With one final boom, an eerie calm descended on the settlement. It had been by far the most extensive attack yet, with what seemed like five hundred boulders. When it ceased, Ahaesarus rushed up the stairs to the top of the wall, sprinting along the ramparts with Judarius by his side as they examined the damage. A great many cracks lined the interior of the outer wall, a few of them large enough to fit a man or even three through, but those would be easily defended. Karak, you have misjudged your brother once more, Ahaesarus thought with a smile. He then crossed the plank to the outer wall itself, gazing out at the forest that lay a mere quarter mile away, and his heart froze in his chest.
Skeletal branches snapped as giant wooden towers emerged from the frozen, dead forest. Soldiers of Karak, bundled in furs and grouped in clusters of fifty, shouted as they shoved their wheeled towers through the packed snow toward the wall. The five regiments he saw were evenly spaced, with at least three thousand feet between them. The archers among the soldiers raised their bows, pulled back the strings, and loosed their arrows. Ahaesarus ducked behind a merlon, eyes wide. The bombardment had been a brutal distraction, forcing those inside to cower while the soldiers moved their towers into position and approached the walls. Karak had spread out his force, presumably coming at them from all sides. So far as Ahaesarus could guess, the tall towers would be close enough to mount an assault in a half hour at most. Given the size of the settlement, he had no opportunity to fully organize their defenders, most of whom were positioned by the southern portcullis. By the time he gathered the archers and climbed back to the top of the wall, the soldiers would already be here, and given how much space was between them, the pitiful two hundred archers would be less than useless.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
“Ahaesarus!” shouted Judarius. “We need orders!”
The Master Warden gazed over at his compatriot and saw anger boiling over in his green-gold eyes. Judarius was breathing heavily, his elegant hand held firm over the giant maul fastened to his belt. For a moment he thought Judarius would leap over the wall, the sixty-foot fall be damned, and charge the approaching clusters himself, but instead his expression stiffened. Arrows continued to fly over their heads. Down below, the people of Mordeina, their wards, were screaming and running for cover.
“What is your command, Master Warden?” asked Judarius, and strangely enough, he seemed suddenly calm. “Do I fetch the archers?”
Ahaesarus tapped his fingers on the parapet’s compacted stone. “How many towers did Leviticus report at last count?” he asked.
“Over thirty.”
Ahaesarus chanced another look around the merlon and saw the wobbling tower growing ever closer.
“There is no time for archers,” Ahaesarus said. “No time for anything but melee weapons and pikes. Judarius, go down to the people. Find the bravest men and make them lead. Have them gather as many as they can and bring whatever they have at their disposal-old tent posts, rocks, buckets of grease, anything-up here. Tell them they must delay the soldiers as best they can.”
“They will die,” Judarius said, his tone devoid of emotion. “These people are not properly trained.”
“Does it matter? Delay Karak’s men, Judarius; that is all I ask.”
Judarius nodded. “Stay safe, my friend.”
The black-haired Warden sprinted back across the plank connecting the two walls, ducking to the left and right to avoid the flying arrows, until he disappeared over the stairs. Ahaesarus took a deep breath, counted to ten, and then began to run south along the wall walk. He stayed as low as he could, but it was difficult to stay below the merlons and move at a decent speed. A sharpened arrowhead grazed his back, slicing through his thick leather surcoat and opening a small wound across his spine. He barely felt it. His booted feet crunched on the snow packed on the wall walk. Sweat poured down his face despite the cold.
The wall was long, the distance far, and Ahaesarus forced his legs to churn. He gave up on his hunched run and stood up straight, allowing his long, loping strides to carry him farther and faster. Ashhur’s booming voice filled his head, the god magnifying his voice to relay commands to his children spread throughout the settlement. Ahead and behind he saw people climbing to the top of the wall, men with tall wooden shields protecting the spellcasters from Drake in their drooping furs. Strangely, he didn’t see an archer among them. Arrows thunked into the shields, causing those bearing them to waver. Ahaesarus then looked on as the hands of the spellcasters began to glow. One by one, the stone planks connecting the inner and outer walls exploded in a rain of pebble and dust.
Ahaesarus ran faster.
An arrow passed in front of his eyes, startling him and causing him to lose his footing. He slid forward on his hands and knees, the sword on his hip dragging through the snow behind him. His mind racing, he scampered back to his feet and kept on going. Celestia’s tree, rising above the wall like a broken guardian with half its branches snapped off by hurled boulders, was a half mile ahead of him. If he simply kept his feet moving and was lucky, he would be there in minutes.
Minutes are all we have. He chanced a look out at the valley outside Mordeina. He had passed by the dead forest, and now the sprawling white world to the south opened up before him. Thousands of soldiers, like black ants on a white backdrop, rushed the walls. Their camp stretched from one corner of the land to the other on the horizon. Over the rush of blood in his ears, he heard the soldiers chanting their warbling battle cries. He was once more reminded of the winged demons descending on Algrahar, the memory filling him with crushing hopelessness. Death from above or death from below-it didn’t matter. Both ended in the same way: with the destruction of everything he knew and loved.
No! he told himself, catching a glimpse of Ashhur pacing in front of the lengthy bunker, instructing his children to defend. This time they could fight back. This time, there is a god on our side.
Past a chunked and crumbling section of the wall he flew, Celestia’s tree growing larger and larger in his sight. The inner rampart was now crowded with people, his wards and fellow Wardens alike, working feverishly at lugging heavy pots of bubbling grease along the slippery walk or hammering away at the stone planks the spellcasters had yet to destroy.
The arrows had ceased flying once he finally reached Celestia’s tree. He nearly separated his shoulder when he collided with its steel-hard trunk. He immediately climbed to the top of the nearest merlon, grabbing a thick branch for support. He had been correct: From this vantage point, he could see eight towers approaching, each pushed by regiments of fifty. A massive phalanx of what looked to be five thousand soldiers marched behind the towers. He heard a heavy thud from below and leaned over the wall. His breath caught in his throat. There was a veritable hive of soldiers pressing against the base of the outer wall, some hammering away with large mallets at the weakened sections while others nailed differing lengths of ladder together. His gaze shifted, and just below him he saw at least a hundred elves on horseback. Their leader, the largest elf he had ever seen, with scaly black armor and a pair of wicked swords crisscrossed on his back, shouted orders. Thirty of the elves dismounted, snatching ropes from their saddlebags. One by one, they tossed the ropes over the lowest branches of Celestia’s tree, pulling them taut.