“What’s going on, DuTaureau?” asked Preston.
“The First Man is using dark magic to pulverize the weak spot in the wall,” Judarius answered for him.
When he reached the side of the tree, Patrick bent over the ledge and held the torch down into the darkness between the walls. Sure enough, he saw tubes of shadow, almost like smoke, winding in and out of the new cracks that had formed in the thick masonry of the outer wall. Heavy chunks of stone fell away, creating a bevy of holes that grew wider and wider as the shadowy feelers thickened. Soon those holes combined into one large opening.
“Shit,” Patrick muttered.
Tristan was at his side. “What is that?” the young soldier asked.
“Celestia’s tree may be harder than steel, but the outer wall is already weakened at the edges where the fireball first struck,” said an authoritative voice. Patrick turned to see Ahaesarus standing behind them, hands on his hips, looking godly in his own right with his impressive height and long golden hair. “The boulders chipped away at the stone, further cracking it. Now Eveningstar is using whatever new power he possesses to widen it.”
“How many soldiers approach?” asked Preston.
Judarius shook his head. “Too many. Five hundred, with at least half the army trailing behind. More than enough to overpower us.”
Patrick closed his eyes, and once more he saw Nessa’s face, green with rot, worms crawling through her empty eye sockets, her hair a nest of red hay. He squeezed his fists together, grinding his nails into his palms until they drew blood.
“They will not overpower us,” he growled. Rearing back, he tossed the torch into the space between the walls, the glow from seventy feet below like a lone firefly in an empty field. Yet the light was enough to show clearly the breach in the wall growing wider and wider. “They still have to destroy the inner gate. . and they still have to pass though there. We have fire and weapons and height, and the breach is only wide enough for them to enter three at a time at most.”
As if to answer him, the slithering shadows tore another hunk of wall away, broadening the fissure.
“Will you stop that!” Patrick screamed. His rage reached its boiling point and everyone-Ahaesarus, Judarius, the Turncloaks, the archers-gave him a wide berth as he spun around and ran toward the interior edge of the rampart. He collided with the low wall, gazing out at the carnage the two falling boulders had caused. His eyes settled on Manse DuTaureau, sitting atop its high hill like a privileged child, surrounded by flickering torches.
“Damn you, Ashhur, you miserable excuse for a deity!” he cried. “Wake up already! What are you waiting for? Have you given up? Do you wish for us all to perish here? Tell me! ”
There was no answer from the low stone building where the God of Justice had lain unconscious for well over a month, but there was from behind him.
“They’re here!” Judarius shouted, and the clunk and clank of steel and stone followed as the defenders of the wall took their position.
“Well, fuck,” Patrick muttered. He turned to see Ahaesarus ordering those who carried the barrels of pitch to cross the gangplank and douse the enemy when they drew near. Patrick watched them go, struggling as they hefted the heavy barrels over the thin slab. The rest of the men the Master Warden ordered to stand ready, to unleash all they had on the horde once they entered the breach.
Just then a strange, fluid sensation overcame him. Patrick wobbled, having to grab tight to the low wall to keep from falling. It seemed a beam of light washed over his vision and then vanished. The sound of wailing followed, definitely Jacob’s voice, splitting the night. It carried on for what seemed like forever, a raucous cry of pain. Good. I hope you’re burning.
“Look there!” Ryann Matheson, one of the Turncloaks, exclaimed.
Patrick rushed to the wall and peered down. The bulging tubes of darkness writhed, catching fire and dissolving into the night. Jacob’s distant scream intensified. The crease in the wall had grown to fifteen feet wide, bits of mortar dropping from the rough stone in a trickle. Celestia? thought Patrick, lifting his eyes to the spot in the heavens where the goddess’s star would appear when full dark overtook the land. Have you come to our aid when our creator will not?
The wail died away, and the rumble of booted feet grew all the louder. Arrows flew over the outer wall, striking one of the barrel bearers, causing him to fall backward into the gap between the walls. The rest stooped, avoiding the flying bolts. Those standing with Patrick on the inner rampart hid behind the merlons as steel tips bounced off the stone. The attackers shouted orders, words Patrick couldn’t quite make out. But Judarius did, and the Warden raised his voice to those manning the barrels.
“Light them and toss them over! Do it now!”
Torches lit long thatches of rope attached to the tops of the barrels, and then the bearers shoved them off the parapets. A series of explosions and bright flashes came from far below, seen through the gap in the wall. Patrick poked his head out from where he’d been concealed, and heard screams as the soldiers were set ablaze outside the wall.
“Burn, you motherless twats! Burn!”
It was a matter of moments before all six barrels were lit and thrown over the side, and with the advent of screaming from those doused with flames came desperation-fueled cheers from the defenders. Another barrage of arrows came a second later, ending those cheers with blood and sinew. Three more barrel bearers died, as did four of the archers standing behind Patrick. He heard metal scrape against rock.
“More barrels!” he called out. “They’re coming through!”
The remaining three barrels were hefted atop the inner wall. Down below, soldiers began to lurch through the fifteen-foot breach.
“Wait for more of them,” said Patrick. “The more in the gap, the more we burn!”
The arrows continued to soar, piercing men through the thigh, the chest, the face. Now the screams atop the wall matched those coming from without. Patrick was growing more and more infuriated by the moment. An arrow clanged off his helm, jostling it to the side. He righted it and chanced a peek into the narrow pathway below. He saw shapes moving in the darkness, packed tight together like fish in a crowded barrel. “Now!” he shouted. “Drop the barrels now!”
Drop them the bearers did. Two of the barrels burst, the pitch spreading, sliding over the shields and giving the passageway the look of some fiery abyss. The third barrel bounced off heavy, upraised iron shields, crushing the two soldiers that held them, its fat wick snuffing out as it rolled off to the side, disappearing beneath the invasive horde of humanity. The fires began to peter out, and there were very few screams. Patrick was left to look on in horror as the soldiers edged their way through the passageway, the last of the flames fizzling atop upraised shields. The soldiers that had fallen, either choked by the smoke or burned by the fire, were trampled.
Not enough dead. Not anywhere near enough. Their damn shields saved them.
Patrick whirled on Master Warden Ahaesarus. “I thought you said this would work!” he yelled. “I thought you said the fire would stave them off!”
Ahaesarus shook his head, appearing more annoyed than afraid. “It did. It slowed them.” He calmly backed out of the way of a zipping arrow and pointed down. “If their shields had been wood, it might have incinerated them all. However, iron is much more difficult to burn. But the pitch will still burn, and still bring them pain.”