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A group of crows flew in circles around the fortress. They had already eaten all that remained after the battle, but still hoped to find more food. By now the area in front of the castle resembled a refugee camp much more than a site of recent siege. Broken weapons and dented armor was everywhere, catapults and trebuchets already started to rot, and became nests for small animals. The fortress itself did not look any better, and anyone unfamiliar with the history of Ogriy would have come to the conclusion that it was abandoned: the walls were covered with dark stains from the numerous times in the past that oil was poured down them during a siege, and had more cracks in them than a dry sponge. The only animate thing in the entire citadel was the flag that fluttered atop the tallest tower. However, to the eyes of the old man, the fortress was dead. Whoever lived there must have left long ago, and the place looked safe enough to spend the night. Although the walls were cracked, they still gave some degree of protection from the wind and wild animals, than anything else in sight, and the man really did not want to spend yet another night in the cold, afraid for his life.
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