The frozen mud crunched as corpses hit the ground all across the courtyard, their comrades already screaming for reinforcements as the defenders fled in every which direction. And reinforcements they would have, as soldiers soon poured out of every doorway. With the battle won, there was nothing to keep the occupied away from the castle grounds, and even Ghantian priests and magi emerged onto the battlefield, to ward their men and see to the wounded. By some divine mercy, the fighting was still too disorganized for proper formations, and confusion kept the officers from mounting anything resembling an effective pursuit, and men damn near trampled one another trying to figure out who exactly they were supposed to be fighting. Through windows in the castle itself, faces could be seen staring blankly at the chaos below, perhaps wondering if they should be alerting someone higher up as to what was happening. The two women had dove over the wall before anyone had become quite clear on what was happening, choosing the company of hibernating leeches in the frozen moat over that of blades and spears up above. Never the less, soldiers with more initiative were already starting to encircle the one enemy that remained in plain sight, spears and shields and arrows leveled at the white, wolf-like thing on the wall, as bold men came up the staircases, onto the wall and advanced on the anan.

A sudden stench assaulted Sir's nostrils when the Drungr woman heaved herself over the battlements. The sudden sound of shattering ice and the smell of the moat's stagnant water - too subtle for human nostrils at this distance - told him what had happened as surely as if he had seen it. A second splash told him Riven had gone the same way, and his own options were dwindling. Dozens of enemies were trying to surround him, tightening the proverbial noose with every step. Not only that, but behind the lines of spear-wielding soldiers, men glowing with magic were reaching down and pulling the fallen back on their feet, good as new. There were enemies inside the castle too, he knew, having been there himself, which meant arrows could be coming out of those high windows at any time. To make matters worse, the unmistakable scent of his master's sweat and blood trailed in from somewhere nearby. King Erasmus had not been a slouch when it came to personal combat - he was strong enough to hold a wagon upright while they replaced its wheel, and could offer fair sport to the best of his knights, but even he could not hope to stand against this many. With Riven out of sight, the still-haphazard rain of projectiles began to move toward Sir.

Inside the castle, the smell of blood was everywhere. The screams of the dying had stopped by now, or they would have been drowned out by the screams of rage and the barking of officers trying to restore order. Word was spreading upward far slower than outwards, and that was fortunate - anyone who had witnessed the onslaught of the Ghantian commander and his cronies would have known to fear his wrath. As court warlock Roderick fled through the corridors of the castle, the stomping of boots behind and above him mixed with the general din of combat until he had no idea where from the enemy would come. His own footfalls were impossible to make out amidst all the noise, but as he passed by an open door, a sound rose from below that silenced all the others. He was right above the royal dungeon, its armoured door hanging off one hinge, and through the door came a jubilant chant that would have raised the hairs on anyone's neck. The Ghantians were not going to release common murderers or thieves, of course, but there had been a full season of war, and court hearings and executions had been a low priority next to ensuring the survival of the realm. These were people kept under the watchful eye of all the knights of the court, behind magical wards the city jailors could only dream of, nobles and generals to be ransomed, and rebel leaders whose grand and public deaths would reinforce faith in the rule of Erasmus. Roderick only saw the broken door for a moment as he rushed past the room, but it gave him an entire new reason to run for his life from castle Altranor. If those wards were undone and the dungeons emptied, it would not matter how many lives he had.

There had been no message in or out of the city in over a week - no mundane messages, at any rate. It was difficult to say whether the wizards' attempts at communication succeeded, especially since the city college had shut its gates as soon as the invading army arrived. It was not entirely unexpected; organizations as important and as mercenary as the wizard academy were often spared in these conflicts. It had been many, many centuries since the academy in Altranor city itself had been threatened in such a way, but its headmaster and archwizards had refused to participate in the war. All magi who wished to lay down their lives for king Erasmus had been let out, and the gates had been closed. There was no time to wage a civil war against the city's own wizards, so the ivory towers of the academy remained unmolested by Erasmus' men as well as the Yellow Raven's. The temples were the same - aside from some that remained defiant or that were particularly hated by either of the three invading kingdoms, the houses of the gods were allowed to keep their treasures, and to serve as sanctuaries for the commoners. It was a certain bet that many merchant houses with contacts in Soven and Ghant would stay standing, as well. Some careless individuals had even been heard gloating in the days before the final assault, that there would soon be a lucrative market for buyers of war-spoils in Altranor. At the current rate, it seemed that such predictions would come true.