Almost as quickly as that fear of Raj Ahten’s counterattack arose, it was assuaged. Gaborn heard shouts at the southern gates, the clanking of gears as Raj Ahten’s troops hurried to raise the drawbridge. The fog in the valley was so thick, Gaborn could not see if any nomen made it over the bridge.

Raj Ahten could not counterattack now. He could not be certain what size force House Orden had brought. If he attacked, he might find himself ambushed by a force so large he could never withstand it. It was, after all, a common tactic to try to lure a castle’s defenders out by feigning an inadequate force.

A contrary wind blew from the east, and the fog suddenly thickened. Gaborn could see nothing more of the battle. Even the giants disappeared in the mist.

Yet he heard horses neigh in terror, the battle cries of House Orden. On the hill across the valley, horns sounded—two short blasts, one long. An order to regroup.

“Come on!” Gaborn told Rowan, and he took her hand. Together they raced up the streets, uphill toward the King’s Keep.

The city was in chaos. Raj Ahten’s troops were throwing on armor, rushing to man the city walls.

As Gaborn and Rowan ran to the King’s Gate, the soldiers were lowering the portcullis leading into the business district. They ordered Gaborn back.

Five hundred of Raj Ahten’s troops rushed down from the King’s Keep, trying to reach the Outer Walls. A small herd of startled cattle dashed this way and that before them, seeking escape.

In the confusion, Gaborn and Rowan shouldered their bales of spices, raced through the portcullis into the market.

The market district was undefended. Raj Ahten’s men had not yet formed a plan for resisting attack. None of his soldiers had been posted to specific turrets. Watching the walls, Gaborn saw dozens of soldiers rush to the catapults, others manning the towers at each corner of the castle—but Raj Ahten’s troops spread themselves thin. Some rushed for the Outer Wall; others tried to nail down defenses in the Dedicates’ Keep.

Practically no one manned the second wall of the city’s defenses, the King’s Wall.

From the plain below—mingled with the screams of nomen, the neighing of horses as they died, the roars of giants—the knights of House Orden broke into song, their deep voices celebrating the glory of war.

Gaborn’s father had always insisted that each of his personal guard have three endowments of Voice, so that orders could be easily shouted across the battlefields. Their death song erupted from the fog, shook the very stones of Castle Sylvarresta, reverberated from hill to hill. It was a song to strike terror in the hearts of foe:

“Bring your honor, swing your sword,
   You mighty men of Orden.
Reap your foes in fields of gore,
   You bloody men of Orden!”