Breaking through from the cloying shadows of the forest, we came across a vast swath of land comprising nothing but low cut stumps. In the distance I could see why. Pitchhollow Garrison was a veritable fortress of its own. Similar to the motte and bailey style of medieval Britain, only much larger. The pines at our back stood nearly two hundred feet tall, and the construction of the garrison made full use of the trunks.

“Whoa!”

“Is that a word that conveys amazement in your land?”

“Yup.”

Romund nodded. “Then whoa, indeed. This place is the last fortification outside of the wall. I have a fear it too will soon fall. Such a shame.”

“You know the place well?”

“Know it?” Romund exclaimed. “Like the back of my hand. Like the earth in my fields. I met my wife here. We were married in the church. It might lack the awe of the Grand Citadels, but it makes up for it in warmth and hospitality.”

I glanced over my shoulder and found a lone horseman trailing us. “One of your messengers?” I asked Romund.

“A scout. He’s been following us for the past few hours.”

Ok, that figured. With the recent incursions into the territory by the orcs, not having mounted observers patrolling the wilderness would be insanity. I hadn’t noticed him at all, though, while Romund seemed to have clocked him almost immediately. I’d need to work on my observation skills. The rider was hooded and dressed in green and brown, the universal standard for forest camouflage. I could make out nothing of the face beneath, and turned my attention back to the garrison.

The walls stood about eighty feet high, just shy of half the length of the pines. I assumed they were deeply buried to provide stability. The towers just behind the wall were another matter. They were half again as tall as the palisade, the red tabards of the soldiers within visible even at a distance. Behind the vast bailey was the motte and keep itself which was made of grey stone. It brooded over the land from the steeply banked hill upon which it sat, giving a vantage to survey the surrounding fields and cleared forest.

“You say the orcs took greater fortresses than this?”

“I’m afraid they did. In the west, there were a few other garrisons as impressive as Pitchhollow, but Silverstone Castle was the real seat of power. Dawnstar’s brother, Cuthbert, was its marshal. He fell when Gutrender’s army swept south from the mountains.”

“Did you ever see it?”

Romund laughed. “I’m a farmer, Mark. My life is my fields and the trade trips to Pitchhollow. We’ve always welcomed travellers who pass through, though. They told tale of a gigantic edifice of stone atop one of the many lower mountain peaks, approachable by a single narrow pass. The walls were inlaid with a silver-like mineral that would glitter if the sun was at the right position. Can you imagine the magnificence? The beauty?”

“It sounds amazing. Now it belongs to them.”

“Sadly, yes. Along with a dozen other such marvels.”

“It’s funny. I still can’t get my head around the fact the goblins are in charge. In my land, it’s always the big, brutal orcs running things. Might is right, that kind of thing.”

“You have the greenskins too?”

“In a manner of speaking.” I couldn’t very well explain that my basis of knowledge was the realm of fantasy fiction. Words on a page couldn’t gut you and cook you.

“Well let’s hope that your experiences can aid in this war. I know the marshal will be keen to meet you.”

“The marshal?”

“Marshal Randulf Balchester, second cousin to Milton himself. He’s a gruff, but fair man.”

A group of light cavalry approached. “Hold, traveller! What brings you this way?”

“Finneus, it’s me.”

The leader cantered over to the wagon and sheathed his sword. “Romund? What brings you to us outside of the expected schedule?”

Romund pointed to the trailing wagon and the shroud wrapped bodies. “Ill times, my friend. A raiding party of orcs attacked us in broad daylight two noon’s ago.”

Finneus gasped at the news. “Orcs? This deep in the Barrowlands already?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then I’m grateful you were able to fend off their attack. The marshal will want to hear the news.”

“We didn’t fend off anything. They took us by surprise and overwhelmed us in minutes. It was our young friend here who came to our rescue.”

Finneus looked at me and I waved awkwardly. He scowled. “What name do you go by, friend?”

“Mark.”

“Mark? And from where do you hail?”

“Brighton.”

Finneus scowled, his relieved face taking on a decidedly chillier appearance. “Where is this land from which you supposedly hail? It is not known to me.”

Uhoh. This wasn’t going well at all. “Erm, far from here. Very far.”

“And it was you that came to the aid of Peacehaven?”

“We kind of came to each other’s aid. After I’d killed the raid leader, I got caught by their reinforcements.”

Long seconds passed while he stared at me. “And yet here you stand.”

“It’s more sitting really,” I said from my saddle. “But it was Romund and the others who came to my aid and saved me. That’s why I said we helped each other.”

“How did you chance upon their village in their hour of most dire of needs?”

“Right place, right time, I guess.”

“A most fortuitous timing, I agree.” His eyes were ice as they looked me over.

It suddenly dawned on me that the commander thought I might be in cahoots with the goblins. The sword blade which settled against my neck from behind removed all doubt.

“Finneus, what is the meaning of this?” Romund blurted. “He saved us!”

“These are dark times, my friend. Spies have been trying to infiltrate cities across the remainder of our realm. We’ll question your friend and get to the truth of it.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, my skin’s a slightly paler colour!”

“Boglug might be a monster, but he’s not a complete fool. As with all wars, some people will turn traitor if they think it’ll keep them safe. It’s these scurrilous dogs he tries to use against us.”

My anti-bully nature came to the fore and I readied myself. “You might have the drop on me, but if you call me a dog again, we’ll see if I can get to you before your man cuts my head off.” Their icons were neutral. For now. A rat swarm up their arse might well change them to red. The blade at my neck pressed more insistently, drawing blood.

“Mark, please don’t do anything rash,” Romund begged. “I swear we’ll have this resolved in short order.”

Finneus and I glared at each other. I could feel the warm blood trickling down my neck. My temple throbbed with the anger flooding my system. Fighting against the need to lash out, I pictured the villagers and wondered how many others had been put to the sword before I arrived. How many lives lost to the Gutrender army? Too many by far, I surmised. The deaths would weigh heavily on the soldiers no doubt. Relaxing my posture, I held out my wrists for the shackles.

“There’s no need for that,” said Finneus. “Yet.”

“What are you doing to my friend?” Astrid shrieked as I was led away by half of the mounted guardsmen.

“I’ll be fine, Astrid! I’ll meet you inside once I’ve cleared my name.”

“Romund, take your goods to the stores and then see to your dead. I’ll arrange an audience with the marshal in due course.”

“Treat him well, Finneus. He was our salvation.”

“You have my word,” the commander replied. Turning to me, he nodded towards the fortress. “Follow us. And don’t try anything foolish.”

We moved off in a group, myself and my horse at the centre of the procession. Lady tried to bite the other animals as they crowded around us. I heard the scrape of sword leaving a sheath. This was something I wouldn’t let stand, no matter the danger. “If you touch my horse, I’ll burn this whole fucking garrison down.”

“You’re in no position to be making threats, scum,” scoffed the rider who had drawn his sword.

“She’s just nervous because you’re too near her foal. Back off a bit and she’ll be fine.”

“Hmm,” the man grunted, but did as I asked.

Lady settled immediately into a mild grumpiness rather than outright violence and this had a calming effect on the mood of my captors. Bella trotted beside us, her gangly legs flailing awkwardly. I’d always marvelled at the new-borns and how they would be on their feet shortly after birth. Granted, they looked like me after a dozen pints, but it was still incredible. I think I was a year old before my pudgy little dumpling body let go of the sofa and took a step.

As we neared the towering gatehouse, I noticed two moats surrounded the entire structure. The first was a ten foot wide pit of sharpened stakes that made me wince at the thought of falling in. I could still feel the impact of the wargs that carried through to my fingers down the pike. The deep pit could kill thousands if the orcs were stupid enough to charge headlong into it like lemmings.

The second contained the more common water defence which was twice as wide. We came to the drawbridge and dozens of hooves clopped over the iron banded wood. I was regarded by the guards with a mixture of mistrust and wonder. I’d noticed my getup wasn’t anything resembling the local attire.

“Spy?” growled one of the men on duty.

“We’ll see,” said Finneus.

“No spy. Just a wanderer looking to help,” I added.

Finneus glanced back from his saddle. “As I said, we’ll see.”

One of the footmen approached and handed a hood to Finneus who, in turn, tossed it back to me. “Put this on.”

“I won’t be able to see.”

“That’s kind of the point,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a moron.

“I’m not the greatest rider as it is. Add blindness into the mix and I’ll end up breaking my neck.”

“Your Lady will follow us, have no fear. If you are an innocent as you protest, then surely you can understand that we can’t have you seeing anything that could harm the people here?”

I could, but I still didn’t like it. Slipping the sackcloth over my head, I sneezed from the dust and Lady flinched beneath me. I rubbed at her withers and waited to move.

“Let’s go,” said Finneus, leading us on.