Interlude - Nineteenth day of the siege

[Eclecticon]

The cracks and holes in the roof of Sweartmereseld cast a peculiar light on the scene within, showing here and there the ghastly detail of a wounded warrior or a child made weak and sickly by hunger, and leaving the rest in shadow.  The fire-pit, now burning only the broken shingles driven in by heavy stones cast by the enemy, casts far more smoke than light, and its fulminations mingle with the ever-present mist creeping in from the Tarn to make the air close and heavy. 

For nigh a day and a night, the howling and yelping of the forest goblins outside has been an unceasing reminder of the closeness of the foe, and of the doom that awaits all who remain within.  Yet now come the deeper, harsher tones of greater orcs that beat upon the stout walls with the butts of heavy spears and call out insults and threats.  Behind them, for those with ears sharp enough to hear, rumbles some yet greater menace. 

Whether this is the precursor to some final assault, to bring a final resolution to this siege before the arrival of the host of the Woodmen, Arbogast cannot know.  He stirs himself to sore and weary feet, hefting once again axe, shield and helm that have waxed greatly in weight.  He looks about him in the half-light.  Amaleoda's wounded leg, from a goblin arrow as she guarded the last women to gather water from the lake, still pains her, and though she will stand leaning upon her spear, she is in no condition to lead a sally. 

An urge comes upon him to kick at the recumbent forms around him and to curse their idleness.  Why must it be he who rises to the protection of those around him?  Where, when his children are afeared and his wife still mourns the loss of her unborn child, is someone to raise their arms in his defence? 

Something of this feeling comes forth in his words, try though he may to suppress it.  "Rise, you defenders of a broken wall!  Think you that your task is at an end?"  He strides now between warriors who try to rub wakefulness into bleary eyes and mutter curses under their breath, and children and elders who shrink from him as if he were as terrible as what awaits beyond the walls.  "We are beset, and no rest shall any of us find until the foe is faced and driven hence!" 

Standing astride the corner of the firepit, filthy, bloody and ragged, he is far from the heroic figure that defied the Maiden of the Black Tarn scant weeks ago.  In a voice hoarse from crying out over the sounds of battle, he goes on.  "Rise, you hunters in a wood emptied of game, and bend your bows toward new and closer marks!  Rise, you fishers of waters despoiled and denied to you by blackest treachery!" 

A crash sounds from the eastern door as something massive strikes it and the impact shakes every timber in the hall.  Screaming now with barely a care as to how his words will strike, the Fire-watcher bellows "RISE, YOU FATHERS OF MURDERED CHILDREN!  WHAT CAN THEY TAKE FROM US NOW BUT OUR SORROW AND OUR SHAME?"