The ground vibrated like a beaten drum as three massive battering rams rolled toward the fractured trench breach.
Each siege engine was clad in thick protective plates, pushed forward by teams of thirty armored mercenaries chanting in unison.
"Hold the red stake!" young Bren shouted at the top of his lungs, bracing his spear shaft against the trench dirt.
"Commander Hans swore this breach would hold, and the Sixth Region does not yield an inch of ground to invaders!"
"Archers, focus fire on the winch crews behind the timber mantlets!" Hans bellowed through the swirling dust.
A high-velocity ballista bolt shrieked through the morning fog, shattering the wooden breastwork with an explosive crash.
The flying metal bolt impaled young Bren through the chest, hurling the brave militia vanguard five paces backward into the ditch.
"Bren is down!" a militia runner screamed in panic, dropping his short bow as blood pooled in the dirt.
