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His men could be captives. And his sister, his only living family. Loraine.

Ayul realised he was pacing, and stopped. There was no choice to be made here. It was already made for him.

*

King Thesius could not help but smile. The thought of it sent a thrill through his body, the extent of which he had not felt for what seemed an age. He pulled the sleeve up on his right arm, revealing a scar on his forearm. A star shaped marking - the very same as could be found on the arm of his General - and one that identified him as chosen by the gods. Chosen from birth to be a leader amongst men. Chosen to be great.

Thesius had been a fearsome warrior in his prime. But even he could not match the prowess of Ayul. The General was born favoured beyond anyone in Thesius' memory - perhaps more so than anyone in Tyrill's long and storied history.

Through the capture of one woman, the Barbarians had lost themselves a war.

*

The cabinet contained every weapon Ayul had ever owned. He sought only one. Allanryl - "Holy Blade" in the lost tongue - a sword passed down to him from his father, as had been the way for generations. The star shaped marking on his right forearm burned as he clenched unwilling fingers around the decorated handle. Drawing it from its ornate scabbard, he swung the sword through the air effortlessly. It was perfect, in every sense of the word. A beautiful item created for hideous deeds; its flight was smooth, its slim blade speaking of fragility, whilst maintaining an unsuspecting strength. It was easy to become mesmerised by such a thing. Ayul closed the cabinet and forced himself to sheath his family's enchanting heirloom.

Outside, another defence party was gathering, readying themselves to flow out of the gate and give their lives for Tyrill. Ayul privately thanked the heavens for his timing as he joined them, wordlessly striding to the front of the group. Sorrowful chins lifted. His very presence altered the mood of every man present. Awed whispers filled the air as Ayul turned to face the brave soldiers before him.

'Soldiers of Tyrill,' he said, slicing cleanly through the murmuring. 'My blood boils at the thought of fighting under our King's banner, for he is as honourable as a snake. But it is an honour to fight with you. Never have I stood amongst such noble soldiers - such great men. If this is the last time we raise our swords together, so be it, but I will thank the heavens for giving me this chance. I fight with you now not for the King but for the people. For our people. Now prepare yourselves, and fight as one!'

The all-too familiar bell sounded, warning of the next Barbarian charge. Ayul turned, and the castle doors swung open. The ancient, rusted gate clanked and churned upwards. Through the archway came a frightful view. The Horde was coming.

Ayul charged, roaring the battle cry of his father, and his father's father. It bolstered as the ranks of soldiers behind him took it up, fuelled by adrenaline. The Barbarian charge seemed never ending. They came. They came. Arrows showered down upon them, but still the came.