The rain has not stopped for three days. It pounds against the stone walls of Ironholt, turning the courtyard into a quagmire of mud and blood. The orc warband that emerged from the Broken Tooth Mountains last week has grown bolder with each passing night.
Lord Commander Aldric called a council this morning. His face was grim as he unrolled the parchment map across the oak table.
“They’ve taken the eastern watchtower,” he said, his voice低沉. “If we lose the East Road, we lose our supply line to the capital.”
I volunteered to lead a night sortie. Twenty of us, cloaked in shadow, moving through the old sewer tunnels that predate the fortress itself. The stench was unbearable, but it masked our approach.
We struck at midnight. Caught them sleeping. Brought back three prisoners and the head of their chieftain.
But the main army is still out there. Tomorrow, we ride for the Broken Tooth. Either we end this, or they end us.
— Sir Kaelen, Knight of the Iron Order