A man burst up the worn stone stairs of the watchtower, his boots hammering against the steps as he skipped two at a time. His lungs burned, his throat scraped raw, but the sound of screams carried by the sea wind from beyond the walls drove him on.
Of all the cursed places in the realm, he thought, it should never have been this city to face war. They were leagues from the border of the Peasant Prince, deep in lands that had always been safe.
And yet here they were.
He gripped the cold edge of the stony stairwell's final step and hauled himself up, emerging onto the rampart. For a heartbeat he paused, scanning the defenders who were not already down at the harbor making their stand.
Arrows hissed down from the walls, striking uselessly against the few enemy ships within range. Most of the fleet, however, sailed untouched, gliding toward the harbor's mouth to land directly inside the city.
