The empire hit Birmingham at dawn. Thousands of soldiers poured across the scarred fields, siege towers creaking forward on massive wheels, battering rams thudding against the outer gates.
Varyn commanded from a reinforced litter near the rear, his body still broken from earlier fights but his voice carrying over the roar. Arrows filled the sky. Catapults hurled burning pitch that splattered across the parapets.
Atlas stood on the wall, sword in his right hand, left arm hanging useless and bandaged. Every swing sent fresh pain up his shoulder. He hacked down a grappling hook and the soldier climbing it, then took a spear thrust to his side that opened his old wound again.
Blood soaked his shirt. Grief sat in his gut like lead—Elizabeth was gone, and now this.
"Push them back!" he shouted, voice raw.
