The black prism l-1

by Brent Weeks

  And that was just the wide blank sections of the wall. At every corbel, the scowling, forbidding figure of a Prism looked down on the attackers. As Gavin looked, he saw that every Prism for the past four hundred years had been crafted into the wall, with Lucidonius at the right hand of the figure who dominated all and Gavin himself at the left hand. Above them, over the huge gate gap, loomed the scowling figure of Orholam himself, radiant and furious, his planted arms making the arches of the gate. Anyone attacking this gate would be attacking Orholam himself, and all his Prisms. A brilliant little trick to make the attackers feel uneasy. Each figure, including Orholam, had cunningly hidden machicolations to drop stones or fire or magic on attackers.

  Gavin bit off another curse. He'd paused for a good five seconds, admiring his own damned wall. He didn't have time.

  For a moment, he thought of simply closing the gate gap, just making pure wall. But at this point, that wouldn't be any faster. The forms were already shaped to make a gate. All he had to do was fill them and tie them-just on one side, the cleverness he'd use for the rest of the wall would have to wait. Tomorrow, if they lived that long.

  Gavin gathered the spools of superviolet that connected the whole superstructure of the wall and began pouring in yellow luxin.

  Orholam, he was exhausted. He'd been drafting to his absolute limit every day for the last five days, and all through this day in particular since the first rays of dawn. If he'd been a normal drafter, he'd have gone mad long ago. Even most Prisms would have killed themselves with the amount of drafting Gavin had done. The others knew it too. If anything, Gavin had gotten more powerful since the war, and far more efficient. He'd seen women like Tala-whom he'd never seen impressed by anything in her life-shoot glances his way during unguarded moments like he was downright frightening. But there was only so much even he could draft.

  Nonetheless, he poured perfect yellow luxin into the forms. The real Gavin couldn't have done this: he wasn't a superchromat, he couldn't draft a perfect yellow. But Gavin couldn't go halfway. There was no "good enough" with yellow luxin; if it weren't drafted perfectly, it would dissolve. Simple as that.

  Something rocked the wall, and Gavin almost fell from his perch. Someone steadied him, and he saw that Tremblefist was standing beside him, holding him up. A moment later, he heard the delayed rumble of distant artillery.

  "I've got you," Tremblefist said. He wasn't quite as big as his older brother, but he too had worked with Gavin a long time. He must have seen the glazed, stupefied look in Gavin's eyes, because he said, "Our own cannons will start in a moment. Don't be… distracted." Don't be alarmed, he meant. Don't be frightened. Don't botch the gate and get us all killed.

  More of King Garadul's artillery began landing in the field, most of it far short of Brightwater Wall. The sound of the enemy culverins became a thunderstorm in the distance. Gavin gathered his will and kept drafting. He didn't realize that he was weaving on his feet until he felt Tremblefist's big hands close on his shoulders. Several other Blackguards pressed close.

  "Raise the cowl!" General Danavis yelled.

  As yellow luxin splashed from Gavin's hands into the forms below him, he felt the wall shudder as each section of the cowl swung into place on counterweights. The cowl was his architect's invention. Basically, it was a removable roof for use during artillery bombardment. There were plenty of times when an open roof was preferable-to gather rainwater, when it was unbearably hot, or when men had to carry great loads or carts had to pass down the length of the wall. But during a bombardment, it would shield defenders from howitzers and mortar fire. The wall's own artillery was left free to fire on the same basic defensive design as an arrow slit-easy to fire out at a wide angle, but requiring a direct hit from the other side to put it out of commission.

  "What the hell is that?" Tremblefist breathed. Gavin wouldn't have even heard him except that the man was basically holding him up. And Tremblefist didn't talk to himself much.

  Gavin looked up, giving himself a small break, and looked over the plain.

  The army was rumbling ever closer, catching up with their culverins. In front of them were teams setting up the howitzers-the defenders still hadn't fired a single shot, a fact that had General Danavis screaming at the nearest crews.

  But that wasn't what had Tremblefist cursing. In front of the main army, drawing even with the advance cannon emplacements, were more than a hundred men and women, some riding, and some simply running. All were dressed in brightly colored clothing. Gavin could tell that by the way the greens moved, sprinting with huge bouncing, league-devouring strides that they weren't just drafters. They were color wights, and they were headed straight for the gate.

  They would be at the wall within four minutes at the most.

  Four minutes. Gavin looked at his half-formed gate. If he didn't worry about hinges, if he just sealed the damn thing to the wall itself, it was possible. Maybe. He looked up at the sun, gathering power. It was less than an hour until sunset. The festivities for Sun Day's Eve would start as soon as the last ray of sun disappeared from the horizon. Whether the attackers were heretics or pagans or faithful, they wouldn't fight during Sun Day. Sun Day was holy even to the gods Lucidonius had driven out.

  If they could hold off the attackers for that one hour, they had a chance. And Sun Day would give them the time they needed to reinforce the gates and get supplies and guns in place.

  One day. One hour. Four minutes that would determine the course of this war. It came down to this. Gavin was not going to quit. He had four minutes left in him.

  The culverins on the wall finally answered those out in the field, but the shots were wild, not even close to the field artillery emplacements or the charging color wights. And more of King Garadul's shots were hitting the wall itself, each rebounding off the yellow luxin with a crunch and a whine and a splay of yellow light as the wall absorbed the blow and healed itself.

  The forms Gavin was filling with luxin were three-quarters full, washing him in the invigorating scents so close to mint and eucalyptus, but he was tiring anyway. He looked out to the color wights. Not even two minutes left.

  Orholam, I'm trying to do something good here. Great purpose, Orholam. Selfless and all that. You want people to be selfless, right?

  Tremblefist handed Gavin off and was shouting orders down to the Blackguards on the ground. General Danavis was ordering troops to the gate and to form in ranks behind the wall. The crowd was beginning to scatter. Everyone was shouting, but Gavin couldn't even make out the words anymore.

  Flashes of magic bloomed in front of him. The color wights had spotted him. They were throwing missiles and fire and everything they could think of, but his Blackguards were deflecting it all.

  Gavin kept drafting. The color wights were only two hundred paces out now, running at a full sprint. He had only seconds left. A cannon roared to Gavin's right and tore through a dozen of the color wights, shredding them. But the color wights behind them leapt through the blood and smoke and flying limbs, faces snarling, inhuman, glowing.

  Drafting the last of the yellow luxin to fill the last form, Gavin pulled the threads together in his hand. He was going to make it! He was sealing the luxin when a cannonball smashed into the forms. All the force of the impossibly lucky shot went straight into Gavin's hands. It was like holding a rope and having someone drop an anvil tied to the other side.

  The luxin was yanked out of Gavin's hands instantaneously. Gate and cannonball slammed into the ground beneath the arch, the cannonball blasting through Blackguards and a dozen still-gawking civilians behind them. The gate-abruptly unheld, unsealed yellow luxin-hissed and seethed into light before Gavin could stop it.

  In two seconds, the gate flashboiled into nothingness and disappeared-and so did Garriston's hope.

  Chapter 73

  Gavin collapsed. Or he would have, if two Blackguards hadn't caught him and dragged him away from the brink. He wanted to fight them, to stand up, but he was so lightheaded he coul
dn't even make words.

  He missed the first clash, right below his perch, but he heard it, felt it. The yells of men and women bracing themselves, giving voice to fear and rage, honing their will for their drafting. Then waves of heat and the shock of impact, armor popping, men and wights grunting. Then, screams, always screams.

  "Where are my muskets?! I ordered those brought here two hours ago!" General Danavis was screaming. Swearing. He was standing ten paces from Gavin, looking through the murder holes and machicolations at the battle beneath the arch of the gate. His soldiers were blinking at him. Out of twenty men, only two had muskets. "Fire, damn you!" he shouted at them. "You, and you, go find muskets. Now!" Then he was gone, screaming at the artillery crews.

  The Blackguards pulled Gavin to the edge of the wall. The cowl on the wall meant there were only a few places open on either the front or the back. They found one where the cranes pulled in goods. A Blackguard bichrome drafted a blue-green slide all the way to the ground.

  "What are you doing?" Gavin managed.

  "We're taking you to safety, sir." Then the man jumped onto the slide.

  Gavin was looking through the bright hallway formed by the bonnet to one of the culverin teams. They had fired a ball and were looking downfield-the sign of an inexperienced crew. Only one man needed to watch so they could adjust their aim. The rest should be reloading already. But after a moment, they cheered. "Got it!" Gavin couldn't see what they'd hit, but as they turned back to their task, he saw a flash of movement.

  "It's safe!" the Blackguard called up from the ground at the base of Brightwater Wall.

  Green claws latched onto the wall just in front of the artillery team. What? Gavin had known green wights to infuse their legs with the springiness of green luxin, but he'd never seen one jump even half the height of this wall. He cried out, pointing, but not before the beast flung itself upon the artillerymen. Its hands, grown into huge claws, tore through four men before they even knew it was there. Blood was flung in broad arcs, splattering against the walls. The last three men saw the beast, but froze. Only one even made an attempt to grab a musket from the wall.

  The green wight clove the man's head in three, two broad claws descending halfway through his head.

  The Blackguards hesitated for only half a second. None of them had ever seen a color wight either. Four Blackguards stepped forward, almost simultaneously. The two in front went to one knee, clearing firing lanes over their heads. Their hands dipped in unison, one hand coming up to draft, the other coming up with a pistol.

  Triggers clicked, and flints struck, but in the two seconds it took to fire a pistol, luxin was already streaking out from every drafter. A ball of blue luxin like a fist hammered the green wight toward a wall. A glob of red luxin splattered across its side and back and made it stick to the wall. Slick orange smeared the floor in case it pulled away. But that wasn't necessary. The green wight's claws were still stuck in the unfortunate gunner's head, and it had no time to react before the last Blackguard's flames hit the red luxin and set it alight.

  The next moment, three guns roared. All three hit the green wight's chest. Green luxin and all too human red blood burst from the wounds. The wight would have collapsed, but the red luxin held it to the wall, even as it burned.

  "Black out!" One of the Blackguards yelled. She stepped forward, already pouring more powder in her flashpan. Apparently hers had been the gun that misfired. She cocked the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. A second later, it blew the still-burning green wight's head apart.

  The Blackguards were already reloading their pistols. For most of them, Gavin knew, it was their very first battle. First blood. Yet each reloaded his or her pistol without looking. It was something they were taught to do only when there was extreme and pressing danger-visually inspecting a pistol was usually a good idea to prevent misfires and double-charging-but it was worth it to not have to take your eyes off the battlefield sometimes, and all of them had the presence of mind to do it correctly.

  "Tell General Danavis to withdraw the cowl," Gavin said. The cowl was keeping the green wights from getting in anywhere except at the artillery stations, but it left those men totally vulnerable. And while the Blackguards had all hit their target-now slumped on the floor, bleeding out and barely smoking-the other defenders wouldn't be so accurate. The cowl transformed the top of the wall into a yellow luxin tunnel. That meant ricochets. Ricochets meant anyone who missed a shot at an attacker would probably kill a defender. It wasn't worth the tradeoffs, especially because King Garadul's culverins and howitzers had stopped firing so they wouldn't kill the color wights.

  General Danavis must have realized the same thing, though, because before the Blackguards could argue that they couldn't send even one of their own away from Gavin, the cowl slid back. The sudden motion knocked several defenders off the wall, the fall guaranteeing maiming or death. But it had to be done.

  It also snapped the slide that the Blackguards had made for Gavin. But in moments they remade it and threw him unceremoniously down. He couldn't even catch himself. The sheer amount of luxin he'd drafted today had left him with nothing.

  The Blackguards at the bottom of the slide caught him and lifted him to his feet. He was able to stand.

  "Take me to the gate," Gavin ordered.

  The Blackguards looked at each other.

  "Damn you! Lose the gate, lose the wall. We lose the wall, we lose the city."

  "This city isn't our concern. Your safety is," a voice shouted. Tremblefist. He'd appeared from nowhere. "You can stand, can you run?" he asked Gavin.

  "I'm not running!"

  "We can't hold the gate!" Tremblefist shouted. "My Guards are getting slaughtered, and for what? We're not your personal army. We protect your life, not your whims. You're making our job impossible!"

  Gavin's failure spun out before him. This was his own fault. It wasn't his drafting that had failed, it was his leadership. He'd never told these men and women why they fought. He'd demanded obedience unto death without even telling them why it was important. He'd been divided in his own mind and now he was surprised that they didn't want to die for that? A lie would have been better.

  All he could see through the press of the soldiers between himself and the gate was flashes of fire, and smoke, and blood splashed high against the arch. The Blackguards were doubtless still in the front line-only the Blackguard could have stood for so long against the number of color wights Gavin had seen coming. The crackle of musket fire was constant but slow. The soldiers between Gavin and the fight had no idea about establishing fire lanes, so men farther back didn't shoot for fear of striking those in front of them. But so far, no one was turning back.

  Of course, that would change when they saw their best fighters retreat, abandon them. The Blackguards were the linchpin.

  With a roar of frustration, Gavin grabbed a nearby soldier's musket and ran toward the gate. He could hear Tremblefist's curse, and had no doubt the big man would be hot on his heels. He pushed and weaved through the crowd, his size slowing him, but not as much as Tremblefist's even bigger size.

  Gavin was cursing, screaming at men and women to move out of his way, when he heard a crunch of impact. A moment later, there was a surge from the gate, pushing everyone back a good five paces. Gavin cut across a line of soldiers to the wall. He grappled across a section where the image of a huge warrior stood, stoic, unmoving except for breathing, little puffs of steam escaping from his mouth. He touched a few sections-damn it, he should have done something to demarcate the appropriate place-until he found the one he was looking for. He touched it-anyone could touch it, it activated from the heat in a man's hand-and a little window of the wall went transparent.

  He was right. The crunch had been the impact of the regular soldiers arriving. There were tens of thousands of them pressed against the wall right now, already hefting scaling ladders and ropes. He couldn't wait for them to find his little surprise-but none of that mattered if they couldn't hold the gat
e.

  Looking to the sun, Gavin saw it was touching the horizon. Not long now. If they could make it until the sun had fully set, the drafters' power would be more than halved. They could still draft from diffracted light, but not nearly as strongly. He started running again, pushing through men and women directly against the wall. He heard the whistle of an incoming mortar.

  The pitch was familiar, horribly familiar. A sound that replayed in his nightmares. You could hear death coming, but other than cowering on the ground, there wasn't anything you could do to avoid it. The thump and boom of the shell landing and exploding going Thboom, shattering eardrums and blasting men off their feet. This one was getting really really loud-

  Gavin dropped to the ground and covered his head with his arms. Something heavy crushed him farther into the ground, and the world outside went blue.