As the sun rose the next day, most of the men were still sleeping, and those that woke up were nursing a hangover, swarming around the well in front of the barracks and pulling the rope to get the bucket of water as soon as possible.

  "You’ll feel okay by the next evening," Nogryl said as Henry carried water to the sickly-looking Alwin.

  Alwin’s eyes were half closed, his hair messed up, and his skin sickly pale. He looked like a human embodiment of a dried fig.

  "I just want to die," the man said and turned in his bed.

  "About the girl, will you really take her with you?"

  "I cannot think about any girl at this moment, Nogryl; I’ll never drink again after this."

  "Good, don’t think about her; let’s hope that she forgets."

  The day slowly passed as the men rested and fought their hangovers, and by the evening, everyone was back to normal, as they completed the final preparations, polishing their armors and sharpening their weapons, their long spears, poleaxes, and their blades.

  The very next day, the troops were awakened by the sound of a trumpet, and like a machine, they all sprung into action, well-rested and prepared, grabbing their weapons and quickly sliding into their armors like a turtle caught off-guard walking around its shell.

  In a matter of minutes, a river of armored soldiers poured out of the barracks and into the street, where they were greeted by the townsfolk on their way towards the city gate. Nogryl and Alwin were at the head of the convoy, together with the mounted knights on their horses, and Aryon was there too, unlike Henry, who was marching with the armored legions behind.

  "Hey! Alwin!"

  The girl yelled and rushed towards him with a large leather bag on her back before he grabbed her by the arm and lifted her on his horse in a single quick motion.

  "I knew you’d come," the young man responded, and Nogryl realized it was clearly too late to stop Eleanor from joining and putting herself in danger, so he decided to keep his mouth shut.

  As the army marched through the gate, they went down the large old road between the golden fields as the peasants harvested their crops and far away towards the Yellowshire, where Sir Collin and Daymon joined them, together with many militiamen from the town and a handful of mounted troops, together with the knights from different orders.

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  "Nice to see you, Nogryl; you really grew up," the now middle-aged Sir Daymon proclaimed as he greeted the champion of mankind. His large warhammer rested upon his back, and Sir Collin joined Aryon Smite and other paladins.

  As the armies of men marched down the road like a river of steel and spears, less numerous divisions joined from the side roads that connected the nearby villages with the main road, marching in unison as the pack mules carried their rations while the autumn wind carried the dancing leaves.

  The village militias were much less equipped than the heavily armored legions from the capital city, much like the militiamen from Lindenrow back in the day before the town was overrun with ur’gluns.

  As the armies of the kingdom slowly gathered, the ur’glun spies reported their movement directly to their Warchief.

  "Warchief! The humans! They are on the move! Large armies yet unseen by the ur’glun eyes! At least a thousand of them!"

  One of the ur’gluns yelled through a heavy breath in the Warchief’s tent as the night slowly settled, and before him was Nal’zuk, sitting on an elevated wooden throne, with a white wolf skin on his shoulders that contrasted the dark color of his armor. Beside him, two Rugol archers stood guard, and his enormous wolf gnawed on a seemingly human bone.

  "Take a rest, and then tell me more!" He yelled as he clenched his fist nervously, and after a short while, the scout spoke:

  "There are many of them; together with the mounted knights, they are marching from the east down the old road!"

  "Such arrogance! The ur’gluns rightfully conquered the western far reaches of the kingdom for themselves! The Oldwood is now known as the Weeping Woods, and it belongs to us!" he screamed in a crooked voice.

  "Bring me Morkaag!"

  As soon as he said it, the scout rushed out of the tent as his long ears dangled behind his head, and not much later, the large ur’glun appeared.

  "So what is it that you need?" his deep voice questioned.

  "A plan, brother! We need a plan!" Nal’zuk growled as he stood up from his throne that was surrounded by human skulls.

  "Summon the tribes; we’ll meet them at the field!" Morkaag suggested.

  "No! That’s what they are counting on! We’ll wait inside the woodland where their horses are rendered useless, and sooner or later they will run out of resources and have to chase after us!" the Warchief yelled. "And if they linger on the field too long, they will grow accustomed to our presence, and they’ll stop expecting a night raid! An unexpected diversion aiming to burn their resources and take as many lives as we can before a quick retreat! We’ll terrorize the nearby villages and ambush what troops they send from the main group to stop us! And if we manage to break apart their army bit by bit, the entire western half of the kingdom will be at our mercy!"

  "Wise words, Chief!" the larger ur’glun replied.

  "Prepare your clan; we must rally every single ur’glun tribe beneath the mountain! Distribute the spears and blades that we forged and prepare them for a battle!" Nal’zuk’s raspy voice rattled.

  As soon as the Warchief spoke, Morkaag left the tent, and a sudden sound of a horn pierced the silence in the night, followed by many weeps and howls of the beasts that rushed into the forest to rally the clans.

  The sound of weapons clinking against each other carried from their racks to the open square of the now plundered ruins of Lindenrow.