Interlude – Sixteenth day of the siege

[Eclecticon]

The timbers of the palisade creak and groan as if echoing the dismay of the defenders of the hall, and the howling and baying of the orcs beyond grows ever louder.  As a barrage of black-fletched arrows drives the last archers from the parapet, Amaleoda, her spear held in her left hand as she cradles her shattered right to her chest, looks about her, gauging the strength of her exhausted and starving people and their willingness to fight on. 

From his place at the right edge of the shield wall, Arbogast meets her eye.  Judging that enough time remains, she motions him over to her.  "Little more can we endure," she tells him, "and I would not spend our strength further if we could instead retreat and defend only Sweartmereseld." 

The Fire-watcher spares a glance backward at the hall as a crack announces that the orcs have pulled one of the thick palisade timbers loose and the whistling of arrow-shafts answers from within.  Its doors, and its wooden roof that resembles the inverted hull of a river boat, are solid and strong but there are precious few openings through which arrows might be loosed.  Slowly, he shakes his head.  "We have held out this long only because they are not yet sure that we are beaten.  Should we show them that they may pass the palisade unimpeded, they will come upon us at once.  They will burn Sweartmereseld and us inside it, and gnaw the charred bones they pluck from the embers." 

Another crack, and now comes the sound of goblin arrows finding Mannish shields.  "We must retreat, but not before we have beaten them back," Arbogast says, eyeing the line and weighing how much time he has to spare for talk.  "Even once most are safe inside, we must have a few here to challenge the night-time interlopers." 

Amaleoda nods her approval.  "And your companions?" 

"I have heard nothing more, but they are on their way.  This I know as I know my own name," he answers, giving an assurance that he no longer feels.  The vision of the Hathcyn-fox was days past, from a night when he and Lindwine lost once again an unborn child.  Was the memory of it merely a creation of a mind oppressed by weariness and grief?  No voice does he give to this doubt, for such would surely be the end of him.  How long could the warriors of the Tarn continue to resist, if the hope of rescue were dashed? 

Another timber is pulled away by strong and terrible hands, and goblins push through the gap in twos and threes.  Amaleoda holds high her spear and calls forth "Stand fast, firas!  Stand fast!"