The iron-clad boots of the Ismarian invaders thundered against the Great Gate, a rhythmic heartbeat of impending doom. Inside the inner ward of Edring, the air tasted of wet stone and old smoke.
The soldier looked at the jar in Bertram’s hand, then at Bertram’s hollowed cheeks. He didn't raise his spear. Instead, he reached into a pouch at his belt, pulled out a stale crust of rye bread, and tossed it onto the dirt between them. File: Siege.Survival.Gloria.Victis.v2021.12.07....
Bertram clutched the bread and the medicine to his chest. He hadn't won a battle, and he hadn't ended the war. But as he climbed back toward the safety of the keep, he knew he had survived one more night. In Edring, that was the only victory that mattered. The iron-clad boots of the Ismarian invaders thundered
Bertram reached the ruins of the shop. He moved aside a heavy beam, his breath coming in ragged white plumes. There, beneath a pile of shattered glass, he found it: a sealed jar of medicinal alcohol and a bundle of dried feverfew. It was a king’s ransom in a city of beggars. A floorboard creaked behind him. He didn't raise his spear
For a long minute, the only sound was the distant thump-thump of the battering ram against the citadel.