The first rays of dawn hit the walls of Birmingham like a hammer. Empire catapults opened up immediately, hurling barrels of pitch and iron spikes that smashed into stone and wood. Flames licked up the outer districts.
Horns blared from the enemy lines while Varyn's loudspeakers crackled across the battlefield, the same voice repeating the same message: "The shadow plague family has poisoned the realm. Burn them out."
Atlas stood on the northern parapet, his sword arm wrapped in fresh bandages that already seeped blood. The wound from the raid had cut deep into muscle and tendon. He could barely close his fist.
Lara moved beside him, directing her guards to plug gaps with whatever planks and bodies they had left. Skritch, one arm gone below the elbow, dragged a cart of his rigged explosives down a side street, cursing every step.
