his first victim and staring with mania at a grey, looking man, who had a look of loss upon his eyes.
“Let them deserve all that we can throw at them!” Frazer growled. “Bowers — FIRE!”
The archers pulled at their bows, the arrows flying in sync with each other as they flew in the air for a short distance, before gliding down quickly and taking out a number of the men, who had not defended themselves well enough for the attack.
Thomson growled, his teeth showing in anger as the men at the front of the unit dropped to the ground.
“KILL THEM!” he shouted as he grabbed his sword and ran towards the front of his unit.
His men began running; their grunts and growls began to echo around the village, like hungry wolves ready for a meal, with their spears, axes and hammers held in the air ready to take the enemy in an instant. Their large silver shields were held tightly in their claw-like hands, clanging harshly on their chain mail as they ran.
The rammers were nearing the palace, but the archers began to aim at them, their arrows flamed as they deposited their weapons at the enemy, watching as each one dropped to the floor. Granger was an expert with a bow, each fire of a bow came the next, then the next. His aim was precise; his speed was effective too, as he watched the soldiers drop to the ground, the shriek of pain had not had time to echo out of their mouths, as Granger and the archers aimed at the throats of the soldiers… the only sensitive part they could get to on the chest-plated men.
“The rams are nearing!” Brexham shouted to the men on the ground. “Get ready for their appearance,” he noted.
Each man stood calm, their spears were ready, and their swords were ready for quick release, unbuckled from its protective straps; each blade sharpened to take the life of the enemy with no remorse.
The first ram had approached. The archers tried to take the soldiers, but alas, they had been surrounded by other soldiers who were protecting them with their shields, which were held over their heads like umbrellas.
No bower could get their arrows to the enemy; their shields were keeping them safe.
Without a second thought, Private Harrington grabbed the bucket of oil from the catwalk and threw it down at the men, drenching them in the blackened liquid, which the archers were using for their arrows. And with the flamed torch that was held in a metal bracket on the catwalk, he threw it down at the soldiers.
The flame followed the trail of liquid, which quickly emerged onto the shield-holding soldiers’. The screams of the enemy were loud, as some ran towards any dirt they could use to throw at their bodies, leaving the rest of the now un-defensive men naked of their protection.
The bows flew at them once more, knocking the opponents to the ground quickly and swiftly.
The ram stood alone — abandoned by its...