The blizzard abated into a casual thick snowfall, much obscured by a dry mist that made flying low to the ground very difficult. The winds died and allowed the thick flakes to fall unhindered. The sun had disappeared almost completely and despite the fact it was dawn, it was growing darker.
When the town came into view, surrounded by thick patches of pine trees, it had an almost yuletide picturesque feel to it. From above, Vorador could see the scars of battle from the claiming of the settlement. Sharpened stakes were driven into the ground all around. Such defences were not intended to impale but rather to slow down besiegers to give the archers on the walls better shots. From the walls, the red rose banner of the Northern Kingdom hung limp in the still air, freshly deployed decorations to show the new rulers of the town. There were no tents around the town which would be more useful for an occupying army during a large military campaign, meaning that the current force holding the settlement was small enough to be quartered inside the walls completely.
-0-
“Before me lay the snowy, half frozen frontier town of Valeholm; one of the few colony settlements established on the eastern side of the mountains. Most of this land was untamed and wild. The only attraction for the western nations was the abundance of minerals and metals from the substantial mines.”
-0-
Lanes and twisting roads led away from the town and up a short distance into the foothills of the mountains. There in hidden crevices and valleys were entrances to mines that riddled the earth beneath the peaks. These mountains were legendary for being full of precious metals such as gold, silver and iron. Rumour had held of gemstone deposits: sapphires, rubies and diamonds to be claimed by whoever found them embedded in the rock. There were also stories about an extremely rare metal to be found in the depths of the tunnels. Some aspiring alchemist had named the metal, platinum, and it had been sought after for centuries by many for its rarity.
Valeholm itself was a large town with large outcroppings of rock helping to form a natural protective wall. Most of the buildings, townhouses with slate roofs, were nestled between these rocks, but some stood atop them. The most prominent of which was the large church, its bell tower like an erect finger pointing towards the heavens. In previous days, during the era of the Sarafan brotherhood, the town had been home to a group of alchemists, scholars and mages who had been experimenting with the fresh minerals from the mines in an attempt to find some poison for Vampires that the crusader knights could employ. Fortunately they never discovered anything.
William’s army marched openly towards the town, crunching the snow into mush under their feet and in front of them they held up the rose banner of their northern nation. Many corresponding banners were draped from the walls of the township and the walls were lined with warriors and archers that wore the same northern style chainmail.
-0-
“The banners hanging from the walls of the town lent credence to the words of that foppish prince, William. The town was indeed under the military control of the Northern Kingdom. I decided to wait and observe a little while longer. I sensed something was about to occur.”
-0-
In raven form, Vorador flew low over the heads of William’s column. Most ignored him but one waved a pike at him when he came too close. Catching an updraft, he rose and climbed up high enough to settle onto the branch of a tree that overlooked the approach to the town. Perching there and partly hidden by the thick green pine needles, he watched as the column approached the gates of the town and then came to a stop just out of bow shot from the walls. This was a prudent display of civility as it was not unknown for enemy forces to display false colours in order to get close enough to a fortified position to take it without massive losses.
William De'Sengir stood in plain sight in front of his army, with his large armoured bodyguard Ser Barentein at his side. Together they waited patiently. Behind them their men watched the closed town gates, only stirring to shake the thick falling snow from off their shoulders.
Then, after a long quiet pause, the gates began to creak open. As they swung wide, about twenty men on horseback rode out. Inspecting these new men with a bird’s eyes, Vorador saw they were more Northern cavalry and armed with large heavy axes with serrated blade edges. The two men at the front, however, had broadswords and wore far more elaborate armour in the same style as that of William himself. As they got closer and the Vampire was able to make out their faces, he saw that each of the two men had a striking resemblance to William. The first was taller but had that same strawberry blond hair and shape of the jaw. He looked to be in his late thirties. The second was stouter with thick and long black hair but had the same eye colour as William as well as a similarly shaped nose, although this was partly concealed by a thick beard. This one seemed to have just cleared his twenty-fifth year. The taller man had a golden circlet about his head with a red jewel set in the centre, while the black haired man had a silver circlet with a polished sapphire. Both of them had the bearing of noblemen of some importance and wore expensive and well brushed furs over their pale red armour.
They rode up to the column and stopped, within speaking distance of one another but out of range of weapons. The cavalry men also set themselves in positions to shield the two noblemen from any archer amongst the new arrivals.
The tall man with the golden circlet rode forward a few paces and gave William an amused sort of look, brushing a strand of hair out of his face.
“Well met, little brother.” He said quite jovially with a happy grin. William bowed back in his saddle with a smile of his own.
“Simon, always a pleasure.” The youth replied with his usual mocking tone. Then he turned and bowed to the other man, although not as deeply. “And Michael, you are looking well.” He looked up and gave the black bearded man a grin of impish insolence. “Plucked up the courage to begin courting that noblewoman from Willendorf yet? I know you have been sending couriers back and forth, even during the campaign.”
Michael, the black bearded man and clearly also one of William’s older siblings, sat up straight in his saddle and glared back at the younger prince indignantly.
“That is none of your business.” He snapped back with some heat. He raised a hand and shook a finger at him, the gauntlets he wore on his hand rattling. “And you should show more respect to the Crown Prince, especially in front of the men.”
“Oh, no need to be so harsh.” Simon, the crown prince himself remarked with a short laugh. “I actually like William’s blasé wit.” He leaned over and nudged Michael in his side with an elbow. “Quite a refreshing change from your sour disposition.” Michael glared back at them both with barely concealed outrage for the jibe.
William’s smile widened and he leaned up in his saddle.
“Why, Simon, elder brother, you are too kind.” He said. Simon leaned back and looked up at the military column that was waiting. He surveyed the assembled men with a discerning expression, rubbing his chin with one hand.
“How many men?” He asked, his tone all business, without taking his eyes from the arrayed reinforcements.
“Another two thousand infantry, mostly sword and pikemen but also a brigade or two of archers.” William replied.
“That is all?” Michael asked with some disgusted surprise, giving his younger brother a look of annoyance for so low a number. William returned the look his brother directed at him coolly and with quiet disdain.
“If I recruited any more men, there would be no one left to tend the farms and the fields would lie fallow this year.” He said and his voice took on a slightly condescending tone. “I hardly think Father would thank us for inducing famine in the kingdom, do you?”
Michael’s grip on the reins of his horse tightened in response and his nostrils flared in barely controlled rage.
“Good point, we shall just have to be more careful.” Simon remarked with a smile, giving Michael an amused sidelong look. The crown prince turned and gestured back towards the town. More men were watching the proceedings from the walls of the city. “We have another six thousand men in Valeholm.” He said and then pointed off to the horizon. “Father took the main bulk of the army heading east along the coast. We are to join him as soon as the men have been rested and fed.”
“Then we ought to have this campaign over before the spring.” William opined with an optimistic smile.
“That is the plan.” Simon replied.
Vorador, who was growing bored of the Human conversation and was thinking about simply leaving and continuing his journey elsewhere, twitched and became more erect on his perch. Something out of the ordinary had caught his attention. In the trees surrounding the town there was the faintest hint of movement. It was too sudden and slight for any dulled Human perception to register it, but with the enhanced eyes of a bird, Vorador watched as indistinguishable shapes began to slip back and forth between the trees and undergrowth.
At first he thought he saw a mere handful of moving things, but then he saw more, and more. Very soon he was able to perceive that moving through the trees were hundreds of creatures. He could not make out their forms yet through the concealing snow and brush but whatever they were, they were about twice the bulk of a man.
“It is bad enough we had to start this campaign in the winter.” Michael remarked flatly. Both he and all the men around him were completely oblivious to the moving creatures which were quietly surrounding them. Soon the shapes were positioned in perfect ambush spots. They were even upwind so their scent would not carry and alarm the horses of the cavalry.
Vorador tensed, opening his raven’s wings slightly in tense preparation. He had sensed something was about to happen before but now he was certain of it.
“Capital!” William was saying and nudged his horse forward to join his brothers. “Now how about you treat your little brother to some of that mead with mint extract that you kept telling me about in your dispatches?”
As he passed by Simon on his own horse, the attack commenced.
It began with a howl, a rising bellow that echoed off the rocks surrounding the town and resonated eerily in the gloom of the falling snow. The choir howl shot through the air and even before they saw what was making the sound, the men and horses all spun around in panic and broke their formations. The call was a warped and twisted version of the howl of a wolf pack.
With the formation of men disturbed and frightened by such a noise, the creatures moved in for the kill. They began inching forward out of their concealment slowly, using the falling snow to mask their movements.
Vorador could see these creatures in greater detail now. They were hunched over, bipedal creatures with long arms that ended in black claws and their heads were animalistic. They were covered in a white fur that matched the snow almost perfectly. Long bushy tails swept out behind them as they moved, a counterbalance to their heavier fronts. The pack of these creatures quietly encircled their prey without them even knowing.
Ser Barentein turned slightly in his saddle and caught sight of the creature closest to him. He drew his sword instantly with a warning yell of alarm. Too late.
The creatures sprang with tremendous and savage force. Dozens of men were caught by surprise and clawed to the ground. Before even their first screams could escape their lips they were torn to pieces. Hot steaming blood and entrails were scattered onto the snow. Bones were ripped from within the quivering flesh and broken to have their marrow sucked out by hungry maws.
Panic spread quickly through the men as they scrambled to escape from the monsters that were suddenly in their midst. A few managed to draw their weapons but the beasts were on them before they could be used.
The horses of the cavalry reared and screamed, many throwing their riders off in their alarm. Those that managed to stay on their mounts were unable to control the animals otherwise and did not seem to be inclined to, backing away as fast as possible from the furious animals that were slaughtering the infantry.
Vorador would not have gotten involved in this skirmish. It would have been in his best interests to simply move on and see what else he could find in the East and leave William and his brothers to whatever their fate may be. He was about to do this when his hand was unexpectedly forced.
He had dropped to the ground from his perch and shimmered back into his own normal form. He thought it would be better to try and cross the land as a wolf, which had better insulation against the cold than a raven. Before he could adopt the new form, however, a snarling noise caused him to quickly spin about.
Emerging out of the foliage directly behind him were five of the creatures, moving quickly to encircle him. Now he was close up and directly before them and he could see every detail of their monstrous appearance. The animal they resembled more than anything was a wolf, their lips drawn back to expose fangs dripping with hot saliva.
Face to face with the beasts, Vorador recognised them. It had been many millennia since he had seen one last but he remembered them with crystal clarity.
-0-
“I had not seen or heard from these feral creatures in eons. A disgusting blend of man and beast, these monsters were dogs made on commission from the Time Streamer, Moebius. These so-called ‘Werewolves’ had served as hounds of war during the uprising against the original Vampire race. Most had been put down after the rebellion was over but some had escaped into the hinterlands. I had never seen so many in one place at one time before.”
-0-
These beasts had been the force they had sent into the Ancient Citadel to rend apart the loyal defenders before the uprising Human Seraphim warriors stormed the battlements. These dogs had rent apart anyone who had tried to defend the Citadel and once the rebels had taken Ba’al-Zebur captive, they had executed the first Balance Guardian by feeding him to the beasts.
The wolves which had been used in the ancient war had been a muddy brown, as he recalled, but these wolves were a new arctic variation.
Vorador slid back as one of them lunged at him, claws slashing through the air where he had been a moment ago. In mid-dodge his left hand clutched the handle of Malice and his right hand wrapped along the hilt of Marrow at his side. With an axe in one hand and a sword in the other, he danced to one side to avoid the snapping jaws of a second wolf mutant. As it passed him, he brought Marrow up sharply. The blade sliced through the exposed neck, muscle and vertebrae and the head was sent spinning high into the air. The body spun once, bounced off a tree and fell back to the ground, hot steaming blood pumping out thickly and making the snow melt.
A third wolf, galloping on all fours, lunged at him with a snarl. Its claws came around to cleave and tear but Vorador was faster. He darted behind a holly bush and it gave him a moment of cover. Anticipating the wolf’s next move he crouched low and tensed, waiting for that spilt second where he could make his move.
The wolf obviously did not perceive its danger and lunged straight through the bush at the Vampire with both arms out wide, claws held to strike. But the bush had obscured Vorador’s posture from view and when it was in midair, its chest was totally exposed. Vorador thrust forward with Marrow from his lower position. From this angle the serpentine blade drove straight up into the chest and through the ribs. It punctured the heart with a sickeningly audible ‘pop’ and the wolf vomited near black blood from its mouth. Vorador sidestepped, drawing his blade from the body and letting the corpse tumble down the incline to bury itself in a snow bank.
Another arctic Werewolf crouched low in the snow, the near mane of fur on its back beginning to bristle. Then he darted in, at first seeming to charge him directly but at the last second swiftly sliding to one side and around him. These wolves were capable of moving in the heavy snow a lot more efficiently while he felt his own footing to be very unsure and impeded.
The wolf came at him from behind, attempting to employ the tactic of its namesake animal by hamstringing his right leg. That tactic might have worked on a normal and slower opponent, but Vorador’s own reaction time was just as swift as the wolf’s. He leapt into midair just as the Werewolf lunged and in that acrobatic twist he brought Malice around in a deadly arc. The war axe sliced through the air and crashed into the creature’s head. The skull gave way at the blow and caved in. Fragment of bone and brain flew in all directions and a thick spray of blood jetted out to splatter all over the snow and foliage.
Even with these wolves dead, however, Vorador had no time to pause. Sharply he turned around at the sound of panting and snarling behind him. More Werewolves were emerging from the undergrowth, one by one moving in a circling motion to surround him. They kept on coming until at least twenty were circling him, their blue eyes locked on him and lips drawn back over their teeth. They didn’t even seem to notice their dead pack mates lying all around them.
Fighting so many at once was completely out of the question. A strategic withdrawal seemed the prudent course of action given the circumstances.
Several of the creatures, snarling and howling, came at him all at once, trying to assault him from all sides. Vorador had anticipated that, however, and as they lunged, he ducked and began to roll. He ploughed into the Werewolf directly in front of him and bowled it over. It let out a startled yelp that cut off as Vorador drove Marrow into its throat, twisting the sword sharply to sever its spinal column. The other wolves turned to try and take him but the Vampire was already moving, running out from the trees and onto the open field. The wolves followed him, running in an oddly well-disciplined formation on all fours. However, they fell right into the sight of the archers defending the men. The marksmen responded instantly to the new threat and a hailstorm of arrows flew into the ranks of the charging wolves. With howls, many of them collapsed to the snow.
“Your Highnesses, quickly, behind the gates!” A man on horseback was shouting, guarding the three princes with his body and shield. Almost immediately he was hurled from his saddle as a wolf leapt across the horse’s back and knocked him down. He was dead before he even struck the ground. The princes and their bodyguards were already beginning to beat a path back towards the gates of Valeholm but they were constantly assaulted on all sides by the wolves.
Vorador’s presence, even in the general melee, did not go unnoticed. His appearance was quite striking and when they saw him, several swordsmen quickly formed up together with their weapons drawn.
“Form ranks!” Their sergeant barked, his voice echoing slightly from within his helmet. “Protect the Princes!” He beckoned several men forward, jabbing his sword at the Vampire. Grimly the soldiers advanced towards him.
“No!” William overrode them with a barked command. “Let him fight!” Despite military discipline they all turned as one to look at him.
“Your Highness!?” One of them began in startled confusion. William swore at him for a solid ten seconds and his choice of language was very poetic.
“I don’t care if the hand that wields it is the hand of a Vampire, a demon, or the Devil himself! We need all the swords we can muster!” He told them with utter vehemence. “Now kindly get back to killing some wolves!”
Vorador did not need the permission of some self-important royal boy. He was too busy fending off another wolf to more than peripherally notice the shouted conversation.
The army of men had been devastated by the ambush and heaps of bodies were collapsed in the blood drenched snow. They were gradually retreating towards the open gates of Valeholm while the archers on the walls fired at the arctic mutant hounds.
The wolves came on like a rising tide. When one fell, another two seemed to take its place. Vorador was finding himself hard pressed by the constant attacks and was beginning to retreat in that direction too. Cutting down a wolf that lunged at him from behind, Vorador saw that even more Werewolves were bursting out of the forest. Their numbers seemed endless. Hundreds of the mutants had gathered here for this attack.
Vorador had never heard of the Werewolves amassing in such numbers before. He had thought their numbers to be low, finally dropping off into utter extinction after the fall of the Pillars. How could such an army of these beasts have survived without him ever being aware of them?
Three wolves charged him together, circling for a moment before the swiftest darted in from behind. Vorador back flipped out of the way and brought Marrow down across its back, neatly slicing open its flesh in one swing. The gaping wound burst wide, exposing the spine. The wolf howled in agony but that was cut short when Vorador held up one hand and discharged a bolt of energy directly into its exposed bones. The spine shattered into pieces of far flung bone and the creature collapsed silently into the snow.
The second, spraying up snow from his gallop, threw itself through the air at him. Vorador spun about and ducked low so the beast missed him and sailed overhead. As it passed by, Vorador brought Malice up in as hard a swing as he could muster. The axe slammed into the beast’s crotch and shattered its pelvis. It dropped to the snow, crying out in unspeakable pain. The Vampire ended the cry with a single thrust of Marrow into its chest.
The last wolf darted, protecting its vitals by keeping itself low to the ground. It zigzagged from side to side as it came, as if trying to confuse the Vampire as to how and where it would strike. Vorador was not fooled for a moment and when the Werewolf came at him from the left, as his body language clearly showed, Vorador met him head-on. He ducked under the lunge from the claws before swinging around sharply and cleaving the beast from naval to neckline with Marrow’s edge. The two halves of the creature stayed together for an instant before they collapsed, quivering to either side.
The squeal of a horse caught his attention and Vorador turned swiftly around. Most of the royal bodyguards were fighting for their lives, struggling against the tide of creatures that beset them. So two Werewolves had broken through the line of defence and had pulled down the horse of the crown prince, Simon. The man was pinned beneath the wounded animal and was helpless as the wolves set upon him. One of them closed its jaws around his throat and tore it out with savage fury. He gargled once and then collapsed, dead instantly.
“Simon!” William cried out hoarsely, almost leaping off of his horse to vainly rush to the aide of his already departed brother.
“Keep back!” Ser Barentein shouted, moving his own horse forward to block the prince, his sword extended in his hand. “It’s too late!”
Crown Prince Simon was now in pieces, savagely torn apart by the Werewolves. The scattered limbs and flesh of his sundered body were being fed upon and consumed ravenously, and even the bones were broken up to have the marrow sucked from them. The horse that pinned him down was strangely overlooked.
As Vorador turned, a Werewolf he hadn’t even noticed sprang forward from its concealment in the snow and mist. With a howl its claws caught him directly in the left-hand side, slicing deep into his flesh and grating against the bones of his rib cage. Letting out a muffled grunt of pain, the Vampire backed off but in that moment of confused unwariness he left himself wide open.
Another Werewolf, perhaps hunting in conjunction with the first, came at him from behind. It grabbed him by the forearms, pinning them to his side. Before he could pry himself free the beast sank its inch long fangs directly into his exposed shoulder.
At this Vorador did let out a cry. The teeth of Werewolves were curved and serrated, perfect for slicing through flesh and separating it from bone. He could feel the powerful jaws crunch down and his collarbone strain under the pressure, threatening to break.
Fortunately Vorador was no stranger to pain. Gritting his teeth, he took Marrow and turned it around in his right hand. With one sharp motion of his arm he stabbed the Werewolf in the belly with the blade, slicing deeply into its guts. The beast let go of him to howl in pain and as it did, Vorador swung his head back and cracked it against the underside of the Werewolf’s snout. The blow caused its mouth to snap shut on its own tongue and as it staggered back, letting go of his arms, the Vampire spun about in an instant and with a snarl of his own, decapitated the creature with one massive swung from Malice.
The wounds inflicted upon him were quite severe. Glancing down he saw his white shirt had been badly torn and was stained red with his own blood. There were several gaping and bloody holes in his shoulder and thick vertical slices were open across his waist. As a Vampire, his body could use its own energies to restore such wounds but that took time. Glancing about at the dozen or so Werewolves now moving in to finish him off, he doubted he had that time.
The Werewolves seemed to have determined that he was a greater threat to them than any of the Humans and were gathering to bring him down, as was the way of animals that hunted in packs. Grimly, Vorador slid Marrow back to his side and with his free hand drew Havoc. This was the kind of combat situation that the axes had been intended for.
The wolves came at him all at once, at least a dozen in one organised rush. Despite his injuries, Vorador shifted his weight sharply and began to spin. With both axes held at the ends of his arms, his spinning body became a deadly spiralling object. The wolves only seemed to perceive this at the last instant before he met them head-on, Havoc and Malice put to their full potential. Limbs and heads were sent flying, entrails scattered across the snow and quivering lumps of flesh, still clinging to cleaved bone, were dropped in the snow.
Havoc and its sister Malice drunk deep of blood and again and again and again they were slammed into the bodies of the creatures. Only when perhaps eight of them lay dead did the others finally realise they could not attack such a force straight on and backed off, as if deciding there was other more amenable prey elsewhere and to leave him alone.
“Back to the gate!” Prince Michael cried out in shrill alarm, raising his own sword and gesturing wildly to all the men around him. “Hurry!” He kicked his horse without mercy, directing it to turn and gallop back towards Valeholm. However, he had abandoned his bodyguards in his panic and that proved to be a fatal mistake. Two pairs of Werewolves had been stalking him the moment he made his run for his own personal safety.
One darted out in front to slow the horse, while another two attacked from either side. They slashed at the animal’s flanks, cleaving deep wounds in its belly and then the fourth brought it down with one snap of its jaws on its throat.
The horse stumbled and Prince Michael was thrown from the saddle. The Werewolves didn’t even need to finish him off. From the way he landed it was obvious that the fall had broken his neck. They dived on his corpse to feed anyway.
The two headband crowns were discarded and lost in the chaos, trampled into the mud and snow and perhaps were never to be found again.
With the death of two princes and the command to flee already declared, many of the struggling men deserted their fight with the Werewolves and bolted for the open gates of Valeholm. More than a few of them even discarded their own weapons to run unburdened.
Seeing the resolve of their prey weaken, the Werewolves pulled back and began to regroup, gathering into a large pack of about two hundred. In moments they would surge and overrun the men. Vorador was directly between the two groups. He was moments away from being charged by an unstoppable number of feral beasts. Not even Havoc and Malice would be able to cleave their way through so many.
-0-
“Faced with the choice between the feral pack and the entrenched soldiers, I chose the less malignant option.”
-0-
As the wolves began their charge, Vorador turned to look up at the wall of Valeholm above. There was a tower just over the gate with several redoubts projecting from it where archers were firing covering arrows down. To this spot he translocated himself, vanishing in a flare of light from the field an instant before the feral creatures reached it. Several of them made lunges for him, only to find their claws passing through empty air.
The archers occupying the tower were startled to find him suddenly standing there in their midst and several of them stumbled backwards in alarm, drawing their swords and shouting loudly. Vorador had neither the time nor the inclination to try and argue with them. He simply slaughtered them all, silencing the screams and yells with precise use of Marrow’s blade. Clinically and methodically he carved through them, very much like a surgeon with a scalpel. He knew where and how to strike to silence them quickly.
As they died, he summoned their blood to his lips. It did much to replenish his energies and to speed the healing of his wounds; the bite in his shoulder fading away and the slashes across his midsection closing up. His shirt, however, was ruined. It was soaked with blood and badly torn. This was why, he supposed, Kain preferred to not be encumbered by upper body clothing. It just got in the way. He was not used to going without, however, and decided to find a replacement as soon as possible.
Glancing out through the arrow slit in the redoubt wall, the Vampire watched as the heavy doors of Valeholm swung in and shut with a loud boom. Many men had not been quick enough to get inside before that happened and were instantly set upon by the Werewolves. The ground before the walled settlement was littered with heaps of dead bodies: men, horses and even some of the beasts themselves.
Through another arrow slit, Vorador could see directly down into the courtyard just inside the gate. It was being barred with large metal and wooden beams. Many men were dropping down to the ground on their knees, some huddling back with frightened blubbering.
The only one of the three princes to have escaped was William De'Sengir himself. He dropped down off his horse as if he had never ridden one before in his life, staring at the closed gate with a pale face.
“My brothers!” He exclaimed in a harsh voice that held a world of emotional pain but did not waver or break in that anguish.
“It’s too late, Your Highness!” Barentein told him, climbing down from his own exhausted and frightened horse. Quickly he came over to the prince and restrained him from venturing any closer to the gate. “They’re dead, my lord. I’m sorry.”
William just stood there, staring unblinkingly at that gate and seemed almost frozen in place. His expression was strange, not exactly grief stricken but still intensely remorseful. He seemed almost like a man who had just been through some terrible event and was still numbed by the experience.
“My Prince, you don’t have time to mourn.” Barentein began again in a softer tone of voice. “You’re the ranking officer now and the men need you to direct the defence of the walls.”
William flinched and glanced back sharply over his shoulder, seeming to recall exactly where he was and what was happening all around him. Some colour returned to him and he ran one hand in its gauntlet over his face. It trembled slightly.
“Yes...you are correct, Ser Knight.” He replied and when he turned around his face was like stone, impassive and stern.
“I want the archers and the crossbowmen on the rooftops immediately!” He said and when he spoke it was in a tone of confident and unwavering command. “Pikemen to the walls! Swordsmen with them!”