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Zell stood alone on the northeastern wall, in the zone that The Lions were designated to defend in the coming battle.  A spot in the central body of the defence force.  Close enough to make a dash for the North Gate, should the Left Flank collapse and gate need reinforcing, but right in the thick of the action, so far as Commander Thorn could calculate. There was no one else outside on the wall, only a few watchmen in the nearby tower.

There was no need to be out here.  The power of the Ritual Barrier that protected Valhiem prioritised the sky.  Every now and then a blast from the enemy Source Cannons, or the pyromancers or catapult fire got through when it came low at the actual city walls. No sense in being exposed, out on wall, increasing your chances of being in the wrong spot at the wrong time and getting hit by a one-off strike.

Zell didn't have much sense.  And so he stood alone, feet planted, arms folded, right where he would be in seven days time.

The artillery bombardments had ceased for the last hour.  A short break for the enemy.  Normal.  Zell could only guess that it stretched out the catapult munitions a little farther to have a few small breaks at random during the day and night, while not allowing the mages on Citadel Hill to plan any kind of rest break either.  Clever.  [i]James said you were a clever old bastard... Saladin,[/i] Zell thought.  From where he stood, he could plainly see Saladin's forces across the fields. He could see movements.  He could hear them.

Of course, it was all just a wriggling mass to his human eyes.  Just noise to his human ears.  But here on the wall, facing the threat, the fields between himself and them felt tiny.  Imagined or not, he could feel the evil.  Feel the deadly intent.  Feel sharper eyes than his, watching him back.

He was ready.

He slowly drew The Black Sword off his back and held it aloft, the barest trace of a smile on his lips, his green eyes fixed on the enemy camp.  There the sword stayed, overhead, pointing to the sky from where Second Chance had come.  [i]Saladin?  Did your queen tell you that she was begging for our allegiance?  Did she tell you that you should fear us?[/i]  As if on queue, the artillery bombardment started up again.

Then he brought the sword down to point ahead at the imagined foes watching.

...

Whatever business MacKensie had going on with Gildor Hammerfist, it was finished just as Zell came strolling in, the sound of the shopdoor bell ringing to signal his arrival.

"Oh, alright Mac," he greeted with surprise.  "Fancy seeing you here.  Alright, Gildor."

"Hmmm, you again," Gildor greeted with the enthusiasm of a depressed donkey.

"Remember me?" Zell grinned.

"How could I forget," was the reply.  Gildor looked at MacKensie.  "You two are from the same party?  Quinity have mercy, I should have known."

"Ha," Zell smiled at MacKensie.  "You annoying my good mate, Gildor?"  Gildor interjected to correct the record that they were not friends.  Zell ignored it.  "You buyin something?" he MacKensie instead.

When he had a chance to speak to Gildor, he would tell him that his alcohol budget would not leave room to buy the shield he intended, so he would get the cheap buckler he'd seen instead. The small, round shield was terrible for absorbing physical damage, and would crumble under the pressure of a strong strike from a well-made sword, but it's purpose was not for regular combat.  It was actually capable of deflecting a portion of mediocre elemental attacks and even fully blocking spells from weaker mages.

"How did your day go, then?" Zell asked MacKensie.  He hadn't seen her all day.  "Did you get a good crop of fighters?"