Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
When their drums began pounding, and some of their odd creatures started hooting, I sent Dunos off with our bowls. He protested being sent away, but I also gave him a message for Count Derael. That errand mollified him somewhat. He promised he’d return soon with an answer.
Trumpets answered on our side. Torches flared along the walls. Warriors—veterans and conscripts alike—donned circle talismans or drew ashen circles around their eyes to ward off magic. I couldn’t feel the tingle of
jaedun
, but the
vanyesh
were out there, somewhere. I couldn’t fault anyone taking precautions.
Melodies shifted. Our catapults launched oil-filled flaming urns. They streaked through the sky and exploded against the ground. None found a living target, but the burning pools cast enough light for us to see the enemy.
The
xonarchii
loomed forward and hurled boulders in high arcs. Several eclipsed the stars. Two or three landed well shy of the city. Others struck sparks from the stone and bounced off, gouging the walls.
One sailed completely over and collapsed a hovel into a pile of shattered kindling.
It had been hurled by the largest of the
xonarchii
. A massive beast, it had been painted with black stripes over its blue flesh, like a tiger—Nelesquin’s way of mocking me. It did make for a terrifying display. The driver turned the beast and it disappeared into the shadows to retrieve another rock.
I glanced at Penxir Aerant. “Three hundred yards.”
“Three and a half.” The giant twirled an arrow. “Next throw if it comes to the same spot. The one after if it does not.”
“Perfect.”
A loud clacking filled the street below. I smiled. The Derael spikes were working as intended.
No one who had been at Tsatol Deraelkun could forget the giant moles. Count Derael named them
danborii
after one of the Rat god’s more odious aspects. He’d made ready to give them the welcome they surely merited.
Every nine feet along the entire length of the wall we’d dug postholes another nine feet deep. Each hole had a bamboo shaft in it and an old man or woman holding it. Above the hole we positioned the same sort of pilings we’d used to stop the river, with three yards of hooked-iron spike on the downward end. They’d been hoisted into position with a pulley and angle-frame. When the sentinel felt the bamboo shift, he or she clapped two shorter lengths of bamboo together and a wall warden cut the Derael spike loose.
The piling shot down into the posthole. The iron spike pierced the
danbor
’s skull, pinning it in the tunnel. As the beasts thrashed out their deaths, the muffled thumps made us smile. Soldiers sighted back along what they imagined was the tunnel’s line. Archers nocked arrows, ready to feather anyone trying to dig his way free.
The
xonarchii
returned to hurl more stones. Penxir drew his great recurve bow and held it. Firelight danced over the razored edge of the broadhead. He waited, his muscles never quivering, the arrow rock still.
The tiger-striped
xonarch
turned.
Penxir released.
The arrow spun out into the night. It was ridiculous to think that so small a missile could hurt such a massive creature. Yes, warriors had suggested that driving an arrow through an eye might get into the creature’s brain, but the head was as wide as most wagons were long. A cloth-yard shaft would completely disappear into the thing’s skull before it had a chance of hitting the brain.
But then, as we’d discovered before, finding the monster’s brain wasn’t the only way to stop it. Penxir’s arrow passed through the rider’s armpit. There was no mistaking the dark spray of arterial blood. The arrow poked out the other side, completely transfixing the
kwajiin
. He fell back and to the side, to hang by one foot from a stirrup.
The beast yelped and swiped a hand at the control sticks. It missed. The
xonarch
rolled onto its back, then over, staining itself with the driver’s pulped remains. On its feet again, it tore off across the ground, going low and fast, barking out furious challenges.
I smiled. “Nice shot.”
He shook his head. “Next time I will not kill a driver. I will kill one of the creatures. It will be the perfect shot.”
“You’ll get the chance tonight.”
“I know.” He nodded toward a spot further down the wall. “It will be from there.”
“Go.”
As he departed, Dunos reappeared. “The count thanks you. If you feel plans are in error, he bids you send me to him with new information.”
“There’s no mistake.”
Dunos drew my old sword. “Then I am ready.”
The determination in his voice made me smile. I guided him to a crenel. “Watch what arrogance will make a man do.”
The enemy’s drumming shifted tempo, announcing a new attack. Troops marched forward through the darkness. They had to see the walls and the fires. They doubtless breathed prayers to Wentoki or Kojai or even Grija, hoping the gods would see them through the fight. Officers shouted orders and encouragement, but many wanted to run.
I knew because I could remember that far back.
As the enemy reached the edge of the firelight, their ordered formations melted into screaming masses. Men bearing long ladders, swords, and bows raced forward, yelling fiercely to scare those they faced. Men in their midst bore standards identifying troops from Moryth and the other of the Five Princes or Erumvirine or even western Nalenyr.
Nelesquin, having lost any advantage of surprise, sent our own people against us. “He’ll let us destroy our brothers, Dunos, to learn what we have in store for his
kwajiin
.”
“Teach him a lesson, then, Master.”
I snapped a fan open and raised it. Trumpets blasted. I brought my hand down sharply and nines of small siege engines launched their missiles. The ballistae lofted clouds of arrows. They cut swaths through the charging soldiers. Some men died pierced by three or four, which then held them upright—bloody, twitching scarecrows guarding fields of carrion.
Catapults hurled earthenware globes. These had not been filled with fire. I would have gladly immolated
kwajiin
, but men, no. Instead we used other things. These vessels shattered, scattering caltrops. They always landed with a spike pointing upward, and that spike punched through sandals with ease. Soldiers screamed and limped back, or sat and pulled the spikes from their feet.
Elsewhere along the line, tightly wrapped bales of smoldering
vaear
-root arced through the air. So effective at settling the stomach when brewed as a weak tea,
vaear
-root burst into flame as it flew. The riverine breeze sent the thick smoke south and east, choking the battlefield. When inhaled it induced vomiting and dizziness in some, blindness in others. The truly unfortunate saw horrible visions. Coughing men staggered and fell, some clawing at their eyes.
Most retched and wept.
Our archers stepped up to display their skills. They shot anyone who came into range—putting arrows through their limbs. That was by Count Derael’s order. A dead man is simply dead. A wounded man has friends who hear his screams. He must be rescued and a wounded man eats as much as a hearty one but doesn’t fight.
Nelesquin’s drums beat a retreat. Men abandoned their ladders. They formed chains, dragging themselves and their compatriots south. Soon enough, all that remained on the battlefield slithered, crawled, or begged to die.
“Have we won?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
The drums changed their beat. “Now he comes in earnest.”
Chapter 32
C
iras relished the tight press of the battle mask against his face. The mask’s long white fangs jutted down and blood stained the corners of his mouth. He knew well the effect of such a fearsome visage, yet Ciras wished he could go into battle without it.
The mask hid him from the enemy. He
wanted
them to know whom they faced. He wanted to be feared not for what he wore, but for his skills in combat. He was worthy of their fear.
He sat astride his mount with the other Voraxani. He’d not yet hit the switch that would extend the armor and spikes. While there was no pretending that he was on a real horse, he didn’t want to be part of a war machine. The other champions of the Empress seemed to have no trouble with it, but it still didn’t feel right to him.
At the further end of the plaza, crews operated their ballistae. They drew the arms back and locked the pusher plates in place. Some they loaded with stone or cast-iron balls. Others took sheaves of arrows with broadheads fully a handspan long. At a signal from the wall, lanyards were yanked, missiles flew into the darkness, and the whole process began again.
The ballistae crews fought earnestly and hard but he could not think of them as being his equal. They dealt death, but did so anonymously. They did not see their enemies die.
That made them no more honorable than the
gyanrigot
soldiers lined up in the plaza. The machines could not care. They could not grieve. They could not consider mercy, nor could they beg for it. They knew no fear. They just killed until destroyed themselves—inexorable, implacable harvesters of souls.
Courage and discipline were vital. The automatons were slaves to their commands. Some took that for perfect discipline, and some mistook their lack of fear for courage, but it was the antithesis of courage. Courage was to face down the very fears the
gyanrigot
could not even recognize. Courage was to fight on in spite of looming disaster.
Trumpets blared, calling the Voraxani to alert. Guards stationed at the western sally port hauled away on thick ropes. Crossbars swung up. Sweaty, loincloth-clad men turned capstans. The gate swung outward.
With Vlay Laedhze in the lead, the Voraxani poured onto the battlefield.
Things
had
developed much as Moraven Tolo had predicted. The city’s main southern gate was its weakest point, so the assault had been concentrated there. The first wave of humans had broken. The battlefield lay littered with casualties—be they still or crawling back toward their own lines. They had been a distraction while the boring beasts had tried to tunnel beneath the walls. Neither of those ploys had worked, so Nelesquin had shifted tactics.
Conventional siege machines rolled along the Imperial Highway. A massive ram mounted within a long wagon led the parade. A roof over the top and shields covering the front and sides protected the men as they pushed the creaking machine forward. Two siege towers came next, each as tall as the city’s walls. Along line of
kwajiin
soldiers propelled the towers along the road. Once they had them in position, they’d mount the towers and hurry across bridges to top the wall. Soaking-wet hides covered both the towers and the rams’ roofs to repel fire.
The
kwajiin
were the antithesis of the
gyanrigot
warriors. Their standards, terrible and yet glorious, had been affixed to the machines, proclaiming pride in past deeds. The warriors chanted rhythmically and the engines moved in time with that music. Even the rams’ steel-shod points swayed with the tempo, seeming eager to pound the city’s gates to pieces.
Formations of men flanked the engines, though marching through the corpse-strewn fields slowed their advance. Nelesquin’s monsters and conscript attendants hemmed them in, preventing defections. The hammer-headed
xonarchii
pulled wagons, like children’s carts, bulging with smaller stones. They’d dig a hand in, raise it, and throw, scattering rocks against the walls and battlements. Men toppled, screaming, and the
kwajiin
cheered.
The men of Moriande answered with well-aimed arrows and flights of their own stones.
The mounts’ hoofbeats pounded up into Ciras. The Voraxani drove at the monsters. The conscripts shouted warnings and bared swords. The warnings turned to screams as the Voraxani appeared on their metal mounts, festooned with spikes and blades.
Ciras deployed the armor and spikes barely a dozen yards before the conscript line. He squeezed his knees and rode over the first man. His sword flicked right. A bloody geyser spurted into the night, then he was through.
A
xonarch
towered over him. Ciras had known they were big, but hadn’t appreciated just
how
big. The creature could have easily grasped the top of the city’s wall and hauled itself over.
Ciras drove in hard, then rose in his stirrups and slashed mightily at the thing’s left ankle. Fur flew and blood flowed. He’d hoped to cut the tendon and hobble it, but he would have had an easier time hewing through oak.
The creature roared furiously and flung a handful of stones. They crushed a dozen of its allies, smearing broken bodies across the ground. By then Ciras had ridden far enough forward for the driver to see him. The driver jerked a lever and the beast swiped a hand at him.
Ducking the blow, Ciras slashed the creature’s palm. The
xonarch
roared again and sucked on the wound. The driver worked the control rods. The
xonarchii
stopped midlick, then smashed both fists against the ground. It gathered itself to leap.
Too close. I’m dead
.
The tingle of
jaedun
accompanied an arrow’s flight from the walls. The shaft passed through the beast’s right nostril and burst through the thin bone wall separating sinus from brain. The razored broadhead sliced through nerves and arteries, plunging deep into the brain stem.
The
xonarch
’s left arm and leg collapsed. It mewed, stricken, crashing on its left side. The impact bounced the swordsman and his mount into the air. The right arm clawed weakly at Ciras but missed. Then the only visible eye fluttered and rolled up in the broad, bony head.
He landed astride his mount in the gap between its arms and thighs. The war mask’s visage concealed his surprise. He brought his mount past, thinking to cut around the body and deal with the driver, but he never got the chance.