And then they began to climb.
“Warden!” he heard a man’s voice shout over the din of crashing hammers and jangling armor. Ahaesarus lifted his gaze. Right in front of him, fifty feet away and slowly closing in, was a wobbling tower. The cloaked man standing atop it had glowing red eyes and black hair that seemed to whip about like writhing snakes. Ahaesarus recognized the man’s slender jaw, his easy posture, the intensity of his stare.
“Jacob.” Ahaesarus’s voice was a wisp.
The First Man smiled and lifted his hands. Shadow oozed from his fingers, forming a swirling ball before him, growing larger and larger by the moment. Jacob then thrust his hands forward, and the ball shot through the air, straight for Ahaesarus’s head.
The ball of shadow was thick, its surface shiny and rippling like oil. Ahaesarus saw faces in the sphere, those of his long-dead wife and children, and their screaming visages held him fast. A loud hum shook him as the sphere collided with the invisible barrier Ashhur had raised. A sound like the shrieking of a thousand murdered souls filled the air as the ball of shadow exploded outward, creating a web of writhing black smears that hovered in mid-air before gradually fading into nothingness. Ahaesarus took a step backward, his heart pounding, his thoughts awash with revulsion.
Atop the approaching tower, Jacob Eveningstar laughed.
“Master Warden!” someone called out from behind him, and Ahaesarus whirled around. A crowd had gathered on the inner wall walk, their expressions just as horrified as he felt. A spellcaster was standing there among them-Potrel Longshanks, one of the original four from Drake. The man inclined his head at Ahaesarus, tugging on his thick, bushy beard.
“Master Warden,” he said again, pointing at the stone plank he stood before.
Ahaesarus needed no further instruction. He dashed across the plank; it was not even a second after his feet left it that Potrel decimated the stone catwalk with a flash of blinding blue light. Ahaesarus shook his head, trying to dismiss the stars in his vision as he weaved in and out of the frightened cluster of defenders who busied themselves on the wall walk. Then the first of the towers collided with the outer wall, and soldiers began climbing over the ramparts, steel drawn. All around him, people screamed. Ahaesarus grabbed the handle of his sword, and torn, he struggled with what he should do. He heard Wardens shouting orders, Mennon and Florio among them. Ashhur then called out his name from somewhere down below, and Ahaesarus spun around.
Down the steps he flew, his feet slipping on the ice-slathered stone. When he reached the bottom, he hastened across the long section where the thousands of dead bodies had been laid out in a macabre display. His stomach cramped, doubling him over, but still he kept his eye on his destination: the long bunker, and the god who stood with hands on hips, his golden eyes aglow, behind it.
Ahaesarus leapt over the stone barricade, landing on both feet on the other side, glancing to the right and the left. Hundreds of people were hustling about, bundles of freshly fletched arrows in their arms and steel slung over their shoulders. Nearly to a man, their eyes were wide with fright. Ahaesarus turned to the side and saw Ashhur a hundred feet away, staring at him. The god nodded. The Master Warden righted himself, standing tall and throwing his shoulders back while he stared at the masses huddled in the trench.
“Stand your ground!” Ahaesarus bellowed. “No matter what occurs, remember what we are here for! We must defend the innocents with our very lives!”
“We can’t stand against all that!” someone cried.
Ahaesarus gestured to the side, where Ashhur stood, larger than life. “Your god is here to protect you,” he said, spittle flying from his lips as he paced the line. “Accept his strength, and know that nothing is impossible when we stand with him. Karak may come at us from all directions. His soldiers may wield the sharper steel. But we have righteousness on our side! We have glory! We have Ashhur! For the sake of him, we will stand tall, and should death come to us, we will be well met in the Golden Forever, drinking our fill for eternity!”
A few muffled cheers came from the huddled masses. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Men climbed out of the trench, and a few women as well, their new steel clutched tightly in their pale fingers. They faced the southern wall, and it seemed for a few moments that all sound ceased. Ahaesarus glanced behind him to Manse DuTaureau atop its hill and saw a pair of figures, one tall and one small, standing outside the structure, surrounded by a mass of women and children who crowded together in the snow. The standing figures worked their way through the crowd, seeming to offer solace to the masses. King Benjamin and Howard Baedan. It seemed the Master Steward had continued his tutelage of the boy after all. For a brief moment, Ahaesarus allowed himself the very hope he preached.
A great horn sounded, and the dying began. Ahaesarus stood his ground, surrounded by his wards, watching intently for any sign of what might be going on atop the wall. He could see nothing but slight shadows and the occasional pike raised high in the air, but the noises of battle were unmistakable-the thump of blunt objects colliding with shields, the clang of steel against steel, the thud of men falling seventy feet to the frozen ground, the crack and fizzle of the spellcasters’ magics. I should be up there on the wall. I should be defending my wards with my life, not waiting down here for the enemy to come to me.
However, he followed Ashhur’s command, and the defenders seemed to be holding.
From his right, where seventy-five yards away the barred gate on the inner wall stood, he heard more shouts, these on ground level, only they were not wails of the dying. It seemed there were living souls down there. “They are in the causeway!” he proclaimed. He snapped his head around, looking to where his fellow Wardens were gathered. “Judah and Olympus, take twenty of our brothers to the gate. Bring pikes and spears. Do not allow the soldiers to batter it down.”
The Wardens rushed off. Ahaesarus turned his attention back to the top of the wall. The form of a man appeared, hobbling into the gap between merlons where the stairs to the ground descended. The man teetered as he walked, holding his stomach. His head flopped back, his arms falling to his sides, and blood and a mess of red entrails pitched from his abdomen. The man took another blind step forward, his foot missing the edge of the stairway, and he plummeted. His body folded over itself when he struck the frozen ground. His intestines, trailing behind him, landed wetly on his twisted form. Behind the Master Warden, someone vomited.
“Stay strong!” he called.
It was then that bedlam erupted. A bright purple light flashed above, painting the sky a lingering crimson, and the battle atop the wall spilled over the ramparts. Countless flailing bodies dropped from above, waving as if their arms could turn to wings and help them soar. Potrel Longshanks was among them, as was Warden Mennon, his tall, graceful form falling sharply. Their bodies struck the ground like a living rain, landing amid the rows of corpses, bones breaking, flesh torn asunder, their screams cut off as their heads were crushed. Ahaesarus winced and drew his sword. With measured breath, he glanced to the side, watching a virtuous glow envelop Ashhur as his flowing robes transformed into the god’s immaculate plate armor. The deity raised his hand, and his divine sword sprung forth, casting a brilliant blue light over a land painted white, gray, and red. Ashhur climbed atop the bunker before him and threw his head back.
“KARAK, FACE ME!” he bellowed, and the ground shook beneath Ahaesarus’s feet.