CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There was, the Master of Crows had found, an art to assaulting a town or city. Foolish men charged in with siege ladders or broke against the walls like a tide. The ones who won did so by building pressure, building fear.
“Remind me of the name of this town,” he said to an aide, pointing down to the town that sat below the rise where they stood, partly hidden by trees along its ridge.
“Dathersford, my lord,” the man said.
He nodded. They were making progress. Sending his attention to the crows flying above revealed his forces spread out less like the army that they were and more like the beaters who might go before a hunt, driving game birds into the open for men to bring down. Instead of game birds, though, they drove people, pushing them toward the town, killing only
