Chapter 10: Salty’s Dirty Dozen

 

Chapter 10: Salty’s Dirty Dozen

The sound of hooves thundered along the high cliffs of Dun Virell, a coastal ridge where salt met stone and seagulls scattered before the storm.

The wind howled, blowing back Sir Salty’s silver cloak as he stood upon the battlements. Before him, twelve riders approached, their silhouettes fierce and feminine against the rising sun. He grinned, adjusting his battle axe. Reinforcements had arrived.

Not just any reinforcements.

Salty’s Dirty Dozen.

Twelve warrior women, known in whispers and tavern songs across the Five Realms—not for their beauty alone, but for the death they dealt, the magic they wielded, and their undying loyalty to Salty.

First to dismount was Isabella the Crossbolt, from the misty village of Sharpspire, high in the Cragglands. Her curves were hidden beneath a cloak of raven feathers and black leather, but her eyes—steel grey—missed nothing. With her enchanted crossbow, she could shoot the flame off a candle at a thousand yards.

“Targets, Sir?” she asked, smirking, already loading.

Then came Aria Flamehand, born of Redbarrow, a volcanic town long swallowed by the earth. Her palms glowed faintly—fire danced at her fingertips like tame serpents. A battle mage of the old school, she could ignite shields, melt helmets, or burn through walls. Her long auburn hair braided with charms swayed as she kissed Salty on the cheek.

“You still taste of trouble,” she murmured.

Freya of the Deep, born of the drowned city of Murkvalle, emerged next. Dressed in sea-drenched silks and scale armour, she could command water and speak with creatures of the deep. She wielded two crescent blades that shimmered like wet silver.

Talia Windstride, from the windswept village of Aetherwick, floated more than walked. Her command over the air let her leap like a hawk and twist arrows mid-flight. Her white braid coiled around her throat like a scarf, and her bow was strung with a strand of thundercloud.

Lilith Shade, from the cursed town of Graven Hollow, arrived last. A necrowitch, her body covered in elegant runes, she rode a black stallion with a skull mask. Lilith could command shadows, raise skeletal warriors, and whisper death into the ears of the living.

And there were more:

• Brina the Boulderbreaker, from Stonehelm, had fists of iron and skin like rock. She once felled an ogre with a single punch.

• Selene Moonsong, of Velastra, could summon illusions and confuse enemy minds with her voice.

• Kaela Iceblood, raised in the frost-lands of Nordgar, conjured frozen blades and shields from thin air.

• Roxy Redblade, of the pirate isle Tidecliff, was unmatched in close combat, her twin sabres whirling like fire in battle.

• Mira Duskborn, from Duskwatch, was part-vampire, thriving in darkness and sipping strength from the blood of the fallen.

• Jessa Stormcry, a banshee-kin of Thundermere, could scream down walls and cause panic with a single wail.

• Neriah Starfall, born under a comet in Highreach, had prophetic visions and divine light magic.

As they gathered around Salty, the wind picked up.

“This is it, girls,” Salty said. “The last march. We ride for glory, for vengeance… and for the future of men.”

Isabella cocked her crossbow. “And maybe a little fun?”

Aria winked. “After we finish off the Orcs and the demons, we’ll find time for you, Sir.”

Laughter echoed across the high cliffs—but it quickly gave way to purpose.

Below them, the armies of men stirred—the banners of Virellia rising in the dawnlight. Archers, pikemen, crossbow legions, mounted lancers and cannon teams all turned their eyes to the ridge, cheering as they saw the Dirty Dozen arrive.

Sir Salty mounted his warhorse. The Dirty Dozen followed suit.

In the distance, the smoke of the Orc encampments and the stench of sulphur from the Chios demons choked the land.

The battle was nearly upon them.

“Today,” Salty roared, “we fight not as men and women—but as legends!”

The horns blew. The hooves thundered. And the Dirty Dozen rode out like vengeance on the wind.

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