The keep's gates slammed shut with a boom that echoed across the valley, iron bars dropping into place like the jaws of a trap snapping closed. Borg stood on the battlements, his bruised face pale in the torchlight, hands gripping the stone parapet so hard his knuckles felt like they were about to break in two.
The orcs below bustled in frantic chaos—reinforcing the walls with timber braces, piling boulders at weak points, setting extra watches with horns and signal fires. The air was thick with the acrid smell of pitch from freshly lit torches and the sharp tang of fear-sweat from warriors who had just fled like whipped dogs. Borg's orders had come fast and furious:
"Fence us in! No one leaves until dawn! That white-haired bitch is out there!" Borg screamed at the top of his lungs.
