The cold spring rain pattered down, as if it were the river being tethered by threads of rain, rather than raindrops raising ripples.
Along the winding riverbanks, there were still patches of snow with blackened edges, every now and then kissed by a sturgeon.
Herring Castle, standing on a vital traffic artery, was wedged in the lingering snow.
Looking up from below the walls, Herring Castle's black stone ramparts rose about ten meters high, their base overgrown with dark green moss.
At the eastern and western corners, each bulged out a tower that had been converted into a battery, the gun muzzles pitch black, occasionally thundering.
Outside the fortress, in the muddy ground, lay the first wave of Norn regulars who had managed to arrive.
When they set out, they had still been Norn youths full of ardor, eager to defend their homeland; after five weeks of hunger, marching, and killing, they had already turned into bandits.
