One war. Two Sisters. One end.
There is no running from it. Fate shall have its way as both daughters of Stormband take to the field of battle. Each with one goal - vengeance.
Approximately 130k words.
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When the enemy rises up around you like the waters of a flood, do not turn away the hand of any ally who offers assistance. No matter how unlikely.
A wise saying
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The string of the bow tight to her ear, Sheala stared down the perfect straightness of her arrow's shaft. From atop the wall spanning between the twin towers of Mours Canyon, past the tip, and off in the distance on the ravine floor below, the unlucky member of the imperial cavalry she followed along with was oblivious as to how he'd been marked as her next target.
With slow patience, she tacked her shot ahead of his charge, inhaled, held her breath, and then released her shot with a smooth peeling back of her fingers. With the twang of her bowstring, the arrow went forth, although she didn't watch her shot. She didn't have to. The arrow would find its mark, forcibly dismounting the soldier from his horse.
The former thief was already notching her next arrow as she and close to four dozen other archers were providing support for knights and other soldiers from the Mours Towers garrison in the confined space below and to the east of the wall.
More than one of the archers sworn to defend this fortification took notice as she stood with them atop the wall. Red hair whipping behind her in the firm, east to west running breeze buffeting them all, her ancient armor was not even remarkably similar to the style they wore. But not a one asked a question about her presence. Especially not once they witnessed how adept a shot she was.
They all seemed eager for the assistance as they were outnumbered, and firing with accuracy from this vantage was no easy task. If the strong wind were not enough to make an archer's normally true shot fail, there were plenty of other variables to account for. Any one of them, precipitating any number of mistakes, could lead even the best of the marksmen to miss.
Distance alone was enough to cause problems from atop the wall. Speed of targets, not to mention possible, and often frequent, changes in their trajectory during the arrow's time of flight over that span was just one more consideration.
All combined, each of the conditions facing those lobbing arrows down upon the battlefield made each shot even trickier.
The medallion Sheala wore had been buzzing with warnings of danger ever since she'd taken up her current perch once the battle had begun, as though it were screaming at her to find a safe haven in the midst of the battle. Now the signals were growing more intense, but she would not allow them to distract her attention from her next target.
