gates, they were escorted down the half-paved, curving roads, and out the other side to join the growing force beyond. Graiden jogged away, as soon as he was no longer needed, in search of reports on the orcish movements. He was a stern and well studied commander, in Beymor's eyes. He had fought in many a battle, and even a few that he should have lost.

But, to both of their surprise and chagrin, these orcs were proving far more tactical than any others they had faced before. Sahn-Raidar was used to fighting orcs, and hill giants.

On Ellispyre both foes had been an unrelenting occurrence. Beymor had first tangled with them in such a fight on the plains of his old home, and he would bet a months worth of coin that anyone one that had worked as a soldier in Sahn-Raidar for more than a year could write a full discourse on their habits, tactics, and favorite things. Yet these orcs were different. They fought with a strange amount of forethought, and possessed a commander who acted as if he was once a scholar. They kept their brutality on the field, but they tempered it with patience, and observance.

They had plenty of weapons and machines, as well. Orcish grinders were akin to monuments on the blood scattered plains, deserted there after they had been disabled and their operators killed.

And the hill giants were a whole other matter. No longer were they just big and lumbering, now they were fully armored in plate mail, adorned with spikes that had killed more than one man.. They employed a suicidal yet effective tactic of simply rushing into the lines and falling to thrash until their death. They wielded axes and swords the size of oxen, and somehow they could stay as quiet as the orcs on approach.

Sahn-Raidar boasted the most magically inclined fighters in the world, despite their small size. Their healers and mages were their largest advantage, and they used them well under the pressure the orcs put upon them.

Beymor shook his head. Their men, he thought. Not mine. He was only acting as a commander for the sake of Aughk'tor, and the people who followed him out of pride and stubborn tenacity. What a thought. He had gone from a simple smith, to the caretaker of a blooming city. He would much prefer if Aughk'tor had no blood staining its walls, because when it came right down to it, he despised fighting. He knew how, and had a long life of experience behind every swing of his axe, but it brought him no joy or pride.

He felt the same about fighting as he did leading a clan and lording over people, but it was better than the alternative of starvation and a slow death, while his life wasted away in someone else's hands.

He had led Anklestrap through starvation, and he would lead them now, through the gore and the death that awaited them outside of walls he himself had helped build. Nothing in life was one sided. To reap the rewards that this city might one day offer, he would have to bloody his hands in the process.

Graiden's spear pulled free of the nearest orc with a sickening sound, and the men around him surged forward as he spun to combat the threat at his back. Only he and three others stood out here now. A group had pushed too far into the fleeing orcs, and they had been deeply lost in the brutality, before they realized their mistake.

Despite the unfair odds, Graiden did not register worry over his safety. His reinforcements were not far behind. Magic singed the air around him, freeing another orc of its life. And though he knew it to be a lie, the fighting felt as if it would never end. All he could see was the muddied ground, the faces of the nearest soldiers and the angry visages of the orcs attacking him. The sound of death was all he could hear, something he could not comprehend, yet could not push away. They had pushed the orcs back quite far, today. Nearly to the treeline.

The next orc in the group surrounding him brought a hammer down in a heavy two handed blow. He sidestepped and jabbed his spear forward in a quick motion, and just as quickly he flicked his wrist to free it of the orc he had just wounded.

He felt the man beside him shuffle, and leaned into him to keep him on his feet as a sword passed a fraction away from the man's nose. A chuckle almost escaped as the woman to his left cursed the orcs as she unleashed another spell.

He twirled his spear over his head, and threw it as an orc charged her. It disappeared in a flash of light, and appeared just in front of the creature, sliding easily through its throat before it disappeared and returned to his hand. The orc kept running despite its deadly injury before it realized its demise, and skidded face down in the mud in front of the woman.

Graiden had not slept in so long, that he could hardly imagine what it might be like. But he held no weariness, and felt no pain from his injuries. It amazed him still, that fights like these could be more invigorating than a morning jog and the strongest coffee in existence.

He gripped his spear in two hands, and thrust it forward to block the next swing, this one from a sword, as the man to his side ran it through. He heard a cry, and spun to see the woman as she staggered, bleeding heavily from the thigh. He moved beside her and slashed his spear sideways, as the orc blocked. Graiden gritted his teeth, and listened to the clink of the rings on his weapon as he drew it back for another swing. Before he hit his target, the orc fell dead with a bolt protruding neatly from the back of its head.

The remaining three orcs found a similar fate, as a muddy, blond-haired half-elf approached them from the cover of a nearby tree.

The men Graiden had been fighting with visibly slumped as their enemy died, and Graiden smiled at Agrata. "Took you long enough," he said.

"I had to wait for them to start fleeing," Agrata said, with a shrug. "Lugaria back yet?"

"No idea," Graiden said, taking a deep breath.

Agrata glanced up, and leveled his crossbow at a lone orc who raised a bow towards them. As the orc pulled back the string, it faltered and fell dead. "They're trying to goad us into following."

"That's trouble we don't need."

Agrata smiled. "Words of caution from the reckless commander?"

Graiden's reply was cut short as one of the clerics rushed up to him, hands outstretched. He shook his head. "These wounds are nothing I can't take care of myself."

The man dropped his hands and turned to the soldiers nearest Graiden with a nod.

As Graiden walked back towards the camp, he sighed. More than once the thought that he was too old for this wound through his head. Humans are impatient creatures. They find patience only through excuses. So have no excuses, his teacher had scolded him, long ago. Funny to have such philosophical thoughts, on a day like this. He chuckled to himself. He would never be too old for this. This was his life.

As he topped the hill he saw a tall woman, with long golden hair and leather armor about her form, who smiled as he approached. Even dressed for battle, she looked better suited to a rich and regal court somewhere on the other side of the world. "Lady Avris," he said, bowing, his dented and dirty armor creaked as he moved.

"Good to see you, Graiden. You are fighting well, are my children?" Her smile did not fade as she looked across the returning fighters.

"Of course," he said. "Your support has been a gift."

"I will be joining you, tomorrow," she said.

Graiden's face contorted. "You mean to fight with us?"

"Do you think I came simply to enjoy the sights?" Amusement played across her features. "This is a war, and all of us are needed. I can be of more use than you may think."

Graiden coughed to clear his throat. "I meant no disrespect, lady Avris. I had assumed that you would be providing advice to the council."

"I have, and will continue. But it has been some time since I have fought. And for this... it calls me."

"Well, I will look forward to fighting beside you," he said, with a nod.

Avris chuckled. "And I, you."

Her words held a humor that made Graiden aware that he was missing something, but he had no idea what it might be. "Could I interest you in some dinner?"

"Of course," she said, holding out her arm to him as they trudged towards the cooking fires.

"It's a shame," Graiden said. "Our best cook is missing. That boy could turn a campfire into a luxury meal."

Avris let out a quiet laugh. "Sa'leid would agree, if we are speaking of the same person. And how are they faring on their journey?"

"Off looking for myths," Graiden said, with a shake of his head. "Though I can't blame them, I do wish they were here to council, at least."

"They did have quite an uplifting effect," Avris agreed. "But we will manage fine without them. We are stronger than out enemy will ever know." Again her voice held that same humor, like a joke that only she understood.

Graiden eyed her as he was handed a bowl of stew. "Are you planning something I am unaware of?"

"Of course not. All plans are made through the council. I would not overstep."

Graiden squinted at her, but shook his head. Maybe he was misunderstanding her. He had misunderstood a woman more than once in his life, and Avris was one unlike any other he had ever encountered.

He rubbed a hand across his face, and stifled a yawn.

"You need to sleep," Avris said, as she sat with her own bowl, and a mug of steaming tea beside her.

"No time. Need to know if they continued their retreat or just found a new place to hold."

"There is time. You trust your captains and advisers, do you not?"

"Of course, but they'll have need of me if there's another attack tonight."

"What they need is a rested and healthy commander. Do not think I do not notice that you leave your wounds until your men are tended, and that you do not eat until your men have eaten. They notice as well and they worry for you. There is no reason to burden them with such worry, is there?"

Graiden sighed. "All my life I have fought beside them. Only slept, eaten, and healed when they did. I see no reason to change that now."

"They need you alert and whole. This war council needs you sharp. There is nothing wrong with staying by their side, but you must think of yourself as well. It is part of the balance you have with them. If you are stronger, so to will they be."

Graiden smiled at her words, and pushed himself to his feet with a groan. "I cannot refuse the commands of a lady, I suppose."

"Rest well, and know I will wake you, should the need arise."