"I am here for words," Sorza replied, his voice tightening. "I sent word for a parlay, not a duel."
He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to look away. He might have held a glimmer of hope before the gates opened, but the sight of the enemy ranks had snuffed it out. His own men were dispirited, half-starved, and wearing mail that was more rust and holes than protection. The host outside his walls, by contrast, looked as though they would gladly take a sprint through all five hells just for a warm-up.
Had his principality not been crawling with traitors, he might have stood a chance at holding until winter. The bastards at the Bastion had held their ground; why couldn't he? But that choice had galloped away like a horse on fire the moment he saw his vassals' banners dancing in the enemy's wind.
Words were his only path to survival.
