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Nesryn’s idea last night: to stop going for the
endless front lines and instead take out those
who ordered them. Try to sow chaos and
disarray.
The first siege tower neared, metal
groaning as wyverns—chained to the ground
and wings clipped—hauled it closer. Soldiers
already lined up behind it in twin columns,
ready to storm upward.
Today would hurt.
Chaol’s horse shifted beneath him again,
and he patted a gauntlet-covered hand on the
stallion’s armored neck. The thud of metal on
metal was swallowed by the din. “Patience,
friend.”
Far out, past the reach of the archers, the
catapult was reloading. They’d launched a
boulder only thirty minutes ago, and Chaol
had ducked beneath an archway, praying the
tower base it struck did not collapse.