"In a siege, even the rats have their use."
Jarza had told Asag those words the night before he departed for Aracina, a veteran's wisdom given to a man about to learn the cruel language of siege warfare. It was a simple phrase, but one carved from experience, from battles fought behind crumbling walls and on blood-slicked stones, in his past as a mercenary.
It did not need to be said that every man, woman, and child of the city would have their part to play. War did not afford the luxury of bystanders.
The young would run with bundles of arrows strapped to their backs, darting through smoke-filled streets to resupply the defenders.
Women and the elderly, hands worn by time or untouched by battle, would haul stones to the walls, stack them beside the archers, or kneel by the wounded, pressing cloth to gaping wounds and whispering prayers no god would answer.
The city did not simply fight with its swords and spears; it fought with every heartbeat within its walls.
