The war drums pounded like a storm breaking on stone. Garran gritted his teeth, his shield arm aching as he crouched behind the crude palisade. Rain lashed the earth, turning trenches to black mire.
"Gods rot this ground," Haim muttered beside him. "I'll drown in this muck before a bolt finds me."
"Better drowned than gutted," Garran said, keeping his eyes fixed on the mist-choked gap between the siege towers and the walls.
A shout rose up along the trench line. Torches flared. The Bleak Company moved. Shadows on horseback, then men on foot, pressing toward the keep's ruined gate.
"They don't even wait for daylight," a levy boy said, voice cracking.
"They're crows," Orlec growled from atop his scarred mare. "They feed in dark."
The order came sharp from the rear. Shields raised, spears braced.
Garran lifted his battered shield. Rain slid down its splintered face. The weight of it bit into his shoulder.
Across the field, the Bleak Company struck the walls. Black shapes scaling ladders, torches hissing in the rain, war cries like the baying of wolves.
The garrison fired from the ramparts — crossbow bolts and stones clattering down. A scream cut the air as a Bleak man fell, but the line pressed on, relentless.
"Crows bleed too," Haim spat.
"Not enough," Garran answered.
A trumpet's wail cut through the storm. Rowe's voice followed.
"Advance!"
The levies surged forward, Garran and Haim with them, mud sucking at their boots. The distance between trench and wall shrank in heartbeats. Garran's world narrowed to the crash of bodies, the stink of wet cloth, the clang of steel.
A rebel broke from a side gate, swinging a rusted axe. Garran met him, blade catching the blow. The shock numbed his arm. Haim stabbed low, and the man crumpled into the mud.
"Move!" Orlec roared.
The line shoved toward the breach. The Bleak Company was already inside, smoke and fire bleeding from the gate.
Garran caught sight of Morrick, the captain, his black scarf torn, blood smeared across his helm. The man fought like death itself, cutting down garrison men with a wide-bladed sword.
"Saint's bones," Haim gasped.
"Stay with me," Garran snapped, shoving a crossbowman aside. He ducked a thrown stone, the edge glancing off his helm.
A hand grabbed his cloak. He turned, sword ready. A garrison boy, no older than fifteen, pale and shaking.
"Mercy," the lad stammered.
Garran's teeth clenched. The boy's face flickered — an echo of a face from years past. Varnholt's fall. His brother's face.He drove his sword forward.
The boy dropped, blood spilling into the mud.
"Crow-mark," Orlec called, panting. "Inside!"
The breach gaped before them. Garran leapt over a fallen corpse, his feet skidding on blood-slick stones. Haim followed, a grimace fixed to his face.
Within the courtyard, chaos reigned. Bleak soldiers dragged bodies. Fires caught on damp thatch. Rebels fell back to the inner keep.
A woman screamed. Garran shoved past, finding a rebel captain trying to rally. A broad man, gray-bearded, axe raised high.
Garran moved without thought. The blade struck true, cutting through neck and mail. The man dropped.
Haim grabbed his arm. "That was Harren of the Gate."
"So?"
"His bloodline held this place three generations."
"Not anymore."
They pressed on. The Bleak Company showed no mercy, cutting down anyone in reach. No calls for surrender. No prisoners.
Orlec's voice rang out. "Seal the gate. Hold the yard."
The levies obeyed. Garran leaned against a stone wall, breath ragged.
"It's done," Haim gasped.
"Not yet," Garran muttered. "Not 'til the coin's paid."
In the center of the yard, Morrick raised his bloodied blade.
"By this night's kill," he called, "the Bleak Company claims Stonegrave!"
No one challenged him.
Garran wiped his sword on a dead man's cloak. The rain washed away the blood, but not the memory.
Another name taken. Another place fallen.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, the old banners of Varnholt stirred.