YAN

  YANICK AND NEMETH MOVED UNDER the cloak of night, hugging the low ridges and broken ground as they crept closer to Astoris. The desert wind kicked dust across their boots, whispering through brittle grass.

  Ahead, the siege camps sprawled like a restless sea—fires flickering in scattered clusters, tents sagging, men huddled close to warmth or crouched in silent watch.

  Closer still, the great siege engines loomed, monstrous shapes against the starlight. Their frames groaned under their own weight, ropes and pulleys creaking as they readied the next stone. Every few minutes, one of them let loose with a deep, thunderous clunk, and a flaming boulder soared into the sky.

  Yanick watched its arc, glowing like a dying star, until it slammed into the city wall with a boom that rolled across the plain. Sparks and dust bloomed at the point of impact.

  The Nordling soldiers cheered half-heartedly from the trenches. Some gathered around the engines, feeding more stones, adjusting the chains, wiping sweat from their brows. Others paced between tents and fire pits, weapons at their sides, helmets gleaming dully in the firelight.

  “Stay low,” Nemeth whispered. He crouched beside a pile of discarded crates, scanning the paths between sentries. “See that gap? Between the torch posts?”

  Yanick nodded. He could just make it out, a stretch of shadow, maybe fifteen yards wide, where no patrol passed for long minutes at a time. Beyond it, the ground sloped upward toward the siege line, and the hulking silhouettes of the engines.

  “They’ll spot us if we cross open,” Yanick muttered.

  “Then we don’t cross open.” Nemeth pointed. “We crawl.”

  Without waiting, Nemeth dropped flat and began to inch forward, elbows digging into the dusty earth. Yanick followed, heart thudding in his ears, tasting ash on his tongue.

  The ground was rough, scattered with rocks and broken bits of old bone. He winced every time his knee scraped a shard.

  A shout rang out nearby. Both men froze, pressed tight to the dirt as a patrol passed within yards, a pair of soldiers laughing, dragging a struggling prisoner between them. The man’s cries faded as they pulled him deeper into the camp.

  Nemeth exhaled softly and moved again.

  They reached the edge of the shadowed gap, breathless, muscles burning. Ahead, the engines loomed even larger—massive contraptions of iron and wood, their arms straining toward the heavens. A crew of Nordlings bustled around one, feeding a new stone into its sling. The firelight made their faces flicker like spirits.

  Yanick crouched beside Nemeth, watching as another boulder was launched with a deep groan. The stone arced high, trailing fire before smashing into the battlements.

  A section of wall cracked. Cheers erupted from the soldiers nearby.

  “We can’t get closer this way,” Yanick whispered. “They’ve got eyes everywhere.”

  Nemeth’s gaze was fixed ahead, lips pressed thin. “We’ll wait for the right moment.”

  Yanick wiped sweat from his brow despite the cool night. He stared past the siege engines, to the city rising like a blackened crown beyond the flames. The walls still held, but they looked tired. Scarred.

  “How long you think they’ll last?” Yanick murmured.

  Nemeth’s smile was grim. “Long enough to bleed everyone dry.”

  The ground shook as another engine loosed its payload.

  Yanick and Nemeth lay in the dark, pressed against the cold ground, as the siege engines loomed above them like sleeping giants. Smoke coiled from the trebuchets’ fire pits. The distant cries of wounded men floated through the night.

  Then a flicker of movement drew Yanick’s eye. Lanterns bobbed between tents, casting a golden glow across the nearest camp. A group of officers approached, their boots crunching the dry earth. At their head strode a tall man in a dark cloak, his beard streaked with iron gray.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Nemeth tensed beside him.

  “Breivik,” he murmured.

  Yanick recognised him too. One of the Jarls he met the night he was chosen by Luc to be his Divine Wolf.

  Breivik stopped near the siege engines, surveying the machines and the men clustered around them.

  “How’s the line?” he asked one of the officers.

  “Stable, Jarl,” the officer replied. “They’ve patched the breach we made earlier. We’ll need a fresh volley to open it again.”

  Breivik’s eyes narrowed as he studied the glowing city walls.

  “No,” he said. “Let them patch. Let them think they’ve won a night’s peace.” He turned to the officer. “Tell the crews to stand down. It’s Jarl Ulf camp’s turn to cary on the assault.”

  A murmur of relief rippled through the men. Some leaned back against the siege machines, wiping grime from their faces. Others set down stones, stretching their arms.

  “We’ll hit them harder tomorrow,” Breivik said. “Let them wear themselves thin plugging holes.” His voice dropped lower. “I want scouts on the eastern wall. If they’re pulling men from there to reinforce, I want to know by dawn.”

  “Aye, Jarl.”

  Breivik gave a final look toward the glowing battlements, then turned, his cloak trailing behind him as he strode back toward the officers’ tents.

  Yanick watched until the lanterns disappeared into the maze of canvas and poles.

  Nemeth tapped his shoulder.

  “Now.”

  They moved, slipping from shadow to shadow, weaving between crates and barrels, stepping over discarded weapons. The siege machines loomed silent above them now, dark outlines against the stars.

  They passed a wagon stacked with broken shields, then a line of sleeping soldiers curled under cloaks.

  Then Yanick’s boot caught a loose stone, and he stumbled straight into someone rounding the corner with a bucket of water in one hand, a cloth sack in the other.

  The girl gasped, nearly dropping both. Her wide eyes flashed in the moonlight, reflecting the moon's grin in them.

  Yanick froze.

  “Sienna?” he blurted.

  She stared at him in shock.

  “Yanick?”

  Nemeth pulled up short behind him, his hand darting toward the knife at his belt.

  Yanick raised a hand quickly.

  “It’s fine.”

  Sienna’s expression shifted, shock giving way to something sharper.

  “What in the gods’ names are you doing here?” she hissed. “Are you mad?”

  Yanick glanced over his shoulder, scanning for witnesses.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “I’m serving here,” she snapped, keeping her voice low. “Camp cook’s runner. You—” she looked Nemeth up and down—“You’ve no business being this close.”

  “We’re passing through,” Nemeth said flatly.

  Sienna’s gaze hardened.

  “Nobody passes through a siege camp.”

  Yanick stepped closer.

  “Please, Sienna. You didn’t see us. For the sake of—”

  “Of what?” she cut him off, her voice sharp, rising. “For the sake of that one night? You think that buys my silence?”

  Yanick hesitated.

  “Sienna—”

  “No.” Her grip on the bucket tightened, water sloshing over the edge. “You used me, Yanick. You left without a word. I woke up alone, wondering if you’d even been real.”

  He swallowed.

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Her eyes glistened in the moonlight. “You didn’t even say goodbye. You couldn’t even look at me while you were sailing away. And I waited. For at least one gaze. It would… It would mean that I was important. That what happened between us was important.”

  Yanick shifted under her stare.

  “It was,” he lied. “I’m sorry. It was just too much for me too.”

  She gave a bitter laugh.

  “Sienna,” he went on. “I just arrived and the very next day he told me I must go to war. I was confused, lost…”

  “That’s why you used me?”

  Yanick’s throat ached.

  “Sienna… I’m sorry.”

  “I should raise the alarm,” she said, words hard again. “You and him.” She jerked her head at Nemeth. “Both wanted men. You know there’s a bounty, right? A price for the traitors.”

  Yanick frowned.

  “A bounty?”

  “God Ari put a price on your heads,” she hissed. “A lot of gold for you alive. Little less for dead. And I should kill at least you, Yanick.”

  Nemeth’s eyes narrowed but stayed silent.

  “You’re both fools,” Sienna said, her voice shaking. “Coming here. Walking into an army’s mouth.”

  “Sienna, please—”

  “Don’t beg,” she snapped, though her voice cracked. “I should call them. I should scream right now.”

  Footsteps crunched nearby. A voice called out, closer now. “Sienna? Who’re you talking to?”

  She stiffened. The blood drained from her face.

  Yanick froze. Nemeth’s hand hovered near his belt knife.

  “Sienna…” Yanick whispered.

  She didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed locked on the dark silhouette approaching through the camp shadows.

  The voice came again, closer, curious.

  “Sienna?”

  Yanick’s pulse thundered in his ears. He held her gaze, waiting, helpless.

  And Sienna opened her mouth and spoke.