The dawn was the color of old bruises, and Julian had been in the siege tower since before the light began to seep across the plain.
He had dragged the arbalest up the ladder himself, the heavy weapon strapped to his back, its iron prod digging into his spine with every step. The tower was a thing of green wood and desperation, built by the carpenters who had come from Genoa with the fleet, its frame groaning in the wind, its platform swaying whenever the men below shifted their weight. It