The mercenary line held. The barricade took the brunt of their attacks, the sharpened logs catching the first attackers and forcing them to climb or go around. Those who climbed were met by blades from above. Those who went around found narrow gaps that funneled them into killing lanes where two or three mercenaries could hold off a dozen.
The ruins helped. A collapsed arch to our left created a natural chokepoint that four men held with nothing but spears and bad attitudes. A half-wall to our right forced the attackers to split around it, and the mercenaries on either side cut them down as they came through single file.
Dull was in his element. The big man didn't shout, didn't roar or do anything dramatic. He simply stood at a gap in the barricade and swung his axe with a metronome's consistency. Each swing opened a man. Each recovery was smooth. He fought the way a carpenter sawed wood, with the dull efficiency of someone doing a job they'd done a thousand times.
