King Lorhan watched as La Mort’s men charged forward, their ladders slamming against the gate towers.

  “Archeeeeers!!—ready yourselves!”

  Their fingers slid against the material of the arrow as they lined it up in their bows. Pulling back on the bow’s wire, it was cocked like a spring, ready to explode on the king’s command.

  “Loooooose!!!”

  The king’s command was simple, and his men did not hesitate.

  Arrows shot through the air, then rained down like death notes that held each soldier’s name on them. Screams echoed as La Mort’s men were torn down off their ladders. But the men were not deterred. The dead were merely cast to the side, and others took their place in the pursuit of penetrating the gate and enemy lines.

  “Again, men,” said King Lorhan. “Archers—fire.”

  The second round of arrows tore through the sky, and their target this time was intended to have more of an impact on the battle. One of those arrows held the general’s name on it, but he would not be scared so easily.

  The general watched as the arrows tore through the sky with an arrogant smile plastered across his lips.

  “Shield wall,” he said, and in a blink of an eye his men fell into formation. The arrows rained down, but death would not have its target—not for now at least.

  As the shields dropped, the general still held his devilish smile in the heart of the battle.

  “Men!” the general screamed. “Bring forth the battering ram.”

  And like a parting sea, the men split in half, revealing a large, black metal-engraved battering ram. Ten men on either side came storming down the aisle, slamming it into the gates.

  The wall shuddered. Everyone above and beyond the gates stood in unease.

  “Men—again,” the general commanded, as the men holding the battering ram pulled it back and began to ready themselves for another attack.

  “We need to take out the men on the battering ram—now,” King Lorhan said. “We can’t take many more of those before our city walls are penetrated and our advantage is gone. Archers, take them out.”

  The archers’ fingers were sweaty, their nerves high as their bodies felt heavy. It was on them to take out the men on the battering ram, and they could feel it. They focused on the men, cocked back their arrows, and shot down at the men now charging forward toward the city gates once more.

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  Arrows tore down toward their target. Men were hit on either side of the battering ram, slowing down momentum, but there were still enough men on either side to drag it forward. They winced, their muscles tightened as they dragged the weight that belonged to their fallen men forward.

  Thud.

  The battering ram hit the gate once more with less impact, but the gate began to give way, and the men on the ladders reached the top and began advancing toward King Lorhan and his men, finally drawing blood. Tipping King Lorhan’s men over the wall and sending them to their deaths. The men advanced—ducking, slicing—leaving King Lorhan’s men to crumble to their knees, blood pouring from their mouths as their life essence was pulled from their bodies.

  The battle was well and truly on. Metal clashed against metal, and men from both sides began to drop. With his men’s will beginning to break, King Lorhan drew his blade and joined his men in battle, cutting down soldiers at the top of the city gate, causing the battle to begin to swing back in the king’s favour.

  Blood was split, and screams echoed throughout as lives continued to be lost—the unspoken consequence of war that every soldier is aware of but no man wants to pay.

  “Men!” King Lorhan screamed, blood plastered all over his face. “We’re pushing them back, men—we’re pushing them back!”

  The battle raged on, and then—it happened. A loud thud rippled through the city gates, nearly knocking the men from their feet as the gates flung open—their first line of defence breached. The city was laid bare, vulnerable to attack. But waiting beyond those city gates were King Lorhan’s men.

  King Lorhan grabbed one of his soldiers by the chest plate, pulling him in close.

  “The gates have been breached—we need to ensure the safety of our people,” said King Lorhan.

  “But my king—I can fight,” the young Arleon man echoed to his king. “Allow me to offer my blade in your honour, my king. I will give my life for the cause. My father served your father—it will be an honour to continue what my father started.”

  The king couldn’t help but smile as he stepped forward, fixing his soldier’s armour plate.

  “I have the most important job of all,” the king said. “Ensuring our people get to the tunnels is a must. Securing our people—our future—is your mission. Now go and save our people.”

  The young Arleon man ran down the spiralling stairs and through the town, rounding up the men and women who would listen.

  “Follow me!” he shouted. “I have a way out of here!”

  The men and women looked at him with sceptical eyes.

  “Or you can stay here and die,” he continued. “The choice is yours.”

  “I’m with you,” one of the women shouted from the crowd.

  “Me too,” said another.

  Then, one by one, more and more men and women stepped forward, willing for the young Arleon man to lead them to safety.

  He lifted his legs and stormed towards the tunnels, with hundreds of arleon’s following closely behind. But the storm in his city had just begun.

  “Arghhhh!!!” Both sides screamed as they met each other head-on in the heat of battle. The Arleon men stood strong, refusing to allow any of La Mort’s men to penetrate their lines.

  “We make our stand here,” one of the soldiers said. “Do—not—let—them—pass. We are the last line, the line between you and your loved ones.”

  La Mort’s men made another push, and they began to force the Arleon soldiers back.

  “If we let them pass now, what fate awaits our mothers—our wives, our children?” the soldier continued. “We must fight!” he screamed as he pushed back.

  The soldier’s speech was a remedy to his men’s ears, spiking their adrenaline and forcing them to believe they stood a chance even if their minds wouldn’t allow it.