A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1667 - 1667: A Captured Capital - Part 2

Blackwell couldn't locate him on the wall, amid all those men, but he knew he was likely there, somewhere, looking down at them. Perhaps from one of those great towers that stood so much higher than the walls, with those massive Pendragon banners flagging in the wind – and what a wind it was that now blew. It made it difficult to be heard even by the man next to you, unless you intended to shout.

With a motion of his finger, Blackwell drew the catapults forward. A gift from the Verna – one that they had taken by force – the catapults had proved more than worthy comrades in their continued sieges. And now too, their harsh rocks were to be turned against the fine white walls of the ancient Pendragon Capital.

It was not lost on Blackwell what a sin he was committing. None had done as he had, not since the First King. There had been attempts, but none had come as far as he. He was half a day, or perhaps a handful of days, should they move slowly, from overthrowing a Silver King in their entirety.

None had seen that happen. Not from the hands of a Lord. There had been poisonings and the likes behind the scenes – though none such cases had been ever proven – in order to hurry a succession, but none quite like what they had taken part in.

The sky, in its greyness, seemed to mourn what they were committing. For it might have been approaching the realm of greatness, but it was still a sin they carried out, in order to execute on their justice.

Those catapults too seemed more a sin than any other. They were not the tools of Stormfront war, but Blackwell was making use of them. Just to pull them forward was to eat up the landscape, and the thin layer of snow that had managed to settle.

It required whole teams of men and horses to get them into position, and whole teams more to move their ammunition. They were great, colossal beasts, and the men allowed them on ahead, away from the main army, to begin their preparations alone.

The Pendragon archers were forced to watch from the wall as Blackwell's engineers went about their works, determining the trajectory of their first short, and ensuring that all was in order with the catapult, that its bolts were tightened, and its hinges were oiled well enough. There was such a degree of explosive force that went into loosing just a single shot, that if there was any unaccounted for resistance, it was likely to send the whole structure imploding in on itself.

Time was spent on it, perhaps too great a deal of time. It was as much a tactic for demoralizing the enemy as it was anything else. Guessing when they were about done, Blackwell gave another order, with a motion of his hand, and through the messaging of several flag bearers, to bring the rest of his army down from that hill, and marching forward.

Their siege instruments went with them. The bridges that Blackwell had seen crafted, held aloft by the hands of two dozen men for each. Then the great ladders that they brought with them too, held up by just as many people. He had two battering rams with him as well, merely for the threat of using them, rather than any actual intention to see them used.

He glanced behind him as his horse went forward. Queen Asabel's carriage remained where it was, with the guard Lancelot standing outside of it. Blackwell nodded to him, and Lancelot nodded back, seeming to understand the duty that he had in keeping his Queen safe and away until the fighting was fittingly concluded.

As they marched down the hill, another order was given, for the first of the catapult shots to be fired. Their team of five worked together, and almost in synchronicity, they sent five giant boulders hurtling towards the walls of the enemy.

To see them take such a height in their flight, and to travel at such a speed quickly inspired a good few shouts of dismay from the enemy, as they attempted to predict where they might land, and what squadrons of men should be taking cover.

As it happened, all those that lined the walls ended up ducking together. Blackwell smiled without amusement, remembering the first time he and his men had faced such attacks. The natural thing to do against them was to cower. What else was one to do? The mathematicians and the engineers of the Verna had outdone themselves in their creation. They were as menacing as true monsters, spawned in by Pandora.

When their shots did land, the ground shook, and the walls groaned, weeping stone. The sounds were deafening, and the screamed that followed them were only the chorus of the main song. They struck like thunder, and then fell like something cast down from the heavens, down to earth again.

Those were the sounds of war. That which overwrote the angry howling of the wind, picking up a new song. They were what declared the battle had begun, whether the Gods wished for it or not. The adrenaline that came with that noise was no illusion. Even those Blackwell men that were still a distance from actual engagement themselves felt their eyes peel open, and their energy heighten, and their hearts beat just a degree faster.

Cracks ran along those pure white walls. Not enough to threaten that they might be tumbling anytime soon, but enough to mar what had once been a perfect, illustrious shield, as regarded for its beauty as it was for its defence.

Blackwell had heard talk of the carvings laid on those bricks. The immaculate stonework the masons had put up, so conscientious of their craft they had been. But from the distance he stood, he could not see such carvings. He could see no small statues. He could only see the small piles of rubble beginning to gather at the bottoms of the walls from the destruction that he had caused.