'ATTACK!!'

'WOODEN DRAGONS!!'

'All SOLDIERS TO THEIR STATIONS!!'

Seamil and I bolt to our feet, him faster than I.

'Let's go friend,' he says, stubbing his pipe out with a finger. He bounds from his chair, grabs his golden elven helmet from the cot and shoves it over his head. Then after grabbing his sword leaning against the hearth, he flees down the stairs.

Meanwhile, I down the rest of my drink and follow as best as I can, finding Seamil just outside the tower gate and looking out over the wall towards the Dragontop Mountains.

I turn to them myself. And that's when I see them, lights growing bigger and bigger. A strong wind whips at my face. They should be here shortly.

Over the cannonade ringing of the bell above our heads, Seamil shouts to me, 'Pannor, go command the ballista tower on the west end. And hurry. We need javelins aloft immediately. Send these bastards a welcoming gift. Send them out of the sky.'

He quickly forgets about my injury, that I'm not in the army anymore.

'Commander Frum,' I shout calmly and respectfully. 'I need to get to my men. I have my duties.'

Seamil looks at me and hangs his head in realization.

He's disappointed. As am I. I would give anything to fight beside him once again. To take up arms against the enemy.

'Yes,' he then says bitterly. 'Be safe, Sheriff Harg.'

'And you, commander,' I reply. 'Goodfight.'

We shake hands and I depart, leaving him to the defence of the city.

As fast as my injured leg can take me, I make it to the wall's steps. Soldiers that were resting in the small square down below are now racing up with synchronized urgency, the sleeping soldier in the lead.

'Goodfight, men,' I say to them.

I'm halfway down when I hear a barrage of catapults being launched, shaking the air around me. The coming onslaught must be close.

When my boots touch the square, everywhere lights up as if the sun has fallen from the sky.

Damn! The catapults are missing.

I look up to see the flaming wings of a gigantic wooden monster sailing over the wall, its suicide rider perched on the neck of the beast. And as it disappears over the roofs, streaking to find a target, I tail it back to the street, where chaos ensues.

Screaming is all I hear.

Families, women and their children, old husbands and wives, rush past me, petrified. It's a scene I've witnessed countless times for five years and I've never got used to it.

A family runs into me, a small girl hitting into my leg.

I grimace, trying hard not to scare them even more.

'I'm sorry, sheriff,' the mother cries.

'Please be careful,' I reply. 'And please calmly make your way to a bunker.' I then shout it to everyone else around me.

Nobody listens. They never do.

Looking back up, I see the wooden dragon glide deeper into the city. It descends with a roar before smashing into a building. The flames flare with an almost volcanic eruption, engulfing and spreading.

I turn around. More are coming. Then suddenly . . . .

BOOM!

Wooden dragons explode in the air, sending fiery debris plummeting to the ground just before the wall.

'The ballistas have entered the fray,' I say to myself.

Good. They're the best weapons we have for them. Unfortunately, however, they only stop a few, a line of the wooden dragons continuing, soaring over the wall and over my head. The heat from them beats down on my face.

It's time to get to my men.

With every street I limp, more terrified residents clatter and scurry around. And at last, I come to the small stone bailey that is the sheriff's keep. I rush into the yard and find my men waiting for me as they always do, staring up into the sky.

'What do we do, sir?' asks my right hand man. He scratches the stump of his arm irritably.

'What we always do, Aldo,' I reply. 'Make sure laws aren't broken.'

'Jac?' I turn to the one-eyed rake of a young man.

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'Yes, sir?' he replies.

'Can you send a bird to Sergeant Merry? Tell him to take his men and help guard the granary and the greenhouses. This would be a perfect time for our thief to steal more food. Or anyone for that matter. Also, send a message to Sergeant Twine. Tell him I need him at the elixery. I got lambasted by an elixirman the last time we were attacked. He said an angry woman punched several of them for not tending to her injuries fast enough, obviously blaming us for her violence. That's it.'

'Will do, sir.' Jac runs off, bounding up the keep's steps and inside, heading to the pigeon coop at the very top.

'We should be on the wall helping, helping to defend our people,' the man before me says in frustration, making the gash running down his face open. He winces, a drop of blood pooling under his chin.

I'm about to say my bit when another chimes in.

'You say this every time, Scar,' the bald man next to him says. He taps his right leg, it sounding hollow as if he was knocking on a door. 'We're gimps. Fucking deal with it. This is our duty. Our duty now.'

I couldn't have said it better.

'You may not be able to fight the enemy with that peg leg, Tready,' says Scar, 'but I can.'

Tready opens his mouth to respond, an insult about his face I'm sure, when I growl, 'Enough. Scar, Tready, go get the crossbows. Who knows, we may need them tonight.'

'Yes, sir,' they both say, no hint of their bickering in their voices. Like Jac, the two men then rush into the keep.

Once back and equipped, we head out. And the instant the city's residents see my men and I carrying crossbows, their panic becomes more tame. The chaos lessens to a loud commotion.

Violent weapons do wonders for order. Well, mostly.

'All right, men,' I say, 'to your patrols.'

My men split off, going in separate directions. I head to Tinney Street, where shops, some still operating, but mostly not, line the thoroughfare.

A growing roar ruptures my ears. I look up only to be briefly blinded. A wooden dragon soars through the air. I lose sight before hearing a commanding crash in the distance.

Down several streets, the crowds becoming less and less, I round a corner and see a woman late getting to her bunker. She's doing her best to carry the two baby baskets in her hands but she's struggling.

I sling the crossbow over my shoulder and go help.

'Thank you, kindly, Sheriff Harg,' she replies, as I take one of the baby baskets, a surprisingly sleeping baby inside.

The tiny creature is used to the besieging drum. How very sad.

'Thank you,' she repeats.

'Not at all,' I reply. 'Come on, let's get you and your babies to safety.' I then guide her to the nearest bunker, a deep hole dug below a park rustling with golden wheat.

The stone entrance is guarded by vigils, a group of people consisting of gimpy men, as Tready would say, and unmarried, childless women.

Despite the involuntary duty, the vigils serve with honor and are a great help to my men and I in times of disaster.

After making sure the woman and her babies are settled below, I head back towards Tinney Street. But I'm not far along, when I see a line of people side by side coming towards me. They're not running but are swift, like a moving regiment. And they're all carrying something.

Weapons? Have the enemy breached the walls?

I tense up.

But I didn't hear the ringing of the Breaching Bells.

I raise my crossbow, ready to shoot, when I notice they're not carrying weapons but buckets.

More vigils. On fire-fighting duty. Off to collect water or extinguish a building.

I lower my crossbow and continue on to Tinney Street, where the sound of shattering glass welcomes my arrival.

Someone has decided to take advantage of the attack. Despicable for one of our people but sadly not rare. Where are their morals?

Knowing the herbalist is still running his apothecary and is most likely the target, I cautiously wander over using a narrow and covered pathway behind the shops. Creeping with my crossbow raised, I reach the back door. I hear a clamour inside, the clanking of jars and bottles.

This burglar has no care that someone might hear. The brashness of it makes me sick.

I gaze down at my feet and see shards of glass, lights from the growing number of fires in the city making them shimmer like flecks of dried blood. I then look up and see a broken window on the floor above.

The burglar climbed up. With my bum leg, I won't be doing that to get in.

'It's brute force or nothing,' I say to myself.

I lean back before giving it my all, driving my shoulder into the door. The barrier crashes open and I raise my crossbow once again.

'Shit!' a high shrill voice yells in the dark.

A moment later, I hear something whizzing through the air. I don't duck in time and glass shatters over my crossbow, a few pieces hitting my face.

It takes a lot for me to not shoot wildly into the abyss. And I don't know why I don't.

Taking a step inside brings more bottles, one hitting my left leg and sending another violent pain through my body.

But again, I don't shoot, yelling instead, 'Show yourself.'

This brings the brief scuttling of boots. Not mine.

'Show yours–'

A tiny shadow bolts out of the darkness and bumps into me. Shamefully, the little impact puts me off kilter and sends me to the ground.

'Fucking leg,' I scream as the tiny shadow flees out the back door.

I lumber back to my feet and peer out into the pathway, the shadow disappearing.

'Shit!' I grumble, unable to follow.

But shit indeed. That voice sounded familiar.

Despite the futility, I still search for the burglar as I continue my patrol. But that doesn't last long.

As I'm nearing the end of Tinney Street, light explodes above me and my face begins to sweat. I can hear the cackling cries of the suicide rider over the flaming wooden dragon's pops and hisses.

With a yaw the destructive beast dives before me and slams into a home. Flames mushroom and overwhelm, the heat hotter than hellwind. It's as if a hundred suns had just appeared in the heavens.

Vigils are quick to the scene, fifty or so of them, all carrying buckets.

Being this is my patrol, I stay to help. We need to get the fire under control.

Wearing a rusting old army helmet, worthless for a soldier on the wall, the leader of the group calls out to my dismay, 'This rages too much for us. Everyone, we carry on to the next.'

The vigils start to leave when I pounce, 'Come on. We can save it.' I yank a bucket out of a vigil's hand to realize that it's not filled with water but grit. I then grab another bucket. It too is filled with grit.

'Where's the water?' I yell.

Walking with a more pronounced limp than mine, the leader comes over and says, 'The king has decreed that water can not be used to douse fires any longer, sheriff.'

'When did His Majesty decree this?' I seethe, shocked at the news.

'Just yesterday.'

'Did His Majesty give a reason?'

'The water in the reservoir is beginning to run low,' the leader replies. 'We must conserve for our survival.'

'We won't survive if this city burns.'

'His Majesty has decreed it.'

I lift up the bucket. 'So this what you use to extinguish fires now? Grit.'

'Yes, sheriff. And that is in short supply as well. We need to choose our fights.'

I gaze at the burning building, the flames licking the air higher and higher. 'This could spread.'

'Yes, it could, but what can we do?'

I curse the king once the vigils leave. A curse that brings a sudden welcoming noise. Bells. A parade of peels begin to dance around the city, announcing that the attack has ceased, ceased until the next.

The curse also brings a drop of water to my nose. The wind that brought the wooden dragons has also brought rain.

What luck.