The deafening roar of the war-skiff rattled the remaining battlements, raining powdered snow and jagged gravel down upon the frozen platform.
Giant iron-beaked eagles beat their massive wings against the screaming blizzard, their leather harnesses groaning as the black vessel hovered ten feet above the broken parapet. The ship’s iron-plated hull was etched with crude, serrated teeth, carrying twenty archers dressed in boiled yak hide and spiked iron helmets. Each foreign marksman held a drawn recurve bow, their barbed arrows tipped with green fire and aimed straight into the heart of the tower.
Standing proudly upon the ship's prow, Lysander looked down with a sick, twisted triumph.
His right arm was locked into a rigid mechanical brace of blackened steel, held together with heavy rivet
