Had this day occurred a thousand years prior, it would have been legend. An overwhelming force warring against an insolent northern hold on behalf of the glorious and holy nation of the day, and at the centre of it, a clash of two spirits. One the vile and contemptuous heretic vixen, and her opponent, the noble knight captain, carrying out his righteous campaign. Truly, a magnificent tale. He would see it through to its magnificent end.
Gwynne's smile was wide, welcoming even, as his underlings swarmed forth from the gates. Though some of the advancing Dukesmen fell to Stark arrows, the Captain's apparent mirth did not falter. Not even when the first of the runners stumbled, danced the dance of a man unbalanced, and fell in a jumble of limbs and wasted momentum did the Captain's smile fade. And even still when Gwynne reached out with his war hammer, hooking the runner with the pick, and dragged the wincing, wide-eyed man to safety - even then he wore the face of one overjoyed. For despite all of this spindly infantryman's personal failings, Gwynne Annefain knew what he represented. He was the first, though certainly not the last, of a great force soon to flood these streets. Soon to break the gates of the inner keep, and to push not just their way into the castle, but their thumbs into the eyes of each and every Stark whelp that hid therein.
Until of course, the runner spoke.
"Lord," the smaller man spluttered, still hooked at the shoulder by Gwynne's hammer, "Great giants of stone and ice! A force of mages assails our flanks!"
It was then, in a moment so small that it sat betwixt heartbeats, that Gwynne's mood fell. Fell as had Wallund's gates. Fell as would his hammer upon Petrin Stark's pretty little skull.
Gwynne drew in a cold breath, the air brisk despite the roaring of distant flame, and looked up from the runner boy to the approaching Dukesmen. Past them, to the crumbling gates from which they came... to where the screams of men and great grinding thunder of stones could be heard faintly over the cacophony of the city. And he scowled.
"Form rank!" he bellowed, calling to the approaching Dukesmen, "Shield wall! Bring forth the Archers!"
Gwynne stood from his hobbled-together lean to, holding his shield up behind his head so as to protect his neck from the keep's own bowmen. He jogged to meet the quickly forming wall of black and white shields, pushing between them whilst his infantrymen from the raiding party slipped in of their own accord.
Once again behind friendly shields, Gwynne lowered his own, and levelled his hammer at an approaching lieutenant. He barked, "Bring about the bowmen, and have them fire volleys on that wall."
He swung his hammer back towards Wallund's keep, nearly taking off the head of a nearby soldier, "I want them to feel the sting of our arrows, as we have of theirs."
Gwynne lowered the hammer, to the relief of both his lieutenant and those in the shield wall around him. The Captain eyed his forces, more still coming in through the ruined gate. He turned again to the lieutenant, and ordered, "Find Commander Ramst. Tell him on order of the High Captain to mount a counter-attack on the flanking mages, and to send runners if either the line breaks or he cannot stage a successful defense. Go! Quickly!"
Gwynne shoved the man away none too lightly with his shield, and settled into position just behind the shield wall. He again faced the keep, and met the gaze of the defenders with his own steely glare. There were enough men to begin their push, and a quick glance back to the ruined gate confirmed that his archers were closing in rapidly. His smile, wolfish and warmongered, crept back on to his features. He reached for his horn, brought it up to his lips and loosed three short blasts. By the time he'd settled it back at his hip, the shield wall was advancing at a steady walk towards the Keep's Inner Gate.
"For Ansgar!" Gwynne roared, bashing his hammer against his shield, "For Connloath, Calent Allarick, for GLORY AND DEATH, BRING DOWN THAT GATE!"
