Boom. This time the gates shook, and the right half split from ground to peak.
Falaius was the last to the leave the wall. Gripping his sword, he watched the ram swing back and forward into the city gates. The heavy oak barriers splintered into useless firewood. Feeling sad to his bones, the old Plainsman dashed down the steps and raced across the pavings to the house directly across the street. There he lined up his archers and prepared to make the Brutes pay dearly for every man who crossed that threshold.
All around the perimeter of the city, the defenders gave way step by bloody step in the face of the merciless onslaught. The two gates, the Garden Gate in the west wall and the Legion Gate, held out the longest, but they were overwhelmed by the siege engines, and the defenders were forced to retreat into the streets, buildings, and cellars of the city itself. In the Port District and the western edges of the Garden District the fighting in the streets became ferocious. The city dwellers fought for their homes and their families, but their courage and devotion was not enough to overcome the Brutes’ superior expertise and hunger for battle. Only the centaurs were the Brutes’ equal in skill and weapons, and most of them were too busy fighting among the barricades to the north. House by house, street by street, the defenders were pushed back toward the center of the city.
Shortly after the fall of the western Garden Gate, the mercenaries under the command of the Brute officers slowed their advance when they reached the wealthy neighborhoods in the Garden District. These warriors-thieves, thugs, outlaws, exiles, and sellswords-lacked the discipline of the Brutes. They took one look at the richly furnished homes and lost their momentum in a spree of looting, pillaging, and gluttony. The Brutes who handled the siege engines looked on in disgust.
The battered militia, who had guarded the gate until it burst apart at its hinges, withdrew toward the palace and the wild gardens of Iyesta’s lair. Half of their number met with the dragon’s guards and established a defensive ring around the palace. The other half melted into the city streets to set up ambushes, build barricades, and recruit more help. Runners were sent to Falaius and messages arrived from other strong points. Linsha and her companions learned the lines of centaurs and militia had grudgingly fallen back all along the northern defenses, but they had fought hard and did not flee in panic. They had abandoned the entire Northern District and most of the Artisans District and were gathering along a line north of the palace to the Little Three Points.
When dawn lifted the veil of darkness the next day, Falaius and the people of the Missing City still retained control of the heart of the city, Little Three Points, large areas of the Garden District and not quite half of the Port District. But there was little cause for celebration. The walls had fallen, the harbor was lost, and many members of the irreplaceable militia and Legion were dead or wounded. There was no hope of aid or godly intervention.
As the sun rose and the heat returned to the land, the fighting in the streets and houses dwindled to an exhausted standstill. Thunder’s army settled down to strengthen their grip on their stolen territory while the defenders assessed the damage and looked to a gloomy future.
At the edge of the dragonlord’s gardens where the wild parkland gave way to the homes and streets, Linsha dispatched the last swarthy swordsman that had probed too far into the defenders’ lines. Panting, she wiped her sword blade clean and slid it back into the leather scabbard.
“Vermin!” Mariana said vehemently. She dabbed ineffectively at a slash that crossed the back of her right shoulder.
“Sit down,” Linsha suggested. “I’ll do that.”
The wound was not deep, but it was a long laceration and would be very uncomfortable for a few days. Linsha cleaned it as best she could and wrapped a pad made from Mariana’s torn shirt around the shoulder.
A chestnut centaur, a runner from Mariana’s troop, came to take a look. “Captain, you should go back to the palace and have a healer treat that. It may need stitching.”
“Or a poultice to keep the swelling down,” Linsha added.
The half-elf grimaced. “Those things are always so noxious. Why, oh why, did the healers’ magic have to fail? I thought we were done with primitive medicine.”
“At least we have that,” said Linsha helping her to her feet.
“All right,” Mariana sighed. “I should report to General Dockett anyway. Luewellan, tell your group leader to post guards and let the troop stand down for a few hours. They need rest.”
The centaur saluted, gathered the weapons from the dead soldiers, and trotted hack to his position.
The half-elf nodded her thanks as Linsha gave her a steadying arm. The two women made their way back toward the palace courtyard to find a proper healer and a meal.
“I never want to see another night like that again,” Mariana muttered while they walked. Her normally robust, healthy enthusiasm had dulled to a thin patina under a full day of fear and fighting. Her long braids and uniform were filthy, her skin looked pale, and bluish shadows ringed her eyes.
Linsha knew without looking that she probably looked even worse. She struggled for something to say and found nothing. How could you pin platitudes to a day like yesterday? Or one like today? There was no help in sight. They would have a brief respite, and then the fighting would begin again, tearing away the city’s defenses a little bit at a time. Linsha knew she was worn to the bone, bruised, cut, aching, and her energy was nearly gone. But worst of all, her usual reservoir of optimism that had kept her going through many difficult crises was flagging. She could see no solution in sight, nor she could she relieve the biting worry in her mind about the brass eggs. The fighting had been too intense for her to slip away in the night to find the entrance to the labyrinth. She desperately wanted to go into the tunnels and check the eggs, to relieve her mind that they were still in the nest and unharmed, but then what? If they were still there, how safe would they be if Thunder sent his army combing the city for them? Iyesta’s safeguards might protect them for a little while, but Linsha doubted they would work for long against a determined blue dragon. Should she risk harming them and move them to some place out of the city? Would Purestian understand the danger and accept her help?
Linsha ground her teeth in frustration. Maybe she should trust Lanther and accept his help. He already suspected the dragon eggs existed, and he seemed quite adamant they be protected.
“Are you all right?” Mariana said beside her.
Linsha gave a lopsided grin and said, “As well as anyone else. Just lost in thought.”
The two women arrived in the courtyard and found it a place of barely contained chaos. Rows of wounded lay under the trees where healers worked hard to ease their suffering. Dragon’s guards, militia, centaurs, and a few Legionnaires ran back and forth carrying messages from Falaius to General Dockett, restocking supplies, fetching water, collecting weapons, and doing their best to fortify the walls of the old palace. This, Linsha realized, would probably be the place where those who survived would come to make their last stand. The thought grieved her more than she imagined it would.
From a battered table set up under a tree, General Dockett waved for Captain Brownstem to join him.
Linsha helped her friend over to the table. Without asking the militia commander’s permission, she eased the half-elf into the single chair and poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the commander’s table.