by CS Sealey
“I’ll send a runner.”
While the general set about finding a man he could spare from the defense of the West Gate, a terrible dread crept over Tiderius. It had been centuries since the capital had last been attacked. Then, a fearless king named Gordan had leaped into the fray himself, with his loyal squire and mage swordsman, Araxus, at his side. The two of them had pushed back the enemy almost single-handedly, but the fight had cost Araxus his life, taking an arrow destined for the king’s heart, forever immortalizing Tiderius’s ancestor in Te’Roek’s many history books.
Tiderius looked out over the Ayons gathered on the plains before the city and could not even begin to hope that he could replicate what Gordan and Araxus had achieved. He had faith in his own skill but there were simply too many Ayons. How could a city with only twenty thousand defenders ever hope to beat back a horde four times their size?
Tiderius did not notice when the general returned, nor when Emil himself arrived, sprinting along the wall from his post. Only when the shaman put a large hand on his shoulder did Tiderius meet the man’s gaze.
“I will guard this gate, Tiderius. Angora is at the south, I want you to aid her there.”
“What of the catapults?”
“Kayte and Markus are both making their way here also. The threat of attack on both the east and north gates is minimal at present. I hope it stays that way. You and Angora are capable of defending the south gate against almost anything. Should Varren make an appearance, you know the signal.”
Tiderius nodded and sheathed his sword. He ran along the wall, occasionally looking out at the plains as the catapults drew ever closer. The figure of the sorcerer at the head of the vast army was prominent, a statue, waiting and watching. It was this more than anything that provoked Tiderius to run all the faster, for he doubted that Varren was idle.
*
Archis Varren followed the path of the swordsman until he was lost from sight, hidden by the high tower of the South Gate. Varren had never before found use for short spells of unnatural far-sighted vision in his schemes, for he had always been a man of the shadows, keeping close to his prey and then delivering a hard and fatal bite. But now he could use this gift to his advantage.
He turned and walked briskly back to the front line, passing the catapults as he did so, speaking brief words of encouragement. Lhunannon, Vrór and a recovered Tarvenna were already in position, waiting for the battle to commence. Everything so far had turned out just the way he had hoped. King Samian would have been proud of his achievements.
Commander Sheon met him as he approached the army and informed him that all the catapults were now in position and awaiting orders.
“The shaman and his companions are preparing to attack the catapults. Tell the men to continue firing no matter what they see. The wizard is capable of casting illusions.”
“Yes, sir,” Sheon said, gesturing for two of his captains to spread the word. “Will these mages come into the fray themselves, sir, or remain protected up on the wall?”
“I greatly doubt an old man like Markus would be able to hold his own against even the most inexperienced of our berserkers, so don’t expect them on the battlefield. However, be aware that their range is great. I will protect the catapults with what power I can spare, but remember, I will let them go the moment our plan has hatched.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Varren drew his gloves from his hands and buried them deep in his cloak pockets. He turned to see the catapult crews standing to attention, ready to receive their orders. He raised one hand high.
“Take aim…and fire!”
The catapults were released, flinging large boulders through the air in graceful arcs. He heard the great clunking of the gears of one hundred machines and the moan of protesting wood but his eyes were focused only on the projectiles. They came crashing down at the base of the outermost wall of Te’Roek, bursting apart in great clouds of dust.
“Advance a dozen yards!” Sheon bellowed.
The catapults moved forward once more. When they were ready to fire, Varren gave the order. A rain of boulders came down upon the wall, some even flew further and disappeared over it. But just as Varren was about to give the order to fire at will, he observed a bright blue flash appear above the West Gate and, a second later, three of the catapults to his right were blown into the air. They broke apart and debris scattered across the plain, blue flames licking at the wood and metal. Another flash, this time of green, and half a dozen more catapults were destroyed further down the line.
Varren glowered. He summoned his power, feeling his body sucking in the warmth of the air, and raised both his arms. A great white ball of light appeared between his palms and crackled like a raging fire. He flung his spell forward and watched as it drew apart and snaked through the air, each strand taking its own path. The sound of the strands hitting the wall where the Ronnesian mages had been standing was like the booming of thunder. A great wall of disturbed dust rose from the plain, the air hot as it rushed back past the Ayon army.
The catapults continued to fire, the crews carrying out their orders as though nothing had happened. Boulder after boulder was loaded and fired. The Ronnesian mages retaliated through the curtain of dust. Some spells hit catapults and destroyed them, killing or injuring their crew, but Varren managed to intercept the others, conjuring spells of his own to blast them aside or create shields in front of his machines. Lhunannon, Vrór and Tarvenna did the same, aiding the general in defending the siege weaponry. However, it did not take Vrór long to grow tired with this sort of combat. A large, horned beast lifted into the air with Vrór on its back. The man hissed and laughed with glee as he passed overhead and disappeared into the dust.
Spells were fired back and forth and, one by one, the catapults fell victim to the Ronnesian mages. However, Varren could see cracks appearing on the outermost wall of the city and fragments that had broken free of the main structure lay outside on the plain. It was now time for him to do his work. Signaling to his companions, he knelt on the ground and plunged his bare hands into the grass. Lhunannon continued protecting the catapults but Tarvenna focused all her power on conjuring a shield around the lord general. Varren closed his eyes and felt the raw power of the earth rising up through his palms and twisting its way through his limbs. Opening his eyes, he saw flickers of white at the corners of his vision. He was tingling with energy ready to be deployed with the slightest movement of his fingers.
“Remove the shield,” he commanded, not looking at the witch.
With one hand, he summoned a great swirling vortex of wind, which he directed through the veil of dust to the West Gate. The veil was blown aside and Varren caught a glimpse of the wall just to the left of the gate. There was a large crack running right the way down the stonework. The catapults had weakened it slightly but that wall would not fall completely to such a bombardment, even if they were to continue firing for hours. He raised both arms and pointed them in the direction of the fissure. Blinking furiously against the white fire flickering in his eyes, he gave a great cry, hearing not only his own voice but the howling of the wind and crackling of thunder, and propelled the raw energy of the earth along his arms to his hands. The spell hurtled from the tips of his fingers in a blinding flash, ripped through the air, and struck the wall with a great reverberating boom.
Another great blast of hot air rushed back at them, knocking some of the men to the ground. Varren himself staggered to his knees and had to brace himself with one arm to prevent collapsing completely. His muscles were twitching and writhing beneath his skin and his head was buzzing. He could taste grit in his mouth.
Slowly, his hearing began to recover and the first sound was like music to his ears: a rumble of stones. Varren felt his mouth slide into a thin smile. Where once the stones of the outermost wall had been sturdy and locked together, they now cascaded in an avalanche of rocks. It was a glorious sight. He could hear distant screaming and yelling, and he saw the flash of a yellow
flag from the West Gate. He spat the dust from his mouth and clutched a hand to his side, where a stitch was burning badly.
“Do you require assistance, my lord?” Tarvenna asked.
“No,” Varren breathed, shaking his head. “I need sunlight. Sunlight and earth. Air…not enough.”
He flung off his outer cloak and then plunged his bare hands into the grass once more. He lowered his head, feeling the warmth of the afternoon sun on the back of his neck and seeping through his clothes. His few patches of exposed skin absorbed its power and he quickly realized just how weak he was from the spell. If any of the Ronnesian mages had taken the opportunity, they could have killed him with even the simplest of spells.
When he rose, his stitch was gone and his ears no longer rang. He wiped the dirt from his hands, smoothed his hair back from his face and then turned to Sheon.
“Order the men to advance to the breach immediately.”
CHAPTER 57
It was as though the full fury of every nightmare ever dreamed had descended upon Te’Roek in the six hours it took the Ayons to gain control of the lower city. Vrór had not waited for Archis Varren to give the order, summoning terrible beasts of his own dark imagination and sending them after civilians and soldiers alike. Angora had battled these animals fiercely with summonings of her own with Tiderius by her side, wielding his sword tirelessly. The two of them went from rooftop to rooftop, pursuing the creatures. Though they were growing weary from the excessive use of magic, they did not show it – they knew the price of failure. It became increasingly hard to spot Vrór’s creatures as the night drew in and battle became confused on the ground as well as in the sky. The crescent moon gave little light and wisps of cloud veiled the pale light of the stars.
Smoke began to rise from the lower city and the flames spread from house to house, forcing civilians out into the path of the Ayon invaders. Warehouses burned to the ground, destroying the valuable crops within, and frightened horses tore away from their bonds when the stables went up in flames. Frantic men and women dashed from well to blaze over and over but the fires never seemed to lessen, and the wind that blew down from the slopes of the surrounding mountains only helped spread the fire through the districts.
Once the lower city had been declared lost, the order went out to the Ronnesians to retreat to the second wall, where Emil and Kayte had worked studiously in the days before the siege, casting protective spells on the bricks to make sure that it was not the weakest of the three; being hundreds of years old, it would not be able to withstand a long bombardment like the one the outer wall had just faced. Thousands of soldiers and citizens alike retreated into the middle city, most of the latter carrying bundles of valuables, and the great gates were barred shut. Runners had been sent for pitch to keep the torches burning through the night and civilians passed waterskins through the ranks and handed out what little food they had. The displaced citizens of the lower city were ushered into warehouses, inns and any other place of refuge, though many wandered the streets in shock, unwilling or unable to comprehend what was happening.
Archers stood on the parapets and aimed arrows down at the approaching army of Ayons, picking them off one by one. But the sheer numbers of northern invaders soon overwhelmed them. The Ayons reached the gates and pounded on the large doors with great iron axes, shrugging off their losses. It was as though there was an endless supply of men, a huge force that never tired.
It took two hours for the Ayons to breach the second wall. Though the structure had managed to hold against a bombardment from a handful of catapults, the defenders could do nothing against simple grappling hooks and crudely constructed ladders; in the dark, the Ronnesians did not see these devices until the Ayons were already on the wall, by which time it was very hard to repel them. One by one, the Ayons climbed over the parapets and felled the archers who had not yet reached for their swords. Soon, scores of enemy infantry were storming the wall and the archers were retreating to the tower stairs, calling to their fellows to regroup. When the tide of Ayons upon the parapets overwhelmed the archers entirely, the call was made by the officer in charge to retreat. If any had hoped for reinforcements, they quickly understood that none were coming. Though darkness had enveloped the city, the flickering of fires and flashes of spells suggested to the allies that the wall was in jeopardy in many places.
“Retreat to the next barricade!” men shouted above the tumult of battle. “Retreat, now!”
But the Ayons barely gave them time to reform. They forced the gates open and swarmed into the middle city with speed and confidence. The Ronnesians and scattered Tareks faced them bravely but most were close to exhaustion. Even the token help from the civilians, many of whom had opened windows and were throwing anything from chamberpots to chairs down upon the Ayons as they passed, could not stem the tide.
While the Ronnesians fell back from one barricade to the next, Angora and Tiderius continued to battle Vrór’s creatures in the sky. Angora spotted one dart out from an alleyway and rush up the adjoining street toward the barricade, teeth bared savagely. It pushed aside the Ayons in its way and leaped across the crude wall of broken furniture, barrels and crates. Angora saw the shimmer of magic on its gray fur and sent an eagle hurtling toward it. The bird of prey grasped the beast in its talons and rose back into the air with its prize. There, it attacked with beak and claws until a howl ripped through the air and a stream of white sparks erupted from the beast’s throat as it disintegrated.
But despite the allies’ bravery and determination, the Ayons were simply too strong and numerous for the Ronnesians to hold back. Soon, Tiderius and Angora found themselves in the middle city square with another force of Ronnesians retreating from another direction. Their number had been reduced considerably and many of the survivors were injured. Tiderius cast around anxiously for his brother but Rasmus was nowhere to be seen.
“The city is lost,” he said. “We have to tell the queen to prepare to evacuate before it’s too late.”
“But Vrór is still out there!” Angora said. “Until Emil and the others get here, these men are defenseless against any magical attack. I have to stay.”
“The Ayons might reach the castle. The queen must be taken to safety, and without the others, you are the only one who can do that. Guards will not be enough!”
“Her life is not worth the lives of all these men, Tiderius!”
“No, you’re right,” he said, “it’s worth much more. All these men would gladly give up their lives for her. If they knew she was safe, they wouldn’t need to put their lives in danger at all!”
Angora shook her head but Tiderius did not give her the chance to reply. He hurried over to the captain in command of the soldiers and civilian volunteers. “What’s the situation from your end?”
The man wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and shook his head. “I’ve lost over half my men and those who remain are barely fit to continue fighting. The Ayons seem to have fallen back to regroup but I doubt it will take them very long to resume their attack.”
“My situation is the same,” Tiderius reported. “If we lose any more men, our chances of taking back the city are practically non-existent. I don’t want to give orders but if the general doesn’t arrive soon…”
“My men are uncomfortable lingering here, sir,” the captain said, glancing at his soldiers, “and I would be happy to take orders from you.”
“Perhaps dispersing would be the next course of action.”
“Sir?”
“The battle for Te’Roek is lost but the war is not. The Ayons will continue fighting so long as there are soldiers and civilians who resist, but what if there were none?”
“I don’t think I understand, sir…”
Tiderius was about to explain when his attention was drawn by the appearance of another group of soldiers, Emil at its head. Tiderius left the captain and hastened toward the shaman, who was breathing heavily, a hand clutching at a stitch in his side. When he saw
Tiderius, Emil raised his hand in weary greeting.
“Good,” he breathed. “Are you all right?”
“Just exhausted.”
“Where’s Angora?”
“I told her to guard the queen.” He turned and saw that she had gone, hopefully to the castle. “What about Varren?”
“He was too strong for me; we had to fall back. Kayte and Markus were fighting Lhunannon the last time I saw them, but the smoke in our district was so thick, I wouldn’t be surprised if they lost him. Any sign of Kaster?”
“No, none. Emil, we can’t risk another head-on attack. We don’t have the strength. We have perhaps three hundred men here, no more, and the rest of our forces are scattered through the city.”
“I see no other option. We can’t let the Ayons take the city, Tiderius.”
“No, we can’t let Varren destroy the city and capture Queen Sorcha. There is another option.” He quickly explained his plan to Emil. “You see, the Ayons wouldn’t be expecting that. We can’t risk losing any more lives! If you could get Sorcha out of Te’Roek, that would give us time to plan how to regain the city.”
“It’s a big risk, Tiderius, giving them that sort of foothold.”
“We can’t keep fighting like this until the last man is killed! This is only a city, it can be rebuilt if it comes to that, but lives lost are lost forever.”
The shaman held his gaze for a moment, then looked away, his expression unreadable. Further down the slope, a burst of bright green flame erupted into the air and a cacophony of screams rose above the clashing of swords and crackle of magic.
“We must do what we can without the general,” Emil said. “All right. The city is lost, but we must protect as many of her citizens as we can.”
*
Queen Sorcha stared across the city, eyes wide and hands gripped tightly on the balcony balustrade. Smoke was rising from every district. Angora stood behind her, her staff heavy in her hands, her voice failing her.