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But as arrows came flying towards them on Lombard\'s orders, not a single one made it past their shields. Not now that they were in the arms of the men.

They crossed that hundred-metre distance between them and the Stormfront encampment with giant strides. The fastest of them broke away first. There was no effort to maintain the line. There were only howls of bloodthirst, and axes brandished, as they rushed across the frozen earth in a single targeted wave of aggression.

They reached the trenches, and leapt.

Gods, they were huge, the soldiers thought again, as they landed within range of their spears. Time and time again, the enemy only seemed to get bigger, as they had marched within range – and now that they were in spear range, it grew even worse.

A spear rushed out, a spear in trained hands. It pierced a Yarmdon man through the chest, blemishing the fur coat that he was wearing. The man glanced down to look at its point, as though stunned. And then his anger took over. With a mighty roar and a long looping swing, he brought his axe crashing down.

It crushed the soldier\'s steel helmet as though it was nothing more than wood, shattering the man\'s skull, and sending him lurching forward in a puddle of his own blood.

With that, the battle was started. More Yarmdon troops leapt over the trenches, rushing towards where that first and fastest man had secured a foothold.

As more spear points pierced the leading giant, finally, the man began to stagger. He gave another wide swing of his axe, a swing that looked like it could fell a tree in a single motion, but Lombard\'s men were wise to that by now. With the fatal wounds assured, they pulled back, allowing the blow to pass harmlessly in front of them.

But even as that man fell, it was hard to grow excited, for there was a whole army of horrifying giants pouring after him.

It was hard for Beam to restrain himself as he watched. He saw a spear shoot out, and then an axe swoop in to match it. There were so many openings. The enemy was so painfully slow. If it was merely this – this calibre of warrior – that stood between him and protecting the village, then he was itching to slay them all.

His heart was unsettled, as it had been all day. The more he thought about how he felt, the less steady he was. He merely wanted to solve the problems that were in front of him, to contribute in some way or another. But Lombard assured him that his most significant contribution would come if he waited.

That was painful for a boy that did not want to think, who could hardly stomach it any more. He\'d still not come to terms with the events of the day, and already a new catastrophe had been thrust upon him. When his hands twitched now, he wasn\'t so sure if it was because of the cold, or whether it was because of fear, or whether it was both.

More Yarmdon pressed against their defences. They had fifty men set up in between the stakes with their spears pointed outwards, ready to intercept the charge of a hundred. Lombard calmly allowed his reserve of bowmen to remain where they were, as they reigned arrow after arrow down upon unsuspecting enemies.

The amount of arrows that managed to make it past shields was relatively few, but it still served to keep the enemy distracted, allowing the spear infantry to land the blows that they needed.

Soon, nearly half of that charging first wave had made it across the trenches.

"Flamebearers – light it."

And then Lombard gave the order.

The first stage in an otherwise rather limited defensive strategy. Those starting fifty Yarmdon men were all engaged in furious combat, whilst another ten or so were still scrambling through the trench, coating themselves in oil.

A torch was tossed through the air. It seemed almost careless. Like a man tossing a scrap to the dogs. Beam\'s eyes traced the torch. There was little else he could do until he was given the order to move. He saw how the soldiers reacted to it, almost fearful.

It took only a moment for him to find out why.

To Beam, it didn\'t even look like the torch had made contact with the oil before it burst in a cough of flame. Its spread was near instantaneous. One moment there was a torch, the next a great flash of light, and then in the third instant, every Yarmdon man that had fallen into the trench was now a ball of fire.

And then the screams began.

It was a horrific noise. Absolutely bone curdling. The Yarmdon battle cry earlier had been something fearsome, enough to shake their hearts. But it was in the same way that a bear caused fear – it was an instinctual fear of the mighty, and of the strong. This here was something much darker, something that played the music of all the Dark Gods.

It was the height of suffering, and of agony.

This same breed of men, who had been able to take a spear point to the chest, seemingly unfazed, were now reduced to howling balls of flame, as they collapsed to their knees, as desperately rolled, trying to put the fire out.

The furs that they all wore did not seem to help. The oil burned them viciously.

The Yarmdon that had made it safely over the trench could hear such cries at their back. The height of agony and suffering. Their gazes wandered, as they even began to feel the heat on them.