The first outriders of the approaching Shadowarmy reached Bula Pass three days later.

     The fast moving scout unit, consisting of three spy goblins, a pair of trogs and a pair of humans, crept timidly from boulder to boulder high up one of the valley’s almost sheer walls, keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of the valley’s defenders. So far they’d seen nothing and had come further than they’d expected without sighting the enemy.

     “Where are they?” growled one of the trogs suspiciously. “They ought to have scouts and lookouts all over the place, looking for us.”

     “Maybe they all ran away when they lost the Sceptre,” suggested one of the humans.

     The other human, a battlescarred veteran of the previous Shadowwar, glanced at him in irritation. Sergeant Naple was a calm, self disciplined man, almost to the point where he might have been welcomed into any country’s regular army. Someone who knew him a little might have wondered what he was doing in the Shadowarmies, what reason he could possibly have had for joining an army of chaos in which most of his colleagues were too stupid, too impulsive or just too plain evil to appreciate his talents. Someone who knew him well, though, would have understood all too well.

     “Pipe down, Garic,” he advised his fellow human, removing his heavy skull helmet to get a better look across the valley. “They’re here all right, you can be sure of that. This pass is far too important for them to just abandon. I’ll wager there’s a whole squad of ‘em close enough to smell your bad breath, camouflaged somewhere in those rocks.”

     “There’s no-one here,” repeated the trog, raising his voice in angry puzzlement. “There’s no-one in the whole stinking valley. I don’t like it.”

     “There’s something here,” said the other trog, though. “Can't you feel it? Something... Something holy.”

     He shuddered. The tiny green goblins glanced nervously at each other and decided to keep their mouths shut. Trogs hated being scared, and the one thing they hated more than anything else was people seeing them scared. Best to keep their heads down and try not to attract their attention, the goblins wisely decided.

     “What are we doing here, anyway?” The trog continued. “We're tunnel fighters. We're wasted on the surface.”

     “You're here to look for secret doors and ambush points, remember?” Naple reminded him. “You creatures are supposed to be good at that.”

     The trog's eyes glared at him between the layers of cloth that swaddled his head and he gripped his scimitar tighter. “We've been scouting this place for months now,” he reminded the human. “There's nothing, and even we can't dig a tunnel in just two weeks.”

     “Their wizards can, so keep your eyes open and stop bellyaching.”

     The trog muttered something under his breath but chose not to reply.

     They continued to pick their way carefully and quietly along the valley, straining every sense for the first sign of enemy forces, but the further they went the emptier the valley became. They passed fortified positions where rocks had been piled up into crude, low walls, primitive but good enough to provide cover for a small observation post, but now empty. Abandoned by the half dozen or so archers who’d so recently occupied it. They came across small patches of level ground in which a thin layer of soil had managed to accumulate; soil that bore the clear and fresh footprints of departing soldiers, all leading in the same direction. Westwards, towards the Beltharan end of the valley. They came across the occasional item of lost or discarded equipment, some Beltharan, some Shadowarmy. Scraps of clothing. A length of leather cord. An empty water bottle. A fork, a spoon. All signs that people had been here very recently, but despite this they didn't see one single living person. Not one.

     Then they rounded a bend and saw the vast bulk of Fort Dirk ahead of them. A sheer wall of rock rising up and up. Smooth and featureless for most of its height, only bearing towers and battlements near the top. Carved out of a mountain by the Agglemonians a thousand years before, it loomed dark and silent, giving an impression of invincibility in every curve and angle of stark grey rock. The Shadowsoldiers knew that its invincibility was just an illusion, though. They knew that even the legendary Fort Dirk would have to fall in the face of the army that was now approaching, and from the silence and emptiness that hung about the citadel like a cold, dark shroud, it seemed that the defenders knew it as well.

     “They really have gone!” breathed Naple in disbelief. “They’ve fled the valley!”

     The trogs remained silent, though, and stared nervously around the valley. “There’s something here,” repeated the first trog unhappily. “I don’t like it.”

     “You’re letting your imagination run away with you,” said Garic with a condescending smile, “The cowardly Beltharans all ran away when they heard we were coming. It’s as simple as... Gark!”

     “The Corp’s right,” said the second trog, squeezing the human’s throat. “You don’t just abandon a valley as important as this one. They left something behind and you’re just too stupid to know it.”

     “Let him go, Balri,” said Naple impatiently. “Let’s go see if the other fortresses are abandoned as well.”

     The trog let Garic go, and the Shadowsoldiers continued down the valley. An hour later, they were closer to Belthar than any Shadowsoldier had ever been, in this war or any of the others.

     Fort Dirk was still visible behind them, though, when they first realised they were not alone. The earth shook with a series of small tremors, each one like a small earthquake going on somewhere but repeated, like the footsteps of a giant.

     “What in the name of...” began Naple, but the words choked up in his throat and he stared in slack jawed amazement as the Shield Bearer came into sight.

     The fifty foot tall Beltharan soldier was walking along the centre of the wide valley, each step leaving an eight foot long depression in the shrubby soil that had gathered there. It was not immediately aware of the small group of Shadowsoldiers, and its cold, stony gaze swept the walls of the valley on either side as it went, holding its drawn sword in its hand ready to use the moment it spotted anything. The Shadowsoldiers crouched down in terror behind a low boulder, and they prayed to all the Gods of darkness that the holy monster would pass by without noticing them.

     The Shield Bearer drew level with them, its gigantic shoulders level with the crag behind which they were hiding, and it continued on. The humans breathed a sigh of relief, thinking they’d escaped, but then it paused and tilted its head, as if listening. Its nostrils twitched as if it had just become aware of a bad smell coming from somewhere. Then it turned, and the last of the Shadowsoldiers’ courage was blown away by a cold blast of terror. Garic fled in panic, screaming as he scrambled among the scattered rocks and boulders, and the Shield Bearer’s eyes fixed on him instantly, its brows drawing together in anger. It lashed out with blinding, unbelievable speed and the unfortunate human was reduced to a thin film of grease between the rock face and the giant’s colossal fist.

     The other Shadowsoldiers fled in the other direction while its attention was diverted, but the Shield Bearer was aware of them instantly and the Sergeant was paralysed by the sound of the giant’s sword sweeping through the air below him. The sword passed a few feet below their feet, the holy blade slicing deep into the rock face and starting a landslide that took away the ledge they were standing on.

     They fell twenty feet to the next ledge down, where the goblins and one of the trogs were crushed by falling rock. Naple heard their screams as he struggled to grab hold of a thorn bush to prevent himself falling the rest of the way to the valley floor, and he pulled himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the rocks and boulders that fell all around him.

     The other trog, Craggin, had also survived, but was deliberately sliding down the steep, rocky slope to reach the valley floor. He rolled away from the base of the cliffs to escape the last tricklings of the avalanche, then jumped to his feet and started running, not away from the giant but towards it. He drew his sword, his dark trophy cords flying around his head, and Naple saw the look of terrified insanity in his eyes as he screamed a battle cry. Naple understood. Craggin knew he was going to die, and he was determined to die like a trog, with his enemy’s blood on his sword.

     The Shield Bearer heard the battle cry and looked down, a look of annoyance on its stony face. The trog thrust his sword deep into the giant’s leather boot, and the foot lifted up, taking the sword with it. Then the foot came down again, and Naple heard the sickening crunch of buckling armour and breaking bones.

     Now Naple was the only one left and he froze, hoping against hope that the giant might think it had gotten them all. For a moment he dared to think he might have a chance as it turned its head this way and that, scanning the cliff face and the wide valley floor with its eyes. It took a step and Naple’s heart hammered with excitement, now certain that he was going to escape, but then it turned and looked in his direction, searching the cliff face around his hiding place.

     “No!” cried Naple in despair and outrage. “No, it’s not fair! Please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

     The giant heard his voice and its eyes fixed on him, its face set in grim determination, and the last thing Naple knew was the huge fist coming at him like the wrath of the Gods...