The battle had shifted—no longer confined to the blood-slick stones of the wall, the fight now raged upon the siege bridge itself, that hated wooden pathway the enemy had paid for in rivers of blood. And leading the charge, like wrath given flesh, was Asag.
He was the first.
The first to break through the veil of hesitation. The first to plant his boot on enemy-held ground. The first face the invaders saw as death came screaming toward them.
His armor—once polished, now was red . Every dent told a story: here, an axe had glanced off his pauldron; there, a spearpoint had skittered across his breastplate. The sun caught the grooves and scratches, setting them ablaze, so that for one fleeting moment, he looked less like a man and more like some ancient war-god stepped from legend.
And behind him, the defenders surged.
