The laughter from the Oizenian ranks came in bursts, short, barking chuckles from men nudging one another with their elbows, smirking at the sight of ladders bobbing and swaying above the heads of the approaching Yarzat line.It was the kind of laughter that made a man feel taller, braver, more certain of his own safety.
But laughter is a fragile thing on the field of war.
For when the Yarzat soldiers drew near enough, near enough for faces to sharpen and for the black gleam of their armor to burn in the sun, their strange burdens were suddenly no longer theirs to bear. In an act of sudden generosity, they shared them with the Oizenians, hurling the heavy wooden frames forward like gifts offered in wrath.
The laughter that had rung so confidently now choked and faltered, dying mid-breath, as those same men found themselves helping to carry the load.
It was, after all, a kind of teamwork. Just not the sort they had imagined.
