Miro heard a creaking sound, and caught movement to his right. Turning, he saw Layla standing with her bow held in front of her, the string pulled to her ear, her arm trembling with effort. Wondering how many of the Dunfolk were here, Miro rested his right hand on his zenblade and waited for Layla to release.

More of the enemy plunged into the water, and those in front were now well past half-way across the river. They walked forward in a broad line, with more and more of their number joining them with every moment that passed.

When was Layla going to let go?

A muscled Tingaran with an arm made of metal — a melding — stepped forward, his eyes scanning ahead as he reached the bank where Miro sat waiting. The Tingaran's eyes met Miro's and suddenly widened with surprise, and Miro's heart skipped a beat when he realised he'd been seen. The Tingaran opened his mouth to shout, but before any sound could escape his mouth Layla released.

The arrow sped through the air with no more sound than the flight of a bird. In an instant it jutted from the Tingaran's throat, red feathers bristling. As blood gushed from the warrior's mouth he placed his hands at his neck and then toppled over, into the water.

Barely a breath later the air was filled with arrows. Miro had never seen them used like this; it was like a flashing horizontal rain. One after another, the soldiers of the enemy were peppered with the razor sharp steel of the arrowheads, the shafts jutting out at all angles. In just a few moments, hundreds, perhaps thousands of the enemy were killed. Miro had only seen greater destruction from runebombs and prismatic orbs.

There was no lore involved at all.

As they became aware of the danger, those of the enemy wearing enchanted armour hurriedly activated, and the glow of the runes separated them from their fellows so that Miro could pick them out like sunflowers in a bed of nightblooms. The arrows bounced off their armour, but even so the Dunfolk persisted, and their marksmen found the small unprotected places: the lower arms, neck, and eyes.

Before Miro could enter the fray, they were all gone.

Then the next wave came, a thousand more men plunged into the river, and the slaughter commenced again.

Just as Miro began to wonder whether he was needed at all, the enemy's numbers started to tell. As the soldiers reached the bank where the Dunfolk lay in hiding and the bowmen became embroiled in close combat, Miro saw that hand-to-hand fighting was the archers' weakness. The rate of fire dropped significantly and more of the Black Army's soldiers gained the bank.

Miro's moment had come. The arcane symbols that covered Miro's armoursilk blazed with sudden power as he called on one sequence after another. His zenblade came alive in his hands and lit up with red fire.