He lifted a rock set it in place... lifted a rock... set it in place... "Milord Blackthorn!"

Ian stopped and wiped the rain from his face. The storm he'd summoned the night before had kept on relentlessly, and his aide Marcus stood ankle deep in the mud in the courtyard below.

"Yes, Marcus?"

"Milady Blackthorn has returned. She says she's news for you that will cheer us."

Blackthorn nodded... reached for his tunic and elven mail he'd discarded earlier as he worked, covering them with his cloak to keep them dry. He slipped the tunic on, then the lightweight mail and looked down at Marcus. I'll be there shortly." He suppressed a chuckle as Marcus saluted and nearly fell, then Ian turned to look along the wall.

He'd been here most of the day with the work crews, filling the breaches with rock then casting spells and wards to hold them in place. Mages from the Mage College had helped with the task, so it had gone quicker than he'd hoped. And at other spots, rubble from destroyed buildings were poised over openings with wood and rope, ready to be released as deadfalls. Further inside, more deadfalls were set on roof buildings, ready to be released on the streets below and form deadend traps. The orcs would be trapped, and archers on the roofs would have easy targets. Patrols had been increased to five-man teams, and the frequency stepped up; no patrol was further away than earshot from another on the next street. Mixed teams of guards and mages stood watch at wells and tunnel entrances.

He'd done what he could. And he wondered if he'd done ALL he could. Corwin and Skye were his rocks, and Coll and Alodar, no matter what their personal differences were, had fought with courage and determination. Even Amaris had shown an amazing grasp of command with the archers Skye had given over to her charge. And because he'd failed to observe the orc lad Horcij as nothing more than an orc to be dealt with, he may have failed them all.

Ian swung over the edge of the parapet and let go... landing on his feet in the soft mud. A few seconds slopping his way across the courtyard were more than he wanted, but, he reflected, at least he would not be one of those generals who died in a clean uniform. He wished he could go out again as he did the other night with his bow. He'd felt more useful fighting in the woods that eve than he felt in several days. Perhaps the northern orcs didn't know what the name Firnadan meant on the arrows... but Ian hoped the human mercenaries might remember the stories about The Dead Man.

He sighed. He was a general now, and he had responsibilities. No more midnight runs until this was over. Ferret had once joked that chain of command meant chains of command. "Now," thought Ian, "I know what he means."

He quickened his pace to the hall, hoping Skye truly had good news.