As Ghorien crests the walls he is almost shocked by the carnage on the other side; the frantic chaos of massed melee in such confines, of walls and towers and stairs and courtyard below leave a tangled heaving mob that means to hit the floor is to die. It tooks a short while to focus as his men stream past him, forming ranks and anticipating the order to action. Quickly his eyes scan over the knots, watching for the defining figures within, the points at which the battle might be forced or broken. The odd bolt rams into his shield as he stands there, causing his left arm to twitch in response each time until, with a sweeping gesture of his axe, he clears them from the face, almost causually.
And then he spies her, moving quickly with a party of men close around her hand carefully placed to her arm, trying to find a path off the walls to safety. The smile that spreads behind the bevoir is twisted and there is almost a purr in his throat as he chuckles. With a nod of the head and a point of the axe he marks her out to those men around him and a trumpet bark begins behind him, almost a call to the hunt and the prey of the day. The Ghiestians press forward quickly, fresh legs pushing them into the melee in a wedge, the intention to push through and divide ranks as the drive straight, like an arrow, for the Countess and her probably escape from the wall. Axe and sword cleave and slice as the energy of the thrust starts to cut through the ranks and as the gap begins to close a whistle goes up from the Knights of the Iron Legion, and from behind them the dragoons, now on foot, unleash a wave of javelins, followed by another, and then another, casting a shadow over the bloody combat they fly over.