Other houses were raging firestorms. The superheated air rising from the intense flames gave life to bigger fires in a raging cycle.
Whole buildings went up in seconds.
A few talented archers managed to climb the guttering of some two-storey dwellings, taking position on the roofs and balconies to unsuspectingly drop arrows down into the streets below. Other men smashed through windows to jump down onto their enemy in the streets and alleys.
The battalion grew more and more disordered, fighting on separate fronts across several terrains.
The men around Yelin were wary, wide-eyed, filled to the brim with fear. They held their weapons nervously, sweating beneath their armour.
They knew they were being circled and trapped.
Their morale was dissipating by the second.
Yelin noticed the hand he had on the king was wet. He looked down to see his fingers smeared with blood.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Yelin said into the king’s ear. He must have been in a great deal of pain, his arm bent so obscenely.
“We… we need to find Petir,” Emery gasped, wincing with each movement.
Suddenly, some familiar horns blared from somewhere distant, and the roar of soldiers clashing grew even louder and more desperate. Another confrontation was starting elsewhere, nearby in town.
“Are they ours?” Emery asked, referring to the horns as they boomed through the destruction.
“Aye, my king,” Yelin said with a breath of relief. “It must be Baron Artima.”
The baron had circled through the burning fields back into Tellersted from the north in a pincer move. They met the Seynards on multiple fronts throughout town, easing the pressure on the encircled battalion by stretching their forces out.
The horns signalled their impending arrival to Emery and Yelin. A welcome relief.
“We may actually stand a chance after all,” Yelin chuckled as he brought the king to a safer spot at the back of the fighting battalion.
From a dark, almost hidden alley nearby, Baron Artima appeared with several soldiers… and Petir Blacktree.
Emery, hunched over in agony, could not help but smile with relief as his son ran up to him, embracing him firmly.
“Are you alright, father?” Petir said with concern, his face speckled with drops of dried blood.
“I will be fine. I’m just glad you are safe. I feared that… that…”
Petir nodded while rubbing his hands together awkwardly. His sword was dented and bloodied and his armour looked as though he had rolled in a firepit.
Emery looked to the Old Bear who bore an indescribable expression. The baron’s son, Simen, was nowhere in sight. “Where is your boy, Artima?”
It took him a moment to compose himself, almost fighting back tears. “He… Simen is-”
Emery gulped. Yelin felt a knot tie in his stomach.
“He’s dead, father… he died trying to save me,” Petir said. “The boy found me, but we were ambushed. We…”
Petir shook his head, not knowing what to say. Artima displayed no shock, no grief, no sadness. Only a blank stare off into the distance, unable to find words.
“I could not fight well, with my arm and all,” Petir explained solemnly. “Simen defended me until they cut him down.”
“Artima… I’m so sorry,” Emery said, patting the baron on his armoured shoulder. He couldn’t find the words.
Yelin could see that Emery felt some blame for his death. After all, he had been the one who commanded him to find Petir.
“He died following orders,” Artima said, meeting Emery’s eyes and standing straight with his shoulders back as if acknowledging that the time to grief was not then and there.
Emery nodded with a proud smile, trying to help console the boulder of a man. “Let us ensure he did not die in vain,” Emery said.
“Let’s finish these bastards off,” Artima said sharply, drawing his bloodied sword from the scabbard.
“The king cannot fight anymore,” Yelin interjected. “He is injured. And the prince is still healing from his wound.”
“Nonsense, it’s nothing more than a broken bone,” Emery said with a waving gesture.
“My king, your arm is near snapped in two,” Yelin corrected. “You will be a liability more than a asset out there.”
“I will be fine. I can still fight-”
“With all due respect, my king,” Baron Artima butted in, “your man is right. You cannot fight with that arm, nor can your son. Let me lead the army.”
Yelin looked to the baron, then back at the king, trying to determine what each was thinking in the moment. Petir said nothing, as if accepting that he could no longer fight despite the skills he once had. It was the most defeated expression Yelin had ever seen on the usually proud prince.
Yelin and Emery looked back at their men still brawling in the streets. The Seynards had been squashed into a narrower section of town with Blacktrees all around, yet they continued to put up a good fight.
Men were still being cut down on both sides.
It was then the earth began to rumble once more. Yelin looked to the frightened king as he spun around, trying to find the source of the shaking this time.
No more rocks were falling from the sky. What was causing it?
“What is it this time?” Emery barked.
The men in the battle stopped their fighting, gazing around at the strange, deep tremors, like the ground itself was breathing and groaning.
All fell silent as the battle seized in an instant. Soldiers who had just been slicing and stabbing at each other stopped to try and discover the source of the unnatural noise.
The flames burning through the town crackled and popped. Bricks crumbled and toppled from half-standing walls.
There came a sudden, monstrous shriek from behind. Yelin and the others around him swirled around, swords drawn, to where the noise had come from.
An enormous crater in the middle of the road, created by one
