more ballista, and swing it around this way!”
“We just set the last one to flame.”
He dropped his mace. “Load one up anyway. Quintuple time!”
“Quintuple time?” one of the other engineers asked.
“That means fast like your life depended on it, idiot. Move!”
Men scrambled to obey. They shouted in anger while avoiding the growing flames. Raker aimed the ballista himself, despite the fire licking against his skin. He took sight with smoke watering his eyes.
“He better appreciate this,” he mumbled as he pulled the release.
Raker hurried back to the merlons, peered over the side, and smiled.
I bet the kid couldn’t make that shot.
He grabbed his mace, ignoring the blistering on his hand, and gestured to Kroke. They exchanged nods.
Raker called out to his men. “Alright, let’s get our hands dirty.”
They headed for the stairs.
* * *
Blood covered Kroke's hands, oozing down his arms and dripping off at his elbows to the stone beneath his feet. It joined the blood pouring from the bodies piled around him. Some bled from wounds in the side or gut, others from the chest or neck.
Plenty bled at his feet, still alive, but incapacitated. Those had angered him and he chose not to finish them off, crippling them instead with severed tendons, stabs to the groin, or slices across the eyes. The wail of their screams became his battle cry for he refused to issue one himself.
The eagle-hilted blade in his right hand came down, catching the shaft of a thrusting spear. It jammed the spear against the ground while his other knife sliced into the attacker’s arm. The spear fell.
He stepped into the spearman while avoiding a sword stroke and finished the first man with a jab to the throat. Kroke’s arm swept out, blade biting into the side of the swordsman. He climbed up the man’s back, rammed his knife into the base of his skull, severing his spine. He lashed out at the next nearest man.
Blood, flesh, bits of bone, and other human insides caked Kroke’s light armor, none of it his. He had lost himself in the moment. He knew it had already been hours since the attack began. Yet he could continue the dance until sundown.
Others must have sensed his confidence as the enemy came at him with more hesitance, eyes wide with fear. Some men shuffled away, but Kroke pursued, leaving behind one pile of dead only to start another.
A flaming shaft zipped by, inches from his face. It struck, piercing three men cowering to his right. The missile passed so close, he had felt the warmth of the fire against his sweat-soaked skin.
He followed the path of its origin.
Raker stood with flames at his back. He pointed at him with his mace then off to his right. Kroke followed the gesture to where Yanasi led a withdrawal across the nearest catwalk. Kroke saw Kaz doing the same on the opposite side of the outer wall.
Kroke realized that he had been fighting as an island, though he couldn’t say for how long. He became aware of the fatigue in his limbs and the aches in his muscles. He couldn’t fight like this until dusk, regardless of his earlier thoughts.
He nodded to Raker, and the engineer disappeared.
Now I just have to clear a path to join the others.
* * *
Kaz stood at the center of the catwalk. A wall of five men to either side interlocked their shields with his. They stabbed with swords through small cracks underneath each shield, blades piercing the groins and thighs of the enemy. The men behind Kaz jabbed spears over the front row’s heads, points targeting faces and necks.
Lacking quality armor, weapons, and even training, the enemy suffered greater casualties from the assault. Yet, their resolve could not be deterred. Kaz only assumed such resiliency had to do with the tribes of Thurum forever being at war with their neighbors.
They don’t know when to quit.
Sweat poured over Kaz’s brow. He smelled garlic on the breath of the man he fought. The warrior screamed violently at Kaz in an unfamiliar
“We just set the last one to flame.”
He dropped his mace. “Load one up anyway. Quintuple time!”
“Quintuple time?” one of the other engineers asked.
“That means fast like your life depended on it, idiot. Move!”
Men scrambled to obey. They shouted in anger while avoiding the growing flames. Raker aimed the ballista himself, despite the fire licking against his skin. He took sight with smoke watering his eyes.
“He better appreciate this,” he mumbled as he pulled the release.
Raker hurried back to the merlons, peered over the side, and smiled.
I bet the kid couldn’t make that shot.
He grabbed his mace, ignoring the blistering on his hand, and gestured to Kroke. They exchanged nods.
Raker called out to his men. “Alright, let’s get our hands dirty.”
They headed for the stairs.
* * *
Blood covered Kroke's hands, oozing down his arms and dripping off at his elbows to the stone beneath his feet. It joined the blood pouring from the bodies piled around him. Some bled from wounds in the side or gut, others from the chest or neck.
Plenty bled at his feet, still alive, but incapacitated. Those had angered him and he chose not to finish them off, crippling them instead with severed tendons, stabs to the groin, or slices across the eyes. The wail of their screams became his battle cry for he refused to issue one himself.
The eagle-hilted blade in his right hand came down, catching the shaft of a thrusting spear. It jammed the spear against the ground while his other knife sliced into the attacker’s arm. The spear fell.
He stepped into the spearman while avoiding a sword stroke and finished the first man with a jab to the throat. Kroke’s arm swept out, blade biting into the side of the swordsman. He climbed up the man’s back, rammed his knife into the base of his skull, severing his spine. He lashed out at the next nearest man.
Blood, flesh, bits of bone, and other human insides caked Kroke’s light armor, none of it his. He had lost himself in the moment. He knew it had already been hours since the attack began. Yet he could continue the dance until sundown.
Others must have sensed his confidence as the enemy came at him with more hesitance, eyes wide with fear. Some men shuffled away, but Kroke pursued, leaving behind one pile of dead only to start another.
A flaming shaft zipped by, inches from his face. It struck, piercing three men cowering to his right. The missile passed so close, he had felt the warmth of the fire against his sweat-soaked skin.
He followed the path of its origin.
Raker stood with flames at his back. He pointed at him with his mace then off to his right. Kroke followed the gesture to where Yanasi led a withdrawal across the nearest catwalk. Kroke saw Kaz doing the same on the opposite side of the outer wall.
Kroke realized that he had been fighting as an island, though he couldn’t say for how long. He became aware of the fatigue in his limbs and the aches in his muscles. He couldn’t fight like this until dusk, regardless of his earlier thoughts.
He nodded to Raker, and the engineer disappeared.
Now I just have to clear a path to join the others.
* * *
Kaz stood at the center of the catwalk. A wall of five men to either side interlocked their shields with his. They stabbed with swords through small cracks underneath each shield, blades piercing the groins and thighs of the enemy. The men behind Kaz jabbed spears over the front row’s heads, points targeting faces and necks.
Lacking quality armor, weapons, and even training, the enemy suffered greater casualties from the assault. Yet, their resolve could not be deterred. Kaz only assumed such resiliency had to do with the tribes of Thurum forever being at war with their neighbors.
They don’t know when to quit.
Sweat poured over Kaz’s brow. He smelled garlic on the breath of the man he fought. The warrior screamed violently at Kaz in an unfamiliar
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