GALTAS

       Fourth moon, morning, day twenty-two of the siege

       East Rank encampment, outside Rilporin, Wheat Lands

      ‘The siege progresses as expected, Sire.’ Galtas handed him the distance-viewer and waited while he scanned the wall, the men scurrying across its top and around its base like ants. ‘We are making good progress.’

      ‘Are we?’ Rivil turned a sour look on him, slapping the viewer in the palm of his hand and no doubt shaking the lenses out of alignment. ‘Are we really? Does it feel like that to you? Because it feels to me like we’ve been sitting on our arses for three weeks while our men attempt the wall and fail. Over and shitting over again.’

      ‘The siege towers are making a difference now,’ Galtas began, ‘and the trebuchets are definitely having an effect. You can see the defacement of the wall to our left of the gatehouse.’

      ‘Having an effect. Defacement,’ Rivil sneered. ‘You realise we’re destroying my fucking city in order to conquer it, don’t you? Or at least, we’re attempting to.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Why did I ever let you talk me into this mad scheme?’

       Because you didn’t have a plan and your military mind consists of how many wagonloads of luxuries you can take on campaign rather than soldiers or weapons. Because you’re a spoilt little shit who’s never done a day’s work in your life and couldn’t plan a siege if your life depended on it. Oh wait, it does.

       So does mine.

      ‘General Skerris approaches,’ Galtas said instead of voicing any of the thoughts hurtling around his brain.

      The fat general of the East Rank wobbled to attention and saluted. ‘Prince Rivil, Lord Galtas,’ Skerris wheezed, ‘we’re about ready for another push, if you’d like to give the order? The Mireces are readying their new tower after the … mishap with the first. Trebuchets will keep up the bombardment until the troops are within range, then cease fire to avoid casualties. Our target is Second Last—’ he pointed a fat finger at Second Tower and Last Bastion, the section of wall to their left of the gatehouse. ‘The Mireces will assault Double First.’ He indicated First Bastion and First Tower to their right.

      Skerris’s words conjured a vivid image of the Mireces’ first siege tower bright with flame as the defenders’ fire arrows lodged in the unprotected wood. It’d burnt fast and hard, killing several of the Raiders inside it. A fucking shambles.

      ‘Defenders’ll have to split their forces again. If we can establish a decent bridgehead this time …’ Skerris trailed off as Rivil’s scowl returned.

      ‘How many men have we lost so far?’ he snapped.

      ‘Some hundreds, Sire.’

      ‘It’s too slow, Skerris. All of this is too slow. We might have destroyed the West and North Ranks, but that incompetence at the harbour two weeks ago allowed fucking thousands of South Rankers into the city to reinforce the defenders. What if they’ve sent for the rest?’

      ‘Sire, we are doing all that we can. Progress is steady. Yesterday we held a bridgehead for the better part of three hours,’ Skerris added.

      ‘What do you want, a fucking medal?’ Rivil shouted. ‘We’re running out of artillery for the trebs and a bridgehead is not a bridgehead unless it accomplishes something other than the deaths of our men.’

      ‘Standard divide and conquer, Sire, and the same tactics will apply if the remainder of the South Rank does come. It may not look like it, but we’re doing well. We’re winning.’

      It was probably the worst thing Skerris could have said. Rivil’s face purpled and saliva flew. ‘Winning? Does this look like fucking winning to you, fat man? We’re living in tents and shitting in fields while they live off the provisions of an entire city. They have months of supplies in there, hospitals, armouries, inns and cooks and clean clothes …’

      Rivil stopped talking, and neither Galtas nor Skerris moved to fill the silence. Rivil’s temper had been shortening by the hour this last week. He faced the city again just as the lead trebuchet unloaded its stone at the wall. The ground in front was littered with spent boulders and giant slabs of rock that had been cracked off the outer face, all of which further hindered the ladder teams and siege towers.

      ‘Skerris, send the men, ours and the Mireces. Full assault. Galtas, you’re going with them.’

      Galtas sputtered a laugh. Go into the city? As part of a ladder assault? ‘Sire, I’m not Rank-trained. I’ll be too slow up the ladder. I could better serve—’

      ‘The gods will watch over you,’ Rivil interrupted. ‘So you need not be afraid. If the Mireces have the balls for it, I’m sure you do too. I want you in Rilporin and I want definitive proof that my father is dead. These bastards are too motivated for my liking; the king clinging to life might be enough for them. Then I want you to do something to get us in, either frontal assault or a quiet infiltration. Either will suit.’

      ‘Do something?’ Galtas echoed. ‘Such as?’

      Rivil snarled at him: ‘Improvise.’

      Galtas’s face was wooden, unresponsive, but he managed a bow and plastered an insincere smile across his mouth. ‘As you command, Sire,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’ll see to the orders immediately. General, shall we?’

      He stalked across the field towards the half of the Third Thousand whose turn it was to die today, his ears straining behind him for Rivil’s voice telling him he was joking. It didn’t come. Galtas would be running up the inside of a siege tower and out across a gangplank on to the wall while archers loosed shaft after shaft at him, or he’d be scaling a ladder along with the Rankers, up into enemy territory with arrows, rocks and boiling oil being poured down on his head, to roll on to the allure and face a thousand defenders.

      Galtas was going to die.

      ‘His Highness is getting a little fractious, eh, milord?’ Skerris said as they marched towards the assault teams. On his right, Galtas could see a swarming mass of blue-clad Mireces readying themselves, their second siege tower, this one covered in fire-proof animal skins, already rumbling towards the wall.

      ‘Fractious?’ Galtas said, and then bit down on his response and chose other, less volatile, words. ‘He chafes at the delay. He is of course too valuable to risk at the wall, and so there is little he can do until we have forced an entry. He wishes to fight alongside his men, to lead them in battle.’

      Galtas suspected Rivil wanted no such bloody thing, but he couldn’t exactly put forward his theory that Rivil just wanted the big chair and the shiny crown and someone else to do all the actual governing for him.

      ‘If