Elsewhere in the manor, in a guest chamber on the second floor of the western wing overlooking the inner bailey, Sir Cynwrig Stormbrook stood at the window and watched the last flickers of torchlight from the bailey below.
The sounds of the assault had been carried through the stone walls for several minutes now. Muffled shouts, the ring of steel, the occasional crash of something heavy breaking apart. Cynwrig had fought in enough skirmishes to know the difference between the sounds of a battle that was being contested and the sounds of a force that was rolling through resistance like a river through a dam, and what he heard tonight was the latter.
He turned from the window and walked to the door, lifting the heavy chair that stood beside the writing desk and wedging it under the handle. It wouldn't stop anyone who was determined to get through, but it would buy time. Enough time, perhaps, for the people in this room to decide what they wanted to do if the fighting reached them.
