The cold drizzle turned to sleet just as the imperial drums began their slow, rhythmic cadence from the orchards below Old Hill.
Jon Hale hauled himself up the slick oak rungs of the south watchtower ladder, his left hand gripping the wet timber with white-knuckled ferocity. His right arm was lashed immovably against his ribs in the linen sling, a numb, heavy club that pulsed with fire whenever his boots slipped on the icy treads. Cold rain stung his cheeks, but beneath his coat the sweat ran hot and greasy down his spine.
When he reached the parapet platform, the wind hit him like a thrown wet cloak.
To the south, the slope leading down toward the low road had become an expanse of churned, black mud littered with splintered wicker fascines and the charred ribcages of two baggage carts. Through the gray morning gloom, five massive iron-plated mantlets were creeping up the incline like giant tortoises. Beneath each heavy timber roof, a dozen imperial sappers shoved the wheeled frames forward by inches, their iron-shod poles digging deep into the frozen clay.
“Keep your heads down!” Captain Dain roared from the breastwork twenty paces to the left. A flight of iron-barbed crossbow quarrels rattled against the oak palisade with the sound of hailstones against a copper kettle. “Archers, hold the center line! Do not waste goose feathers on the iron plates!”
