Vann, his lieutenant, signaled to the unit leaders to double-time. It was their standard raid deployment – used to terrify. If a commander wanted to win efficiently, he deployed his troops in waves, with reinforcements to support momentary weakness. Martill, however, was the king’s butcher. He wanted the few survivors of the millstone of metal to tell of unending swords and blood. To tell of a tidal wave that erupted onto their land and did all the fires did not.

Martill paused, surveying the disarray of his enemies. The outriders had moved in, and were targeting the stronger buildings towards the heart of the hamlet – but with a few exceptions. Martill never allowed the outriders or his own troops to endanger the life of the man who had brought him here with his arrogant defiance. Such a quick death just wouldn’t do.

Martill took a breath of the smoky air as the men assembled. It was laced with the tang of fear and sweat, but was yet yet a virgin to the coppery and dusky threads of blood that would come.