CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Master of Crows commenced the assault with a night bombardment, ordering his artillery to fire on the outer circle of houses, enjoying the beauty of the flames that licked up from the successful hits.
“Personal combat,” he said to the nearest of his aides, “is a dance. A skirmish is a butcher’s work. A battle is little more than commerce: I trade you these lives for those, offer you that piece of ground in exchange for your slaughter.”
“As you say, my lord,” the man said, clearly not comprehending a word of it.
“A siege, though… a siege is a symphony.”
It rang as one in his ears. From the first low notes of the cannon to the high screams of a population being terrorized, it was there. But there was more to it than that. A siege meant planning. It meant performers
