It was time.
Smoke rose to cloud the battlefield, rolling up from the mass of heaving enemy warriors below. They pressed against the stone wall and swarmed up ladders, seemingly oblivious as the dirigibles emptied their last loads of orbs, their pilots desperate to keep the assault parties clear from the tall heights.
Fear threatened to overwhelm Tiesto as the responsibility pressed down on his shoulders. He kept his back straight, forcing himself to breathe, and he promised himself he would rise to the task. The clarion meant it was time to engage the enemy. Tiesto had to lead his men to victory. His task was to defeat the savage revenants below.
It was midday and the sun blazed with fierce heat. The revenant horde clustered up against the Wall, scrabbling madly, heedless of the raining destruction. In complete contrast, the second force waited in front of the gate in disciplined ranks, ready to charge when their opportunity came.
The enemy commander’s strategy was simple: to open a breach, either by climbing up to the city using their long ladders or by pounding at the gates with their iron-tipped battering rams. Where a strong breach opened, the infantry square would follow.
As the clarion blast hung in the air, Tiesto scanned the hills behind him to see his army ponderously making its way up to the crests of the hills. He cursed every second that passed. Returning his gaze to the city, he saw the handful of dirigibles taking fire from muskets below. The pilots finished releasing their deadly hail and returned back to the city, but not before a dirigible suddenly fell into a spiral, plummeting to the ground and crashing in a shower of sparks.
A gust of wind blew the stench of the battlefield up to the hills, and Tiesto momentarily recoiled. As the summer sun took its toll, the rotten bodies that fought the natural order of things to keep moving were falling to putrefaction.
“Ugh,” a nearby bladesinger said, putting his hand to his mouth.
Couriers in brown, green, blue, purple, and orange ran in all directions, fetching orders and making reports.
“The grenadiers need more time to come forward.”
“High Lord Grigori reports his men are ready.”
“The Legion awaits your command.”
“Do you want my infantry up front?”
“Yes! Hurry!” Tiesto said.
“We can’t wait much longer,” Dain Barden said, standing nearby.
“I know,” Tiesto muttered.
“It’s madness, charging the infantry square and ignoring the revenants at the walls.”
“Enough,” Tiesto said, surprised at his own ability to voice down the huge Akari warrior. “We have our orders.”
Looking down at the infantry square, sizing up those he would soon be fighting, Tiesto saw a cluster of enemy warriors in black-and-white-checkered uniforms at the front of their ranks. Narrowing his vision, he thought he could see a warrior in a three-cornered hat.
“Gorain,” Dain Barden said, noting the direction of his gaze. After the space of ten heartbeats he spoke again. “We’ve been spotted.”
The warrior in the hat waved an arm, and the revenants under his command began to turn to face the threat from the hills.
Tiesto swore.
He’d lost the advantage of surprise. Gorain waved his arm again, and the ranks of revenants wheeled.
“Why aren’t we attacking?” someone cried.
“Miro also said to wait for the light,” Tiesto said.
“We need to charge now!” Dain Barden urged.
“We wait!” Tiesto turned and glared at the huge warrior.
Dain Barden grumbled but backed down. His eyes continued to rove over the battlefield. “Ah, there he is.”
“Who?” Tiesto asked.
“Renrik.” Tiesto saw Dain Barden point toward a gray-robed necromancer on the left flank of the infantry square.
“So many of them,” someone said.
“I don’t see any light!” someone else muttered.
“On your command, High Lord Tiesto. We’re ready.”
“Good,” Tiesto said.
But he still waited for the light Miro had promised him.
Disciplined order came to the revenant army as Gorain and the necromancers formed them into a longer line, more of a rectangle than a square. As he waited, Tiesto counted along the files until he’d passed one hundred. He then repeated the same process as he counted the ranks.
“I count ten thousand, give or take,” Tiesto said.
“This won’t be easy,” said the Dain.
Tiesto shaded his eyes from the glare as he waited for the promised signal. Surely Miro wouldn’t let him down?
A sudden pinprick of light sparked at the base of the Wall, on the extreme right-hand side of Tiesto’s vision. The light grew brighter and brighter until it outshone the sun, though it was midday. Tiesto’s heart began to hammer. A second horn blasted from the city, as if responding to the light.
Tiesto tore his gaze away from the light and instead focused on the force formed up in ranks in front of him. The emperor had been clear: Tiesto was to concentrate on this enemy above all else.
“Let’s do this,” the Dain said.
“Send word. We attack! ” Tiesto roared.
Heralds sounded the advance, and the huge army moved relentlessly forward, tired men pushing down their fear and instead summoning their reserves of strength to make this last surge for Seranthia.
Tiesto led from the center while the other high lords and marshals each commanded a formation of warriors: Tingaran legionnaires, Louan grenadiers, Halrana pikemen, and Alturan heavy infantry. Beside Tiesto, the Dain took the huge two-headed hammer from his belt, an almost eager look on his face, and two nearby Halrana muttered prayers as they advanced.
The thud of marching footsteps turned to thunder as the allied army picked up momentum. Tiesto felt both the thrill of the charge and the fear of death overwhelm him in equal parts, but soon even those feelings were replaced by something more primal, the raw emotion of a man charging into battle.
The space between the two formations grew smaller, and now both forces were running at each other, revenants charging the soldiers of the Empire, the men of Tiesto’s army charging back.
The two forces hit.
Everything fell into chaos.
55
“This is mad,” Bartolo muttered.
“If it has a chance of success, we have to try. Quickly, they have yet to see us,” Miro said. “I need you.”
“I’m here. Don’t worry. I’ll keep them from you.”
“This is going to draw them like moths to a flame,” Miro muttered. “Here goes.”
Miro held his zenblade in two hands and looked at the solid gray stone of the Wall. He’d seen his zenblade cut through men without pausing. The zenblade could cut through steel, even through enchanted blades.
Miro’s zenblade could also cut through stone. And if he drew on all of its power, as he planned to now, it would melt a fissure twelve inches high.
Miro drew in a slow, deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest, threatening to leap out of his mouth. He spoke an activation sequence and immediately followed with another, and then a third, until he was chanting.
Fire sparked from one rune to the next, traveling along the length of the blade, sending a rainbow of colors along the glistening steel. Miro’s voice rose as the light grew in intensity, and now he was singing, his voice rising, drowning out all other sound, until all he could hear was the sound of his own voice. He resisted the urge to focus on the activation sequences; to lose his song would be to fail.
The light grew brighter until the zenblade was a solid bar of fire.
Still Miro called on more power, bringing forth the incredible new abilities his sister had imparted to his zenblade, heedless of how much he drained his weapon’s energy.
Miro now held a rod of intense blue flame. His hands shook; the width of the blue light was wider and longer than the steel, the runes projecting the energy outward but protecting Miro’s h
ands. He could no longer look at his zenblade. To gaze at the blade would blind him.
Miro’s song came strong and even. He leaned forward and pushed.
Miro thrust his zenblade into the gray stone of the Wall.
Sparks fountained in all directions as the stone melted from the pressure of Miro’s thrust and the incredibly fierce heat. Bits of fiery rock splattered onto Miro’s armorsilk and burned his hands, but he pushed away his fear, ignoring the pain on his skin. He couldn’t call forth his armorsilk to protect him, and he instead concentrated on his weapon. He felt the zenblade push in, meeting resistance, but then molten red poured from the Wall.
Still Miro pushed. He cut a gouge into the Wall, and finally his arms were outstretched and he was reaching into his own newly created hole.
Fighting down the pain of his burns and his own fear, Miro let his song run free. He began to walk along the length of the Wall.
Miro took three steps, and then a dozen more, all the time cutting into the stone, nimbly dancing out of the way of the bright yellow molten rock. He was unable to think of anything else, his task completely consuming him, and he continued to walk, faster now.
He had quizzed Killian about the thickness of the Wall. It was a mad plan, but in theory it should work.
Miro’s plan was to bring the Wall down on top of the revenant horde.
He remembered his earlier words: a tree should fall in the direction of the cut. Lord of the Sky, if the Wall fell the wrong way, disaster would follow. Miro hoped Killian had cleared the ramparts as agreed.
As he traveled along its length, Miro was distantly aware of Bartolo protecting him from the relentless attack of the revenants. Blood and hot sparks splattered onto his back in equal measure. He was now in the midst of the enemy warriors fighting each other to climb ladders and throwing themselves against Bartolo, the only man standing between Miro and certain death at their hands.
He was now at the gates.
Miro continued his song, cutting through the wood and iron, until he reached the other side of the gates.
He pushed on.
Even through the immensity of his task, Miro saw the runes on the zenblade begin to dim. He had no way of knowing if he would make it to the end of the Wall’s great length. He could only pray.
Bartolo screamed in pain, distracting Miro from his own song. Miro choked and began to lose his rhythm.
Miro breathed in gasps. He fixed his memory on the tranquility of the Crystal Palace. He remembered Tomas, and thought of his homeland.
The song returned.
Even as Miro worked, he was aware that they were in the thickest of the fighting. Revenants threw themselves at Bartolo again and again, and the whirling bladesinger’s baritone rose in contrast to Miro’s tenor as Bartolo kept them back.
And then they were through the fighting, and past, to the Wall’s far side.
The two men were close to completing their circuit of the Wall when Miro’s zenblade went dark.
Miro lowered his arms, feeling raw pain scream all over his body, from the burns on his hands and the terrible fatigue in his muscles.
Miro’s song faltered, and he took stock of where he was.
He looked up at the Wall.
It hadn’t worked. Miro thought he could hear groaning, but the Wall still stood.
“Where now?” Bartolo gasped. A revenant charged, and Bartolo swiftly cut through its body. “We should get away from here.”
“Where else?” Miro panted. “Into the battle.”
56
Killian had recalled the defenders from the Wall, and the ramparts would soon be empty. When the enemy realized there was no resistance at the top of the Wall, they would begin to climb over, and the city would be overrun.
Killian now stood in the center of a long line of elementalists, close to forty of them. To his left, a hundred paces away, he could see Shani, her eyes on him. Another elementalist stood the same distance away on his right.
Seranthia’s buildings didn’t press close to the Wall, and there was a cleared swath of ground following the long line of gray stone.
Killian had no idea if this would work.
He waited: Miro would need time to play his part. How long he needed to wait, though, Killian didn’t know. He only knew he needed to be down here, with the elementalists. After the second clarion blast, he counted his breaths, and then he decided it was time.
Killian’s heart raced, and his breath came in short gasps. He steadied his nerves as he stared up at his city’s main defense.
The defense he was about to try to bring down.
For once freed of his responsibilities with the army, Killian brought himself into the trance-like state he’d sometimes used on the trapeze or the tightrope.
“Walking a tightrope,” he muttered to himself. Much of his life seemed to feel that way.
Killian pointed his hands in the air and spoke a swift activation sequence. A line of fire shot into the sky, where the elementalists would see it.
Glancing to his left, he saw the cuffs at Shani’s wrists flare up in a bright array of colors. On his right, the next elementalist followed suit.
Killian didn’t need cuffs. He clapped his hands together and then made a pushing motion at the Wall as he summoned the wind to do his bidding.
He chanted in rapid tones as he pushed, condensing the air in front of him and throwing it against the stone. Along the line the people in red robes would be calling forth their own elemental air. Killian could feel the concussive waves he created stretching and tightening. His hands were pushing at nothing, yet he felt he was heaving the weight of the entire Wall.
Killian started to feel failure: his task was foolish, impossible. But then an eerie wind began to develop. Soon it grew to become a howl. Gusts tore at his clothing. Swirls and flurries of dust and litter spun through the air, dashing against the stone.
Then the Wall started to groan.
Killian pushed harder now. He wasn’t sure if what he was doing was making a difference or whether it was the elementalists. Perhaps the Wall was falling under its own weight.
Either way, it was visibly tilting now.
As the wall began to lean, for a moment Killian thought it was going to fall the wrong way, back toward the city, and he would be responsible for the destruction of much of Seranthia.
But the incline grew steeper, and even over the sound of the howling wind and his own chanting Killian could hear the crunch of stone that had stood in place for centuries, disturbed and angry as the Wall tore itself free.
Killian roared and pushed harder. Looking at his outstretched hands, he saw his runes begin to dim, but he continued relentlessly. He suddenly knew in his heart that he was making a difference, and he chanted, calling on everything Evrin had taught him about the elements.
Killian heard a strident female voice as Shani pushed with him. Killian’s voice rose in a shout, and he felt he could hear every other elementalist working with him in concert, every one of them calling on the wind.
The Wall tipped forward. It moved faster now.
With a sound of terrible thunder, the length of stone crashed. The trembling grew stronger, and the roar of breaking stone became impossibly loud until it stunned the senses. The ground shook in a mighty quake, and a cloud of dust rose to obscure everything as the Wall flattened the ground in front of Seranthia, crushing every plant and animal in its path.
Killian felt triumph course through him. Glancing at his runes, he saw he’d drained much of his power, but they’d done it.
He stretched his arms out at his sides and rose into the air.
Dust covered the ground, and for a moment Killian couldn’t make any sense of the upheaval in front of the city. He rose higher into the sky, and higher still, and then he could see the immense cloud of powdered stone and dirt where the Wall had fallen.
Nothing could have survived that destruction.
Killian only hoped Miro and Bartolo had made it out in time.
Rising higher still, Killian saw the heaving battle underway between the allied houses and the infantry square. If this last force could be defeated, the day would be won.
The fighting surged back and forth, but Killian felt a chill as he saw that Tiesto would be outflanked at any moment. He prepared to launch himself at the enemy and do whatever he could to help out, when something, a shiver of awareness that couldn’t be explained, made him look back at the harbor.
What he saw made him gasp.
It was incredible, impossible.
Killian realized he was needed elsewhere even more than he was needed at the battlefield below.
Killian now knew where he could find Sentar Scythran.
57
Removed from command, Rogan Jarvish stood in his armorsilk, waiting inside the city gates.
He felt frustrated. Aside from hearing the order for the defenders to leave the Wall, he had no idea what was happening outside the city, nor what the reason for the order was. He assumed they would soon be sallying from the gate to try to link up with the allied army outside.
And Rogan planned to fight.
He walked back and forth, a solitary splash of green among the ranks of purple, as he looked to the gates, wondering when they would open.
Rogan heard men gasp as a line of fire appeared in the gate. It traveled from one end to the other, cutting through the wood and iron, reaching the end and disappearing. Rogan watched in astonishment.
He looked to the soldiers, but they were as confused as he was. Still they waited.
Then a wind came up. It was a wind unlike anything Rogan had ever experienced. It buffeted his body, ripping at his clothing, and then it began to push at him from behind.
What was happening?
The fearful Tingaran legionnaires muttered and exchanged wide-eyed glances. Soon the muttering ceased as they were forced to concentrate on standing upright. Rogan crouched and felt the wind push at him. His feet slipped forward of their own accord. Some incredible lore was at play. Rogan only hoped it came from his side and not the enemy.
The Lore Of The Evermen (Book 4) Page 38