The enemy archers moved like shadows behind their heavy wooden pavises, the makeshift barricades forming a jagged line across the battlefield. Then—the telltale twang of bowstrings, the air suddenly alive with the deadly song of arrows in flight.
"Arrows!"
The defenders ducked behind the crenellations as the deadly hail descended. Arrows thunked into wood, skittered off stone, and occasionally found their mark in flesh.
A grizzled veteran grunted as an arrow buried itself in his shoulder, the shaft quivering as he slumped against the parapet, his teeth bared in a snarl of pain. Another man took an arrow clean through the throat—his hands flew up instinctively, fingers brushing the fletching before he toppled backward, his blood already pooling on the worn stones.
There was no time to mourn. No time to even look.
