Chapter 484: Dance of the Decoys (3)
The low horn rolled across the valley in a single quavering note that rattled every rib-cage in the Astellian line. Lyan felt the vibration travel through his war-horse’s withers and up his own spine; for an instant the sound seemed to throb inside his skull, like a heartbeat that wasn’t his. On the battlements distant silhouettes shifted—pale smudges against darker stone—then resolved into defenders scurrying to firing positions. Lanterns flared all along the rampart, orange pinpricks blinking alive one after another, the serpent banners beside them jerking in startled gusts of torch-lit wind.
He caught the moment a Varzadian lieutenant leaned out between crenellations to stare into the fog, jaw slack with dawning horror. A heartbeat later Wilhelmina’s cry cut the chilled air as cleanly as any blade: "Trebuchets—ready!"
Crew chiefs answered with clipped affirmatives. Great wooden frames groaned, counterweights clacking like giant bones as winches released. Lyan inhaled the resin-and-hemp scent of fresh-wound ropes, the faint sour tang of pitch on the payload stones. The first arm snapped forward; the throwing sling whipped through white gloom and vanished. A full second passed—then a resonant booom echoed back as masonry shattered somewhere behind the curtain of mist. A puff of darker dust geysered up and drifted over the wall’s edge. Muffled screams followed, thin and tinny, as though the fog itself choked them.
More arms swung, staggered but relentless, each release marked by the deep thunk of oak striking its limit pin. Boulders arced unseen; the fort shuddered under successive impacts, stones pulverizing battlement merlons, timber hoardings splintering like kindling. Chips of rock pattered across rooftops inside, an obscene hail.
"Archers—first and second rank—loose!" Wilhelmina’s second order chased the first before echoes died. She stood on a slight rise, arm extended, pink braid snapping like a pennon. The archers obeyed in flawless cadence: the thrum of two hundred bowstrings snapped the hush, followed by the hiss of flights slicing damp air. The arrows disappeared into the murk—then pocked the ramparts in a staccato hiss, followed by guttural cries. Lyan pictured shafts punching through cloak and mail, punching through skin, pinning men to the very stones they swore to protect.
He lifted his hand, palm flat. "Advance in waves. Pressure them." His voice carried steady, but his pulse hammered. Behind him the second infantry surge jogged forward, shields overlapping, boots splashing through shallow standing pools left by overnight rain. Fog clung to their greaves like clutching fingers until body heat broke it apart.
Josephine’s wedge broke from the treeline with a cheer that was half laughter, half war cry. Her riders burst through the side gullies where nobody expected cavalry, spears leveled, banner tails streaming so fast they cracked. They barreled straight into the supply corral behind the fort’s west tower. Stable hands raised fists in confusion; wagon drivers froze mid-yoke. By the time comprehension registered, Josephine’s front rank had already thrust torches into straw bales stacked along the fence line. Oil casks—placed for lantern refills—caught next. Red-gold flame whooshed up the wagon canvas and raced along grease-soaked timbers. Smoke billowed, thick and black, rolling low under the fog roof until it turned the whole rear courtyard into a choking blindfold.
Belle’s climbing team crested the parapet in that same moment. She swung her light grapnel clear, letting the hook clatter harmlessly outside, then flipped over the stone lip in one fluid move. Her rapier tip rested against a stunned archer’s throat before the man could pivot. "Shhh," she breathed, pressing just hard enough to draw a bead of blood. He swallowed. She twisted her wrist; the blade flicked once—quick, bloodless from where Lyan watched—yet the archer folded anyway, throat slit so neatly his scream never found breath. Belle’s gauntleted hand snapped twice, signal fireflies. A scout behind her raised a hooded torch and swept it in a slow arc—three beats wide, then doused. Down on the slope, Lyan saw the flare through mist and bared his teeth in approval.
"Walls are ours!" she called, voice marginally louder than a conversational murmur, but the acoustics of fog carried it down to the waiting ranks.