The tower was a wooden throat, and they were the bile it was preparing to spit.
Speaking of bodily fluid , to Mers's left, a boy no older than sixteen doubled over before he vomited onto the floorboards. It miserably splashed and splattered against the boots of the men packed tight around him.
No one cursed. No one moved.No one gave anything more than a grunt.
They merely stared with hollow eyes, too drained of spirit to care about the filth on their leather.
It's all water, Mers realized, his gaze fixed on the thin, brownish liquid seeping into the grain of the wood. The bastards didn't even feed them.
He swallowed a knot of anger that bloomed in his chest. Was it because the League's stores were finally failing, or did the Princes simply see no profit in filling the bellies of men they intended to use as nothing more than a bridge of meat? It was a new low, even for a siege that had already buried honor in a shallow grave.
