On the walkway, the air was choked with the scent of grass, wet hide, and the sour sweat of terrified men. There was only one road to victory for either side, and that road was about to be paved in bone.
The first line of contact was composed entirely of the lords' levies, Herculeans and common Yarzats.
A brittle line of brittle men.
They lacked the feverish greed of the invaders who dreamed of loot, and they lacked the professional detachment of the mercenaries who bled for coin. Most were here because their lords had commanded it, and the only thing they feared more than the siege tower was the hangman's rope waiting for them back home if they deserted.
They stood in a ragged, shivering line, their spears leveled at the great wooden face of the tower. They were the shield-wall meant to be broken.
