Ioannes had closed the gates of hell, but the demons had already pushed their way through.

The desperate strength of the remaining black knights had wavered at the death of their leader, and soon the tide of the battle within the courtyard had turned. Those struck down no longer rose once more, though the thoughtless hordes remained standing. Ioannes regained his torch, fallen during battle with the necromancer, and with what cavalry remained he fought a desperate battle, fire and sword against dozens or hundreds of sets of gnashing teeth and pairs of clawing hands.

It might have been minutes or hours by the time that the undead stopped streaming into the courtyard, and all that remained was the slow crackling of embers and the charred flesh and bones strewn about. There was no time to revel in this achievement, however; no doubt just outside the citadel another horde fought against the main army. And so he scattered his horsemen to the wind, with one message to send to his forces' remaining commanders: To pull their forces back into the fortress, and block the gates behind them. The black-iron citadel might have once been the home of experiments unholy and horrific cruelties, but its narrow hallways and tall towers stood the best chance of repelling what foul undead continued to roam. 

---

The great majority of those who had participated in the assault, thank the gods, had remained in good order where Ioannes had left them at the gates of the citadel. When the dead had begun to walk again they had held firm, keeping themselves between the horde and the fortress. Though at its worst it had seemed as though the undead were about to break through their ranks, two events had saved the majority from sudden doom -- first, a desperate rider had emerged from the fortress, shouting wildly to use [i]fire[/i]. Though it took precious time for the archers to light arrows aflame with their lantern's oil and infantrymen to toss their torches haphazardly into the horde, another boon soon appeared. Whereas for the beginning of the fight the undead had seemed nigh-unkillable, eventually they began to fall as any mortal might. When the horsemen rode from the citadel to order a retreat into the castle, it was a significant portion of those soldiers who had originally entered the city who heeded it.

Other news was less savory. One detachment of soldiers, the last to arrive before the dark citadel's gates were closed and barred, claimed to have been in the process of raising the northern gate when they were set upon by the undead. Shortly afterwards, what seemed to be reinforcements had somehow raised the gates from the outside and stormed into the city. These supposed allies turned on the Acharneans as soon as the wights were able to be killed, slaughtering many before the orders to retreat had finally reached the outskirts of the city. 

Regardless of who these mysterious attackers might be, the situation was less than ideal. The majority of Ioannes' host still sat in their siege camps against the bay, and those within the city found themselves besieged by the remaining undead. Ioannes gave the order not to waste any more ammunition on the hordes outside the walls unless they seemed to be succeeding in an assault against the fortress -- an unlikely event, since his soldiers had barred the gates and clogged the narrow and twisting passageways with whatever furnishings and debris could be found. With what axes could be produced they hacked at the few bare and scraggly trees of the courtyard, and lit them aflame from the citadel's black iron towers -- a smoke signal that would signify [i]danger[/i] Ioannes' army outside the walls. His wife, to whom he had given command of his main forces, was tactical beyond any right a person had to be -- with any luck, she would be reinforcing the trenches and spikes and palisades of the camps and drawing the besiegers into defensive positions in response.

It was to one of the aforementioned black iron towers that Ioannes walked wearily, every step reminding him of the aches in shoulders and the weight of his armor. And every time he blinked his memories seemed to go back to the impaled necromancer as he lay dying, and the lingering truths and horrors that had lain within his eyes. But all that must be pushed aside, for there was other business to attend to -- first, to see if he could find out from the towers exactly [i]who[/i] had flooded through the northern gate.