The low horn rolled across the valley in a single quavering note that rattled every rib-cage in the Astellian line. Lyan felt the vibration travel through his war-horse's withers and up his own spine; for an instant the sound seemed to throb inside his skull, like a heartbeat that wasn't his. On the battlements distant silhouettes shifted—pale smudges against darker stone—then resolved into defenders scurrying to firing positions. Lanterns flared all along the rampart, orange pinpricks blinking alive one after another, the serpent banners beside them jerking in startled gusts of torch-lit wind.
He caught the moment a Varzadian lieutenant leaned out between crenellations to stare into the fog, jaw slack with dawning horror. A heartbeat later Wilhelmina's cry cut the chilled air as cleanly as any blade: "Trebuchets—ready!"
