The hiver landed, shouting commands, and his pursuers crashed onto the trebuchet in a cloud of feathers and stink. In addition to the orc riders, there was a lanky soldier and a very powerful, helmeted warrior. Stong, our gumshoe bugbear captain, was buffetted off the battlements while fumbling at his weapon belt.
The elf and dragonborn became caught up in battle on the north side of the landing, against the orcs and vultures. It was difficult to see in the chaos, but it looked as if one of the vultures turned on its rider, and flew off with a stringy orc meal in its beak.
I and the human woman were set upon by the masked warrior. My first swipe with old Farnar’s red-hilted dagger knocked him down, and I thought he’d be an easy target. We tried to chip away at him from both sides, but he was quick and strong. He knocked the human unconscious for a moment, and knocked me nearly cold. Thinking I was done in, I cried for help, but at nearly the same moment, I felt a will to survive, like I’ve never felt before. As this reserve of strength surged through me, I rolled up from my belly and hamstrung the helmed monster.
It was at that moment the tide turned on our little tower. The elf cast a spell which set the helmeted warrior on fire, someone gave a hoot of victory, and we stumbled toward the center of the trebuchet. For the moment, it appeared that the invaders had faltered.