Brandt stared as the gate was pulled away in a great screeching lurch. Sergeant Hoefler didn’t give an order so much as a bloody-minded yell, surging forward with his men loyally at his back. Brandt’s hesitation gave him a wide field of vision of the event, as only two Talabecmen surged into the hole between the wrecked gate. The smiths apprentice could see the two men, each a head taller then most of the defenders, and wielding huge straight zweihanders, in contrast to the Hochland Greatswords’ wave-bladed flamberges. The first swing of the man on the right took the head off a green and red clad spearmen before smashing through the collarbone of the man beside him. The warrior on the left swung lower, clipping several of the Hochlanders along the arms and chest, whirling his blade around his head and following through with a second swing.

Just as he began to move forward, Brandt saw Sergeant Hoefler back out of the melee and look over his shoulder towards the smith and the mudstained priest. "Brandt! Tell his lordship the gate is lost, get him to safety!" He nodded dumbly and spared the priest a look before they both turned tail and ran for the large double door that was the keeps main entrance. Their flight was unmolested, and a voice called for their surrender just as they made the doors. Brandt slammed into one of them hard, then remembered which of the had been left unlocked and pushed through that one, pulling the panting clergyman in behind him. Together they pushed the door closed, then hefted the large beam up and down into its catch, barring the door.

They stood together, heaving in ragged breaths after their sprinting retreat. Brandt leaned is head against the door, his helmed clunking dully against the wood. He’d hesitated. When the moment to defend the gate came, Brandt Dittmar had stopped dead and stared while his comrades had rushed forward. He tossed his bloodied warhammer aside and and slammed his fist against the door angrily. Beside him, Roderick gave a start at the noise.

“Brandt, your arm,” the young man said, pointing. The smith looked at his left arm, still clutching at the cut-up ruins of his heater shield. A crossbow bolt had hit him and pierced through. Closer inspection revealed the head of the broken off bolt had gone clean through the shield and into the makeshift clamshell gauntlets the smith had cobbled together for himself.

“I’m all right,” he replied, trying not to think about it. He hadn’t noticed, truth be told, but his arm had immediately started throbbing. “We need to find Lord Waldo and tell him we’ve lost the courtyard. If he doesn’t already know. 

-	-	-	-	-	-

The women and those few who were too young or infirm to fight had gathered in the well appointed bedquarters at the top of the keep, usually reserved for the ruling lord or his guests. They’d done this each time the Talabecland forces had attacked, watching as the soldiers and those men who’d formed the town of Lorch’s small militia fought off the attackers. Priska Steiber was amongst them, tactfully in a different bedchamber then that of Lord Waldo and more importantly Jurgen, who was back to being the loyal bodyguard.

They women with her watched in silence, for the most part. There were a few muttered comments, both good and bad, as that merchant's daughter Miss Fosdick left the wall. For her part, Priska had nothing to say. That woman who played at being a soldier was below her station, and certainly impertinent. [i]She probably rolls about with the men in the storeroom,[/i] she thought, completely missing the irony of her musings. They watched as the ladders were lifted and the fighting began. They watched as the Hochlanders fell back from the wall and the gate was pulled down. There were gasps of horror as their men were cut down by the two Greatswords and despairing moans as the surviving soldiers and militiamen threw their battered weapons into the mud.

One man didn’t surrender, however. Jurgen’s comrade, the second Greatsword stood firm, his bloodied sword at the ready. The Talabecmen surrounded him with spears, until a ripple of movement went through them and they pulled back. The pair of enemy Greatswords in their muddied red and yellow uniforms approached the stubborn warrior, blades raised in challenge. Priska saw the lone man nod, then set his feet in a combat stance. 

The Talabecmen rushed him as one, and there was a swift clash of blades. The defender held his sword by the haft with one hand and at the leather wrap with the other, giving him the control needed to fend off the two swordsmen who assailed him, for a time. In the end, a probing swipe at clipped his calve and caused him to stumble, and he ended up with a blade plunged deep into his armpit from the other side. It looked to the onlookers that some words were exchanged between the warriors as the defender fell to his needs, but soon enough the man had topled forwards into the mud. The surrendered men looked on sullenly as their victorious counterparts cheered.

There was talk among the women of what a brave man he had been, how he’d be remembered. Priska thought he had been an idiot for fighting when the battle had already been lost. The onlookers watched with worry as their captured men were marched out, and a panicked chatter rose amongst the room until a man walked forward to the base of the small bluff on which the keep sat. He had the bright heraldry and dyed plume of a Noble and was recognised at once as Lord Gerard Wendl, commander of the besieging forces.

“Waldo!” called out Lord Gerard, the insult of not using the boys proper rank echoed in the man's tone. “Get out here, Waldo! It's time for you to surrender, my boy!”