The second attack came an hour before dawn.
Lysander had been dozing against the barricade, his back against the timber, his sword across his knees. Not sleeping—his body wouldn't let him sleep—but resting, the way soldiers learned to rest between assaults. Around him, the eastern beach was quiet. The patrols had reinforced the barricade as best they could. The wounded had been carried to the medical tents. The dead had been covered with cloaks and laid behind the line, waiting for morning.
He woke fully at the sound of the signal horn—two long blasts from the northern beach. The pattern was one they had drilled but never used in combat: enemy advancing in force, main assault, all positions stand ready.
Then a third blast. Line is breaking.
He was on his feet before the echo died.
