Sieged

Chapter Two

'ATTACK!!' 

'WOODEN DRAGONS!!' 

'All SOLDIERS TO THEIR STATIONS!!' 

Seamil and I bolt to our feet, him faster than I. 

'Let's go friend,' he says, stubbing his pipe out with a finger. He bounds from his chair, grabs his golden elven helmet from the cot and shoves it over his head. Then after grabbing his sword leaning against the hearth, he flees down the stairs. 

Meanwhile, I down the rest of my drink and follow as best as I can, finding Seamil just outside the tower gate and looking out over the wall towards the Dragontop Mountains. 

I turn to them myself. And that's when I see them, lights growing bigger and bigger. A strong wind whips at my face. They should be here shortly. 

Over the cannonade ringing of the bell above our heads, Seamil shouts to me, 'Pannor, go command the ballista tower on the west end. And hurry. We need javelins aloft immediately. Send these bastards a welcoming gift. Send them out of the sky.' 

He quickly forgets about my injury, that I'm not in the army anymore. 

'Commander Frum,' I shout calmly and respectfully. 'I need to get to my men. I have my duties.' 

Seamil looks at me and hangs his head in realization. 

He's disappointed. As am I. I would give anything to fight beside him once again. To take up arms against the enemy. 

'Yes,' he then says bitterly. 'Be safe, Sheriff Harg.' 

'And you, commander,' I reply. 'Goodfight.' 

We shake hands and I depart, leaving him to the defence of the city. 

As fast as my injured leg can take me, I make it to the wall's steps. Soldiers that were resting in the small square down below are now racing up with synchronized urgency, the sleeping soldier in the lead. 

'Goodfight, men,' I say to them. 

I'm halfway down when I hear a barrage of catapults being launched, shaking the air around me. The coming onslaught must be close. 

When my boots touch the square, everywhere lights up as if the sun has fallen from the sky. 

Damn! The catapults are missing. 

I look up to see the flaming wings of a gigantic wooden monster sailing over the wall, its suicide rider perched on the neck of the beast. And as it disappears over the roofs, streaking to find a target, I tail it back to the street, where chaos ensues. 

Screaming is all I hear. 

Families, women and their children, old husbands and wives, rush past me, petrified. It's a scene I've witnessed countless times for five years and I've never got used to it. 

A family runs into me, a small girl hitting into my leg. 

I grimace, trying hard not to scare them even more. 

'I'm sorry, sheriff,' the mother cries. 

'Please be careful,' I reply. 'And please calmly make your way to a bunker.' I then shout it to everyone else around me. 

Nobody listens. They never do. 

Looking back up, I see the wooden dragon glide deeper into the city. It descends with a roar before smashing into a building. The flames flare with an almost volcanic eruption, engulfing and spreading. 

I turn around. More are coming. Then suddenly . . . . 

BOOM! 

Wooden dragons explode in the air, sending fiery debris plummeting to the ground just before the wall.