Fortifying the Pass of Worr Croa

Workers turn from the marked dirt lines and drive on, stone and timber rising in a tight rhythm under Eruc’s glare. Druk watches the yard harden into a fort before his eyes.

Then a rumble rolls down from the treeline. It grows into a stomping crash, and the mountain edge erupts as a twenty-foot, two-headed giant batters trees aside like brush.

Below it, a pack of large dire wolves flashes through the trunks and over roots, snapping at its legs. The giant swings a crude club and bellows with both mouths, furious and off-balance.

Druk has the shape of the problem now, a giant raid colliding with his new defenses. The yard falls silent around the answer: hold the construction line, arm the mounts, and make the mountain come to him.

His order snaps through the yard. Crossbows pivot at once, bolts climbing toward the giant's shouting mouths while workers duck behind stone and timber.

Druk breaks from the line and charges for the gatehouse run, boots thudding over packed dirt as Eruc's mounted weapon waits under the half-built frame.

At the front gate, the heavy crossbow comes free in Druk's grasp, oversized and ready. A smith's wax marks still cling to the stock, and the string is already set tight.

Above the yard, the giant lurches sideways under the first impacts, both heads snapping toward the sting. The wolves scatter around its legs, suddenly thrown off their rush.

Druk plants himself at the gate line with the heavy bow, the construction site now a battle station around him, and the next volley waits for his aim.

The crank thumps under Druk’s grip. The heavy bow jumps, and the bolt tears out toward the giant’s face.

It catches high, near the eyes, and the two heads jerk apart in a howl of pain and rage.

Behind the line, more bolts snap over the yard. The wolves falter at the giant’s feet, no longer driving straight at the wall.

Eruc leans into the mount, shouting adjustments as the gate frame shudders with the strain of firing.

The giant throws one arm up to shield its face, stumbling sideways into its own charge path while the wolves bunch and recoil.

The unfinished yard holds. The killing lane is live, and the next shot hangs on Druk’s timing.

Druk works the crank again, shoulders set, and the heavy bow bucks against him. Another bolt leaps out through the gate lane.

It slams into the giant’s face line, grazing one eye and punching the heads apart. The brute reels harder, arms windmilling as blood and rage blind its rush.

The wolves snap and scatter around the giant’s boots, no longer driving straight. Their pack line breaks into snarling knots in the grass.

Eruc shouts from the mount, shoving the frame a finger-width to the left as the gate braces groan and settle under the strain.

Druk’s shot forces the giant sideways, off the wallward path and into open ground. The construction line holds, and the next opening is now plain.

Druk works the crank hard, but the giant jerks its head at the wrong instant. The bolt whistles past one eye and sparks off the old wound line instead.

The two heads snap apart in different directions, and the beast’s shoulders twist with the motion. Its charge breaks into a stumbling sidestep that drags it farther from the wall line.

A wolf darts in low, then bails out as the giant’s boot slams down where the lane narrows. The pack loses its shape completely, circling in snarls instead of pressing forward.

Eruc hauls the mounted frame back into alignment, but the recoil has already shoved the brace off true. The firing angle is tighter now, and the next shot has a narrower path.

Druk keeps the weapon shouldered as the giant blunders sideways into open grass, no longer an easy face-on target. Its nearer head drops behind the other, guarded and shaking.

The lane still holds, but the giant is turning its bulk toward the construction line, and the wolves are spreading wide around the edges.

Druk plants his stance and whispers the working under his breath. The grass under the giant’s lead foot darkens, then gives way like soaked ash.

The earth sinks in a sudden bowl beneath the two-headed brute. Its knees buckle, and the club jerks wide as its weight drops into the trap.

The giant’s lower body plunges deeper, one leg vanishing to the thigh. Dirt sprays up around its shins as it twists, snarling at the wall line.

The wolves recoil from the sudden pit, skidding wide instead of rushing the breach. Their circle loosens, thrown off by the broken footing.

The sinking patch steadies into a deep, ugly hollow between the giant and the unfinished wall. The path is forced sideways, and the next move hangs on Druk’s order.

Druk shifts his grip, shapes the words of power, and sends the spell at the giant’s split minds. The harsh trade-talks of mountain folk slip into his understanding, rough but clear.

Both heads snarl, then falter as the magic settles. Their words now come through plain, carrying fear of the hollow beneath them and anger at the wolves circling wide.

The giant stops straining for a breath, listening. The wolves keep low at the edge of the mud, and the unfinished wall stands between talk and violence.

Both giant heads angle toward the wall line, then back to the mud at its trapped leg. The wolves stay low, restless at the rim, and the skewed firing frame holds on the brink of another volley.

The giant’s right head barks a laugh, but the left one bares its teeth toward the wolves. The pack slows at the rim, ears back, as the words land harder than the bolts.

The giant plants its free foot, then drags its trapped leg sideways through the mud, angling away from the unfinished wall. The wolves break left with it, no longer looking brave.

The firing frame settles on the retreating flank, no longer chasing a charge. The construction line stays standing, and the immediate path to the wall opens behind the withdrawing giant.

Druk lowers the crossbow just enough to show the order is finished, then points after the withdrawing shapes. Hands move along the wall line, and the nearest ogres begin collecting spent bolts and stray arrows from the mud.

The Crossbow Leader nods once and sends the retrieval detail out at a trot, keeping the firing line disciplined while the target keeps moving. Eruc watches the yard with a craftsman’s calm, already measuring what can be salvaged.

Druk draws on his pipe, the ember flaring red beneath the wall’s rough edge. Smoke curls out slow, and the tension in the yard eases into a practical, working silence.

The last of the giant’s retreat opens a clear lane beyond the hollow. Below the wall, the construction yard stays intact, with the unfinished stonework still waiting for the next lift of labor.

Druk raises his hand, and the yard answers at once. Voices snap into a new rhythm as the labor crews are told to stand down from the wall line and take supper in turns.

Archers peel off in ordered pairs, handing their places to fresh hands while the retrieval crews keep working the mud below. The unfinished stonework stays guarded, but the pace around it shifts from battle strain to a working dinner drill.

A serving line opens near the yard edge, and the nearest ogres begin to queue with bowls and mugs. The pipe smoke thins over the parapet as the castle settles into a disciplined pause.

Below, the muddy hollow remains watched and empty, while above it the wall crews eat in rotation under arms. The construction site stays secure, with no one left milling about the danger line.

Druk turns the order on the spot, and the work crews answer with nods and quick hands. The crossbow line gets a new task, fitting thick gloves into the load chain for men whose palms are not hard enough for raw rope and frost-bitten wood.

Eruc is already pointing at the packing table, calling for measured sizes and spare hides. A few laborers peel off from the supper line and start sorting leather strips, cord, and waxed stitching.

The Crossbow Leader raises two fingers, and a pair of crew bosses hurry toward the stores below the wall. The order spreads cleanly, from firing teams to leatherworkers, without breaking the watch.

By the time the first bowls are emptied, the glove run is already being measured out beside the crossbow stacks. The wall stays guarded, fed, and now better suited to a long haul of loading.

The forge runner arrives with a leather apron over one arm, listening hard as the two officers start naming measurements and uses. A few laborers nearby slow their hands to hear the list.

Eruc marks the air with quick, precise gestures, already dividing the yard in his head. The Crossbow Leader points toward the inner wall, where a practice lane can be tucked beneath the parapet without stealing open ground.

The forge runner nods and turns for the stores, while the crew around the packing table starts reshuffling leather and cord for the new orders. The wall line stays calm, but the defense plan is now thicker, wider, and harder to break.

Druk’s order lands, and the yard answers at once. Eruc pulls a stake line from the dirt, measuring off a broad practice field while laborers drag targets into place downrange.

The Crossbow Leader sweeps an arm toward the open stretch beneath the parapet, already dividing the line into stations. A second laborer hauls out more straw butts, and the range keeps widening.

Druk’s schedule becomes the rule of the yard, after dawn, at midday, and before dusk, with weekends left for rest and maintenance. The troops who cannot yet manage bows are set to crossbows, while only a chosen few are marked for later bow work.

The first row of targets is planted, broad and far apart, and the archery ground finally has shape. Behind it, the wall crew keeps moving, now drilling around a plan that can actually be trained into the troops.