He watched the foolish battering ram driver race the horses down the hill as if he were pulling a chariot. It bounced in the potholes in the roles, and the entire thing threatened to flip more than once, but somehow, the driver kept it steady. What a thrill he was having too, if his shouts were anything to go by. He seemed to genuinely be enjoying the task he was given – though it might have been a suicidal one.
A volley of arrows came flying down from atop the wall, now that the battering ram was in range. Here, the hill grew steeper, and the road slightly more winding, as it led to the castle gates. It was impressive that the battering ram had made it that far, but King Emerson thought that to be likely where it stopped.
The Patrick troops were racing behind it, though there was no way they had any chance of keeping up with it. King Patrick himself wore that silver crown on his head, rushing right at the army's head. A foolish sight indeed it was. That boy was no King.
