Ladders came and men tried to climb them, but the army on the parapets pushed them over and struck the climbers down. The trebuchets on the ground were filled and packed with flaming boulders doused in pitch, slamming into the walls and sending shards of clay and mortar everywhere. A crack appeared in the east wall, and the men scrambled to hold it up with bracers.
The unit commander on the west wall yelled down to his lieutenant to bring out the hot oil; they rolled it out and placed it on the swing arm. When a surge of men and creatures came at them, they let it tip and burned all who fought to climb up, keeping back lots, but not enough.
A hump backed creature with red eyes and razor spines on his back reached the top and jumped off the wall, startling a younger man who was fighting off a swordsman that had also reached the top. When the young solider ran the enemy through he turned, looking into the burning eyes of his attacker. He swung his sword around, but too late. The creature opened its great maw and spit venom, blinding him. The venom burned like acid, and the man dropped his sword and wailed in agony. Another man down the wall heard his cry and approached, wanting to help his companion if he could. The creature looked up at him, screeched and jumped forward like a coiled spring let loose, biting his head, blood splattering the wall behind him.
Three more creatures made it over the wall, attacking the troops with fury, leaving nothing identifiable in their wake. The men on the wall fought hard, knocking the army down the walls, only to be replaced with more. For hours, they fought, the sun slowly being swallowed up by dark heavy clouds, a cold wind chilling them. The rains came heavy, sleeting, an unrelenting downpour that soaked through their wool hosen, filling their boots and making it difficult to hold a sword or wield a mace. The men were cold and wet, and they were tiring. The rains didn’t seem to keep the creatures from reaching the top or slow them in the onslaught. After hours of relentless fury, the enemy would retreat to their tents for only an hour or two, then attack again.
Eventually a signal fire was sent out, alerting its sister cities that they couldn’t hold on much longer. The signal fire burned high, sending signal to the coastal city of Boones Ferry as well, that the Triple Cities had been overtaken.
The giants were beating the wall with wooden rams, every hit shaking the parapets above. The men, balancing too close to the edge, fighting off the ladders, slipped on the rain slicked walk and tumbled to the ground below. Those that did not die in the fall were trampled by the rushing horses and giants. The giants continued their ramming. Cracks started to appear along the bottom of the wall and ran up to the top in a diagonal jagged line. The mortar started to rain down until finally a breach appeared toward the east. The giants were making holes for the army to enter the barbican from underneath.
Many days later, the last remaining troops that had valiantly held back the fury of the hell army had been rounded up, tied together and burned where they stood.
Fallon looked around at how many he had left in his ranks. With quick estimation he deduced that he had lost over half his troops, hell born and not, and all but seven of the giants remained. He was not disappointed in his losses and was almost impressed at how hardy and strong the garrison had been. They fought harder than he anticipated they would, and some of them appeared to have been cunning, figuring out how to take out the creatures who came at them with fury. During the fight they were afraid but not afraid enough. He won this one, but he feared that the armies of Randor and Dainard would somehow grow stronger, and maybe the next battle would not be so easy.
He called back his troops, sending the footmen to the tops of the walls to discard and burn the bodies that were dead and dying on the parapets. The footmen took their places on the walks, the wall now secured for Fallon and his generals. They entered the gates and trotted into the small bailey that held the warriors who manned the wall. All was quiet, but a singular stench hit his nostrils as he rode through the gate. The smell of hundreds of burning bodies piled in the center of the common, the wind carrying it across the parapet and down the road. The rain had let up slightly in the days of battle, but the men had to really stoke the flames to keep the fire blazing under the now soggy wood. Fallon was wet through, and his hosen under his mail was starting to stick to his skin, but the victory felt too good to hide from the weather.
He yelled orders for the camp to be set up, the warriors taking the guard towers, the giants camping under the open skies. In a few weeks the foot troops would march across the border into Aaralyn. He would ride for a week, then invade Salador in the west province. With the Isamarians under his control, the southern king would have a difficult time finding enough men to fight him. He would set up his new regime and take the crown, then ride back into Azlyn and take Melenthia for his own. His victory would be assured. He could taste it. Once Aaralyn and Isamar were under his control, Dainard would be hard pressed to keep his province intact with Fallon’s hell army controlling all the borders. Soon Aelethia would have a new ruler, a new king to rule the entire kingdom, with Melenthia as his queen. At least until his heir was born, then she too would be of no more use to him. He would kill her, and he and his son would rule for all eternity. His pact with the Dark One was almost complete, his eternal life would soon be assured.