Elmric called to Rini during a few seconds respite during the fight, "Use your fire skills to set the two trolls that my spear is lodged in on fire, I need to grab it before we retreat within the walls."

Rini nodded, and Elmric and Jim guarded him while he shot a fire bolt at the dead trolls, their flesh vanishing. Elmric rushed forward after putting up his mace, grabbed the spear, then got bashed by a Trollish shield. Jim and Rini rushed forward with 60 men each to guard Elmric's semi-consious body while he shook off the effects of the vicious blow. If it wasn't for the, now dissapated, holy shield, Elmric would've been on the brink of death. Two trolls rushed forward, preparing to do the same thing to Jim and Rini, but six militiamen threw themselves in front of their commanders, taking the blow and dying...Jim and Rini avenged them with two swift strikes. Elmric stood up, shakily, and yelled, "RETREAT MEN! GET INSIDE THE GATES!" Elmric and his forces hastily retreated within the walls, Troll and Gargoyle alike hot on their heels.

Standing in the corpse-filled and blood-soaked northern breach, Raenor wiped at the water and sweat running down his face, smearing blood, dirt and sweat against his skin. In a furious counter-attack, his company had swarmed over the howling trolls and, thanks to surprise, had achieved a brief respite: the trolls had been forced back to the other side of the wall to regroup and allow reinforcements through.

The victory had come at a high price though: looking around, Raenor counted barely 35 militiamen still standing. The rest were either dead or too grievously wounded to continue fighting. Of the 35 survivors, there were only a dozen or so untouched by physical injury, and each man was exhausted from the combat. The dead scattered across the breach would have been deceptive to an outside observer, who would chalk the combat up as the opening round. Raenor gritted his teeth as the trolls poured through the breach again, strengthened by reinforcements. Loosing two arrows, Raenor was satisfied to see a troll stagger mid-stride and crash into the broken barricade, where it lay unmoving. Unsheathing his sword, he stood at the front of his men.

"Steady men!" he roared as the surging wave of trolls crashed into their ranks. Seven militiamen fell to the ground in that charge, with only two getting up again. Raenor darted in and around the larger, slower trolls, striking once or twice and moving on, always returning to the head of his company. In his movements he fell two trolls in with sweeps, thrusts, or slashes, and he always moved back to stand with his men. The swordsmen followed the same tactics as before: where possible, they outnumbered the trolls and brought them down through sheer weight of numbers. These tactics, though, were doing little to stem what had become a clear path into the flank of Durin's company. Stabbing a howling behemoth in the stomach, Raenor twisted the sword and then drew it out, deciding that his men would have to fall back to somewhere. For the moment, the only clear line of retreat was towards Durin's position.

Directing an orderly retreat in combat - especially against a numerically superior and better trained adversary - is a difficult thing. Calling a retreat disheartens the men and emboldens the enemy, making a rout even more likely. Instead of calling a retreat, Raenor 'herded' the combat. Creating a firm front with the surviving militiamen, he raced up and down that line. His men, knowing they were relatively safe near him, began to keep to his flanks and rear as they fought trolls sword and fist. Step by painful step, he led his men in a gradual retreat, forcing the enemy to fight and bleed for every inch of ground they took from the defenders. Minute upon long minute, he led his dwindling forces towards Durin's steadily lessening company, holding the flank, praying that someone had figured a way out of this mess. Soon, his company was standing next to Durin's company, facing trolls from the north and the west. In spite of the horrendous losses and burning fatigue which had begun to numb even his own body, the surviving militiamen in his company - now number barely a dozen -fought on, grimly holding their ground until they were slain.

In this bloodbath, a few moments of heroism and valour stood out: some were personal victories for Raenor, but most spoke to the strength of the Gole militia. A wounded militiaman had been set upon by a raging troll, seemingly a captain by his armour: mortally wounded, he took up his sword and passed it through the troll's stomach. With a sharp cry of pain, the troll fell on top of the militiaman, and there the two lay, entangled in death. In another instance, a single soldier had lured three trolls away from a group of men helping the wounded to safety behind the company, buying them time to find safety, at the cost of his own life.

"How much longer can this last sir?" one of his surviving company called as he grappled a troll, finally freeing himself when his nearby companion sliced deep into the troll's chest and sent its hot crimson blood spraying onto the ground. "We can't hold them for very much longer...most of our company's gone."

"Keep fighting!" Raenor ordered as he spun and stabbed a troll through the throat as it raised its axe to strike him from ambush. It sank to its knees and died, its axe holding it disturbingly upright. Not far from where he stood, Raenor could see Durin and the swordsman...Darren, he belived the man's name was, fighting furiously against the trolls threatening the northern breach. Darren's company, slightly fresher than the other two, had taken a diagonal position to face the two lines of advance, and already the wounded and dying from the other companies were taking refuge behind that line. It wouldn't be very long before his own company was taking refuge behind those men. It seemed unthinkable that his own company had held for this long, several minutes, by his reckoning.

So the combat continued, with men fighting and dying with every step back, leaving their friends and brothers where they fell - slowly retreating before an implacable and unstoppable enemy - waiting for something to give them a new hope. Scores of men and trolls lay dead and dying between the walls of Gole and where they now stood, and more would fall before this battle ended.

Elmric, Jim, Rini, and the forces that remained under his command, about 40 men, the Elder, and both priestess, created a defensive formation, the Elder and priestesses in the center.
"Let us pray so that we may be strengthened, and drive back this foul enemy." Elmric said to the priestesses as he entered the center of the formation.

"Jim, keep a watch! Rini, I want you to bring out your bow again and shoot fast!"

Elmric and the priestesses bowed down reverently in the center of the formation, in the center of the town, and began to pray, to strengthen the forces that remained, and to heal them as best they could.

This was indeed a sore sight for Durin and the defenders. The enemy seemed both inexhaustible and endless in number. The militia’s numbers were dwindling and could not hold these savage beasts at bay.

Axe held high, Durin continued to wade though the battlefield. Coming down hard on a nearby troll, Durin painted his armor with a new coat of red. Another troll charged forward, whether out of remorse for its fallen comrade or mindless bloodlust, it found itself moving to Durin. In the time it took the troll to cover that ground, three more militia men had been slashed, gashed, and crushed by the forceful foe. Durin turned to face the troll as it came within range of his axe and with a solid blow, planted the blade deep within the monstrosity’s chest.

Having lost all sense of time in the chaos of battle, Durin was beginning to question what could take Aieris this long. Every minute seemed the hour, and every hour cost a score of lives. “RETREAT!” came the call from a familiar voice. This word was like honey to the dwarf’s ear. Retreating was not an idea Durin enjoyed, but this was a slaughter. A retreat now could mean a difference of twenty lives in the end. Durin immediately spotted Elmric and what was left of his troops pouring in the through shattered gate. This was a welcome sight indeed! Any reinforcements were happily welcomed. The company could be seen continuing through what was left of Durin’s scattered men.

**THUD**

In his distraction Durin had not noticed the troll approaching and finally slamming into him with the full force of its grotesque form. Durin lay on the ground next to many of the men he had led to their bloody demise. Dazed and rather shocked by the sudden blow, Durin had totally lost sight of what had struck him. --- Ah! A hazy shape came into Durin’s view. Arms raised in triumph, the form rose what looked like a club for the final blow. Still too dumbstruck to react, Durin simply lay there, contemplating his failure to defend his home. A fierce roar from the troll shot Durin back into the reality of his situation. It was too late, the club was near completing its destructive swing by the time Durin had come to his senses.

But there was nothing. The troll seemed to go limp, then mysteriously collapsed. Durin thanked the gods for protecting him as he noticed Raenor removing his blade from the torso of the freshly slain brute.

“That troll nearly shortened you by another head, master dwarf.” Raenor quipped.
“Ha! I was within a beard’s length of death! Many thanks, good Raenor.” came Durin’s reply.

Taking to his feet once more, Durin looked over the mass of bodies. “I wish that archer lass would hurry up. These lads won’t last if she doesn’t put away the tea a moment. My thanks to ye once more, Raenor.” With this Durin slung his axe over his shoulder and worked his way towards another soon to be dead troll.

As she finished her count to five minutes, Aieris stood. The battle around the gates was getting worse, and part of the militia was already starting a slow retreat.

“Durin, you had better see this,” she muttered as she drew one of her arrows from its quiver.

Lighting the arrow aflame, she fired it low over the heads of the militia, and into the groups of Venurians behind.

Pulling another arrow from her quiver, she prepared to fire again if it looked like the militia was not about to retreat.

Gorn looked up and paused from his arcane chanting suddenly. Drawing his shortsword, he walked to Elmric as the paladin finished off a troll warrior.

"Prepare to retreat as the others will, we must all follow the same plan or many lives will be lost." He turned and began moving north again towards Durin, Raenor, Darren, and the militia protecting the fallen gate. The acolytes soon finished their prayers, wielded their maces, and followed the Elder.

Some random militia became confused by their actions and followed the unprotected trio without request, but most were simply overtaken by the chaos the battle had become, failing to notice even the simplest details.

Gorn met up with Durin, Raenor, and Darren at the back lines of the militia force which protected the gate. They had moved away from the front lines of battle to better focus on commanding the force and preparing for the imminent retreat. The acolytes soon followed as they caught up to the elderly elf.

"What are ye doin' here, master Gorn?" Durin was shocked and confused to see the Elder suddenly in the thick of the battle, redoubling even moreso as he noticed the two young acolytes.

"You will need help during the retreat, we are here to provide it." Gorn replied, taking up a battle stance as he did so. A faint green aura illuminated both of his hands. He closed his eyes and began muttering something incomprehensible.

Celeste came face to face with Raenor and looked at him with an awkward glance. She almost seemed to be looking in to him. Without a word she touched his face, gliding her soft hand slowly across his cheek. A blueish glow weaved around her hand as she continued, and the cut on Raenor's face disappeared. His entire body surged with energy again, the aching in his limbs fading away as fast as the stormy gusts of wind. She retracted her hand and looked at him normally. She smiled faintly before looking away and moving on to the others.

Amelia performed a similar procedure on Durin and Darren simultaneously. Their nicks and scratches faded away as if they had never occurred, and their bodies felt as rejuvenated as they did before the battle had started. She finished her chanting and looked at them both, then moved back to protect Gorn.


Suddenly, a flaming arrow whizzed overhead and stuck itself into the ground near the gate.

"Well men, it's time to fall back, and go out of the southern gate! Double time!" Elmric shouted to his soldiers, and they began going towards the south gate, stopping about five feet from it to wait for the other men momentarily. Trolls and Gargoyles were already beginning to pour through the breaches in massive droves, and Elmric only hoped the others noticed the signal.

The flaming arrow had barely struck earth when Durin began roaring orders, his axe still falling around him. A fierce counter-stroke from the surviving militia followed, forcing the trolls back, at least for a moment. With that done, Durin put the second half of the plan into motion with the comment: "Took haer long enough! Lads, 'tis high time we took our leeve of our fine foe! Everyone, start headin' to tha southern gate!"

"You heard the dwarf!" Raenor called to his remaining company, now numbering about five. "Get to the southern gate! GO!" Within moments, his surviving company had started beating a hasty retreat, occasionally glancing over their shoulders at the blood-soaked field they had abandoned only moments before.

"I hope you've got a plan," Raenor commented as the troops began bounding away from the trolls and gargoyles, who were already recovering from the counter-stroke and preparing to pursue the militiamen.

"Aye lad," Durin said. "It pains me haart, but we're givin' up Gole to tha foe. Tha militia's retreatin' thruugh tha suthern gate and swingin' inta tha woods to tha west."

"A sound plan," Raenor said. "The archers are covering our retreat?"

"Aye," During nodded as the trolls and gargoyles began bounding after the retreating militiamen.

"And the southern gate has been secured?"

"What exactly do ya mean by that?" Durin asked, puzzled.

"I mean that someone has gone up one of the watchtowers to find out what exactly is on the other side of the gate, so our forces don't run into a trap and die in an ambush," came the reply. "You've done that, haven't you? We're certain that it is safe to go out the southern gate?"

Judging by the expression on Durin's face, this had not been in the plan. "Durin, keep the remaining men together, and keep heading towards the southern gate. We're committed to this line of retreat now. Gods help us."

With those words, Raenor began running as fast as he could towards the southern gate. If the enemy were waiting there, he would at least have time to keep the militia from making the fatal error of opening the gate. If the enemy weren't present, the retreat could continue unhindered. Time seemed meaningless as he raced past a rather startled Aieris, who shouted something barely acknowledged by Raenor. His focus was on the gate and tower. Moments later, he arrived at the base of one of the watchtowers and began bounding up the stairs, two by two, his legs burning from fatigue, but motivated by fear and concern: for himself and the Gole militia. Reaching a high enough point, he leapt to the railing and looked out over the which began just outside the southern gate.

The area beyond the southern gate was clear of any enemies. Raenor then scanned to the east, only seeing the Venurians pouring in by the dozen through its single wall breach at the far northern end. To the west, the Forest of Gole seemed unusually peaceful, even under the gloomy blanket of the storm.

Then, the horn sounded. A long, droning horn from the northern gate. Raenor, and chances are, most of the militia, all looked to the noise. Horror swept over the ranger's facial expression as quickly as the forty elite gargoyles had climbed the northern watchtowers. He watched as they jumped off the third and second floor, flapping their wings and making an overwhelming pursuit of the retreating militia.

As if they were a coordinated flock of birds, the gargoyles all dove at once. Angling their polearms for the kill, the cries of the militiamen could be heard clearly even at Raenor's distance. At least thirty were slain in the initial dive, most of them not even knowing what had killed them.

The reformed legions of trolls and gargoyles on the ground began a charge in the direction of the fleeing defenders of Gole.

Halfway between the barricades at the center of the town and the north gate, Gorn and the two acolytes held their ground, preparing to contend with the swooping gargoyles and the charging horde. Militiamen ran past them, often looking confused. Several stopped and stayed to protect their Elder, even against the totally impossible odds.

Raenor had made a mistake. In other circumstances, it might not have really mattered, but as it was, he was not where he should be, and all he could do was watch helplessly as the wheeling gargoyles speared and threw down the defenceless militiamen, rolling and diving like there wasn't a care in the world. Those who were still retreating were running now, abandoning all semblance of order or courage. In circumstances such as these, Raenor didn't blame them.

As he watched the retreat become a rout, he had an idea. Elmric and his company were already by the southern gate, near him. Running down the stairs to one of the lower levels, he raced to the side of the tower, and shouted down to the archer standing by the gate: "OPEN THE GATE! OPEN IT NOW!!"

"SIR...THE PLAN WAS..." came the protest from the archer.

The angry rumbling dwarven cursing which sprang from Raenor's lips surprised the archer. Though he couldn't understand it, the note of anger was clear. "Opening the gate sir!"