He’d have rather been up with Whelan overlooking the battlefield, instead of hurrying back and forth between the three mines tunneling toward the city walls. Whelan had set up four trebuchets to hurl stones at the city walls of Veyre. The stones crashed with thunderous booms, but there was little visible damage to the walls after a full day of bombardment. More effective were the dozen ballistae with bolts the size of a man’s leg and wrapped in pitch-soaked rags. Men lit the bolts on fire, then launched them soaring through the air with a stream of smoke by day and a long, arcing flame at night. The results of this never-ending barrage were the columns of smoke that rose from Veyre. It was the middle of the night, and Markal was on his hands and knees in the southernmost mine when he heard a snuffling sound behind him, and something made an animal-like growl. He turned quickly and thwacked his head on the roof of the mine. “It’s only me, don’t be alarmed.” “Narud?” Markal said, relieved.
