A Fallen King

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With thick arms folded over his chest, Tromn watched with not a small measure of satisfaction as the catapults and trebuchet the task force had brought with them, made short work of Ur Morun's less than capable north wall. Perhaps half the height of Tal Morun's great walls of white granite, it did nothing to hide the rambling city spreading along the banks of the sluggish river that ran through the rebel capital's heart. Nor did it hide the plumes of smoke that marked rioting rebel citizens, stirred to panic by the alarm bells and the sight of the loyalist army at their gates.

Ignoring both the smoke and the chaos beyond, the staggered line of catapults along the base of the low hill upon whose crown Tromn now stood, continued their relentless assault, their arms snapping into padded breaks with rhythmic 'crack's of release and impact. Behind them knots of human engineers and quadan journeymen made ready several battering rams, reinforcing the thick logs with iron and leather strapping and capping the forward end with a heavy sleeve of raw iron, it's jagged edges crafted to breach wooden gates.

It wouldn't be long before the battering rams were brought into position to begin their work. Already what rebels were left were being sent fleeing from the walls by the chunks of stone currently ripping their fortifications to pieces. It would be only a matter of turns before he commanded their ground forces to begin their advance on the city's main gates. Then, with the gates down and the quadan-human force inside the rebel capital's walls, the dark harvest of evil souls would finally begin.

Roaring in death's final denial, a portion of the wall nearly a full length wide, tumbled into ruin by a massive stone hurled by one of the primary trebuchet striking it dead in its rotten heart. As cheers rang through the air, Tromn felt a small smile touch his lips. 'So begins the end,'  he mused. Then he became aware of the human General Tenne at his elbow.

"The death knell of the Westmarch," the caledonian quietly noted, both satisfaction and thoughtful contemplation on his handsome face as he came to a halt a pace to the quada's immediate left. He stood in full battle dress, sword hanging ready at his waist, gauntleted hands clasped behind him. As was his habit, full battle dress was the breastplate and spurs of the King's Horse.

"I only regret it took an attack on the royal family itself to unify the Chamber sufficiently to authorize this action." He looked up and over at the big quadan commander. "Although I suspect Jerald would've come regardless, Chamber blessing or no."

"As do I," Tromn rumbled in reply. "Whether it be by King Jerald's hand, or by the hand of the Herds of the Quada, Urud has earned whatever pain we now bring down upon him. The ambush at Drell's Gap only assured it would be Jerald's hand, and much sooner than Urud could've imagined." The big centaur's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Speaking of the great king, where is Jerald Ironstorm? I expected him here, on the knoll, watching our catapults hammer the walls into rubble alongside me."

Without taking his dark eyes from the crumbling walls, Tenne's face tightened as he made ready his answer. How could he tactfully admit to knowing the reason the king of Talemon wasn't on the knoll was that he had entered the city with a company of rangers several days ago in search of his captured wife? Before he could speak, however, having finally chosen what he thought were the right words, Tromn took a half step forward towards the city, his face a mask of hard consideration. A heartbeat later a human distance glass was in his hands, the eyepiece finding his right eye.

"By the Maker's hallowed hand,"  the massive quadan rumbled in naked astonishment at what the glass brought to his attention. "I see Talemonese rangers sally from a side gate. And is that, ... they've a woman in their midst!"

Despite himself, Tenne felt an invisible knot of tension abruptly loosen somewhere in his chest at the news. Jerald and the rangers had managed to rescue Jeorgina!

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