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He continued to yell orders and adjust his men methodically, but he wasn’t really there.
This isn’t who I am anymore.
His mind raced back to all those months ago. The ghostly sound of the portcullis lifted like a beast’s yawning mouth. He saw himself and his men whipping through the line of trees and into the castle.
Rowan patrolled the battlements until the sun sank below the horizon and darkness fell upon Norland. Scouts rushed to him and reported the movement of the Demorvian army. He kept walking until the night grew cold and quiet, and his men sleepily manned their posts. Calluses and blisters formed on his feet, and his legs felt like lead. He continued to walk the battlements as that quiet ruptured. The melodic sound of drums awakened the world, and his own men sounded a war horn to get every fighter to their feet.
Awoooooo, the horn rudely blared, blasting the castle awake.
He stood at the balustrade and watched. The forest stirred as if a gigantic monster were moving through its trees. And that wasn’t far from the truth. They were coming. And they were bringing catapults and scorpions in tow.
They were upon them.
The giant trees swayed, ghostlike, as the army pounded through them and broke into the clearing. He saw himself at the head of the army for half a heartbeat, dressed as he was now… the Black Wolf of Norland at the head of his pack. A pack of purebreds and mongrels alike. He remembered what Blanchette had said about those trees standing guard. How her mother had spun a pretty tale about them being silent sentries, and so long as they stood tall, no harm could breach the castle.
But it was all a lie. King Bartholomew had built his kingdom out of lies and upon the backs of corpses. So many corpses. They could have filled that entire forest with all the nooses they’d hung from.
His men were behind the gates, ready to defend the castle. Rowan walked the battlements to get a clear view of the bridge and portcullis. Both were secure. But for how much longer? It’d be a bittersweet revenge, no doubt. When it came to vengeance, he considered himself somewhat of an expert.
The sky was restless, with clouds racing in from east to west in a mad flurry. They looked heavy and ominous—out of place on a brisk spring evening. Rowan wasn’t a superstitious man, yet he felt a mounting dread.
It was an omen. Every governess, every priest, every holy man would have said so. He might have crossed himself if he’d been a sacred man. Instead, he turned away from the sky in a flurry of well-oiled chain mail and plate, then stalked across the bridge toward the rookery tower. Idly, he thought of all the pigeons Edrick had killed... how no birds would fly on the morrow, carrying words of his victory or defeat.
Dozens of men gathered inside the inner bailey and looked up at him expectantly. Sir Jeremy. Sir Royce. And Jonas, he felt his gaze most of all. Rowan sighed against his visor, the beat of his heart thundering in his ears. He removed his wolf’s helm and shook out his hair, his eyes searching the sea of faces below. If he thought too hard about them—about Jonas or the servants he’d drunk with—he’d drown in his fear.
* * *
The army broke apart like a horseshoe and raced toward the East Postern Gate. Just like Blanchette said they would. Rowan rushed across the battlements, his helm under his arm, and yelled to the line of men in his most commanding voice, “Rain fire on them!” Archers dipped their arrows in flaming braziers and set the spearheads aglow.
His order echoed down the line. “Nock. Draw. Loose!” The soft hiss of arrows cut through the air. Rowan watched as they bowed through the darkness like shooting stars. The din of screams swelled the walls, and he watched as men collapsed to their knees and lay dead or dying.
“Knock. Draw. Loose. Knock. Draw. Loose. Knock, draw, loose.” Screams. So many screams. And so it went on like that, and time seemed to stand still. “Knock. Draw. Loose.” Screams. They were the only three words that existed during that time. “Knock. Draw. Loose.” Screams. His life became measured in knocks and draws and looses and screams.
The familiar rush of battle fever livened in his veins. Defenders poured hot oil through the murder holes and rained fire from the arrow slits. The screams were palpably close now—he could smell the burning flesh of men dying. The air was rancid with it. His pulse jetted, his veins on fire, and his flesh tingled. Smoke remained at his side, a comfort, a part of him, his comrade.
Thirty minutes later, as he continued yelling commands down the line and setting the night aglow, he watched as a dozen men rushed toward the East Postern Gate under the cover of a wooden turtle. They clasped a large battering ram between them. Rowan pressed against the balustrade and struggled to make out the faces.
I mean to make out a single face, his mind corrected. That of Edrick’s. But most of the soldiers were well-armored and visored, and the darkness concealed any bare features like a cloak.
I can hide, too, he thought with a wolfish grin that a nearby comrade visibly shrank away from. I have my own escape… my own mask.
Rowan Dietrich slipped into his wolf helm—into his wolf’s skin—and snapped the visor shut.
He was no longer Rowan Dietrich. In that single movement, he’d become the Black Wolf of Norland.
* * *
The first ladder went up about an hour after the siege began. “Rain hell on them!”
Soldiers flanked the ladder and heaved rocks down the wall. He watched as it hit one of the climbing soldiers and smashed his head in like a melon. The next soldier took the rock in his chest. He tumbled to the ground and broke into pieces on the stones below.
Second and third ladders shot up from the darkness as they scaled the walls. Rowan raced to the third one as men swarmed up the rungs. An unlucky bastard reached the top, only to find Rowan’s sword through his chest and out his back. Rowan pulled the blade free, then slammed his fist into the man’s bleeding chest, sending him reeling into the night. He, too, splattered on the ground below.
Heavily armored soldiers marched toward the castle gates, their faces set with determination. The clanking of their armor and the pounding of their boots echoed off the castle walls, and the smell of sweat and fear hung heavy in the air. At the front of the group was a massive wooden structure shaped like a giant tree trunk with iron bands around it—a battering ram. The soldiers behind the ram hefted it back, then swung it forward with all their power, slamming it into the gates with a thunderous crash.
The gates shuddered but held firm.
Lightning illuminated the battlements and momentarily set the world ablaze. One, two, three, four, five. Rolling thunder filled the world and echoed inside Rowan’s helm. He walked the battlements, his sword hanging at his side, blood dripping from its tip, his fingers tight and white-knuckled around the pommel.
