At dawn, the fog swallowed Damu whole.
The mist that rose from the cold waters of the Nauulaat River tangled with the damp breath of Tharn Forest and refused to lift, even past noon. By the time the sun stood high, its light still could not pierce the white veil. On the ramparts, soldiers could see no farther than ten cubits. A thick, unmoving curtain had wrapped the forest and the city in its damp embrace.
On the western wall's watchtower, a Dawi soldier narrowed his eyes and stared into that blankness. A white wall. Motionless. He tightened his grip on his spear, then loosened it. Moisture from the fog slicked his palm.
Beyond the fog, sounds drifted across the hidden world.
Trees cracking. Heavy, dull impacts rolling out of the forest. Then the steady rhythm of axes—thud… thud… thud. The soldier guessed they were felling timber for siege towers, ladders, or stakes.
Sometimes the chopping sounded close enough to be right beneath the wall. He lifted his spear and aimed into the mist. Nothing. Only sound, directionless and distorted.
Orc voices rose now and then—rough shouts, laughter, raw commands—twisting through the fog. Minotaur bellows answered. The mist warped every noise; distance and bearing became impossible to judge.
While the soldiers watched, the fog kept shifting. For a heartbeat the far edge of Tharn Forest would appear, then vanish again. Whether shapes moved among the trees or the eyes were merely playing tricks, no one could tell.
As the sun sank, the light thinned and the air cooled. The fog thickened instead. The walls' outlines softened, the pale daylight bled away.
Night came.
Torches bloomed one by one along Damu's ramparts. The sharp smell of burning oil spread. Flames leaned in the wind, then straightened. Their light did not conquer the fog; it simply stopped at its edge. Within a few paces the stones glowed dull red; beyond that, the world dissolved into milky white.
Soldiers clustered along the battlements. Some leaned over the merlons, staring down. Others stood with spears upright, scanning the sky. As the night deepened, the circle of torchlight shrank until fire and fog pressed almost against each other. Everyone's eyes kept returning to the moat, invisible just beyond the wall.
That was how the first day ended. No orc arrows whistled out of the mist. No thunder of minotaur hooves shook the ground before the gates.
*****
Second Day
Before sunrise, the sentries spotted faint lights moving in the fog.
Not one—many. Small, hazy flames drifting slowly toward the wall.
"Lights!"
a soldier shouted, turning.
"Lights are coming!"
The cry ran along the rampart. Soldiers rose, spears lifted, bowstrings drawn. Every eye fixed on the glowing points below.
Banda strode among them, armor clinking. He stopped where a soldier pointed, leaned over the battlement, and peered down.
The fog lay low this morning, hugging the ground like a shallow sea. From the watchtower top, treetops floated above it; distant forest showed in faint outline. But directly beneath the wall, the moat and the land were completely hidden.
Still the lights moved—ten, twenty, thirty—then too many to count. Torches, clearly.
"How many?" a low, heavy voice asked beside him.
Gardon had come. He stood like a shadow, helm turned toward the mist.
"Too many to be sure. But not a handful."
Banda answered.
Gardon nodded. The lights drew nearer. Now shadows could be seen beneath them—small, scurrying shapes.
"Goblins." Rilbeur said from the battlement. Wings folded, he perched like a carved sentinel.
"Goblins?" Gardon echoed.
"That size, that gait—yes, goblins."
Banda stared harder. The fog flowed like slow smoke even without wind. The torches vanished for a moment—right where the moat should be, thirty cubits out.
Then the sounds began.
"Grak-ka-ka-ka!"
"Nek-tah-tah!"
High, scraping laughter burst from the mist—dozens of voices overlapping, some directly below, others echoing from farther away.
Wood knocking. Leather stretching. The clack of small tools.
"They're building water boats." Banda said.
"Water boats?" Gardon asked.
"Crude rafts and hide boats. The river goblins use them often."
Gardon gave a short nod and walked the wall, voice carrying.
"Spears and bows ready. They mean to cross the moat."
Soldiers moved at once. Dawi hefted short throwing spears. Muwa soldiers manifested hands of light to grip shafts and rose into the air. Archers nocked arrows, strings creaking.
Splash… splash.
Oars in water.
"Vark-zug-zug!" (Hurry, hurry!)
The goblin voices were closer now.
Plop… plop… plop.
The steady rhythm of paddles.
"They're crossing." Banda said, leaning farther out.
A faint breeze from the river stirred the fog. For a few heartbeats the veil parted.
Dozens of makeshift craft floated on the moat—lashed planks, hide-covered frames, log rafts, even bark canoes. Each carried five to ten goblins, small green bodies rowing furiously. Hundreds of them.
Then the mist closed again.
More splashing. More goblin chatter.
"Zukk-shaa-ha." (Almost there.)
Metal clinked—daggers, small axes, spears. A boat grated against the far bank. Wet feet slapped mud.
Squelch… squelch… squelch.
They were running straight for the wall.
Small shadows coalesced out of the white. Hunched figures, pointed ears, glistening green skin. Some paused to gulp from leather pouches; sticky green liquid ran down their chins. They laughed, foam on their lips, eyes wild.
They reached the stones and began to climb—fingers scrabbling, feet slipping on the smooth face. Ropes with grapples flew up, scraped, and fell back.
"Now!" Banda's voice cracked like a whip.
"Throw!"
Spears hissed downward.
Thud. Thud-thud.
"Skra-ghaaat!"
"Gakh!"
Screams ripped through the fog.
More spears followed. Muwa hurled them with glowing hands; Dawi threw with all the strength of their broad shoulders. Then the bowstrings sang—twang—arrows vanishing into the mist.
"Keeeeek! Kyaak!"
Panic flooded the goblin voices.
"Nok-tar-ghat!" (We must flee!)
Feet pattered wildly back toward the moat. Splashes. Boats rocking. Goblins shoving one another, fighting for space, pushing weaker ones into the water.
"Kieeeek!!"
Some never made it. The wounded and the slow screamed beneath the wall while their kin scrambled aboard and rowed desperately away.
Then—silence.
Only the fog remained, thick and white and still.
Banda lowered his spear and drew a long, cold breath. The other soldiers eased their weapons.
He turned to Gardon, still standing at the battlement like a statue.
"Grand Warlord. The goblins have fled."
"How many did we kill?"
"Hard to say in this fog, but a good number."
Gardon nodded.
"Rilbeur?"
"He took the winged soldiers down to finish the rest."
Moments later, wingbeats descended into the mist. Short, sharp screams rose and were cut off. The winged soldiers returned, feathers dark with fresh blood.
"It is done." Rilbeur reported.
"Well done." Gardon told the troops. "But stay sharp."
He turned back to the fog and listened.
Too quiet.
Then, from deep in Tharn Forest, a new sound rolled across the hidden distance.
Boom… boom… boom… boom.
Heavy, deliberate. The heartbeat of war.
"Drums." Banda said.
Gardon's voice was iron.
"Orc drums."