From within the Tower, the auxiliary guard-force came running out and took battle-stations. They stood ready, waiting for the Wild Ones to come.
No one knew what the Tower was. It had been there as long as any of the Free People could remember, and probably had been there forever. It was sacred to them, and for that reason was under constant attack by their enemies from the Wild Places.
At twenty-three, Jon had been a Tower guard for nearly three years, had taken part in almost twenty defenses. The Wild Ones had practically captured the Tower twice, but each time the guardians had driven them off.
Now, they were back for another try. Jon waited tensely as they drew near.
Time passed slowly. Five minutes, ten, while the enemy attacking-party approached. The look-out at the top of the Tower sang out periodically, keeping the guards below informed of the boat's progress.
Finally: "They're here! Prepare to defend the Tower!"
The great sailing-ship pulled up on the shore, and men began to pour forth—ten, twenty, thirty men. It was a good-sized army. And Jon gasped when he saw who led them.
He was a giant, topping seven feet by several inches. His sword glittered in the sunlight as he slashed it savagely through the air, and his hair was a coarse, matted mane. He growled some barbaric command and the Wild Ones charged onward. The ring of defenders tightened and stood firm, waiting for the attack.
Swords rang. Jon found himself opposing a brawny youth with fierce, widely-set eyes and a good sword-hand. He parried a two-handed chop that could have cut him in half, and smashed back with a quick lunge that drew blood.