The Patryns guarding the walls were heartened by the sight, assuming that the bulk of the enemy would be unable to reach the city. Their cheering died when the enormous serpents reared up and crashed headlong into the under-section of the bridges, a part left unprotected by magic. The sigla on the sides flashed wildly, but cracks spread through it, disrupting the magic, weakening it—in some cases completely destroying it. The enemy commanders rallied their troops with furious shouts. The retreat was halted, the armies of the Labyrinth raced across the damaged bridges, which trembled beneath the weight, but held. By midmorning, the sky above Abri was dark with the wings of dragons and griffins, gigantic bats, and leather-winged birds of prey that swooped down on the Patryns from above. Hordes of chaodyn, wolfen packs, and tiger-men dashed across the no-man’s-land below. Siege towers were raised, ladders thrust up along the sides of the walls. Battering rams thundered against the iron gates. The Patryns rained down magic on their foes—spears kindled into bolts of flame, javelins burst overhead in a shower of flesh-consuming sparks, arrows that could not miss flew directly to the heart of the chosen victim. Smoke and magical fog obscured the sight of the monsters descending from the air; several crashed headlong into the mountain. The magic of the rune-inscribed walls and buildings of Abri repelled invaders. Ladders thrown up against the walls turned from wood to water. Siege towers caught fire and burned. Iron battering rams melted, the molten metal consuming all those who stood near it. Daunted by the force and power of the Patryn magic, the armies of the enemy faltered and fell back. Alfred, watching from his place on the walls, began to think he’d been wrong.
“We’re winning,” he said excitedly to Haplo, who had paused to rest.
“No, we’re not,” Haplo said grimly. “That was only the first wave. Meant to soften us up, force us to expend our weapons.”
“But they’re retreating,” Alfred protested. “Regrouping. And this”—Haplo held out a spear—“is my last. Marit’s gone to find more, but she won’t be successful.”
Archers were on their hands and knees, searching for any arrow dropped or spent. They pulled shafts out of the bodies of the dead for use against their killers. On the ground below, those too old to fight hunched over the few remaining weapons, hastily inscribing them with sigla, repairing them with magic that was already starting to wane.
And it still wouldn’t be enough to hold back the foes, already massing for the next attack. All along the battlements, the Patryns drew knife and sword, prepared to face the assault, which would be fought hand to hand. Marit returned, carrying two javelins and a broken spear. “All I could find.”
“May I?” Alfred asked, his hand hovering over the weapons. “I can replicate them.”
Haplo shook his head. “No. Your magic—remember? Who knows what these might turn into.”
“I can’t be of any help,” Alfred said, discouraged.
“At least,” Haplo observed, “you didn’t faint.” The Sartan looked up, mildly astonished. “No, I didn’t, did I?”
“Besides, I don’t think it will matter at this point,” Haplo said dryly. “You could make spears from every branch of every tree in the forest and it wouldn’t matter. The dragon-snakes are leading this attack.” Alfred stared over the top of the wall. His knees weakened; he very nearly lost his balance. The dog edged close, bolstering him with an encouraging lick and a wagging tail.
The River of Anger had frozen, probably from the magic of the serpents. Armies of creatures now marched across its solid black surface. Surrounding the city, the serpents began to fling themselves bodily at the walls. The sigla-inscribed stone shook beneath the blows. Cracks speared through the structure, small at first, then growing larger. Time and again, the serpents attacked the very bones of Abri. The cracks spread and began to widen, dividing the runes, weakening the magic.
The Patryns atop the walls fought the serpents with every weapon, every magical spell they could think to cast. But weapons struck the gray-scaled skin and bounced off harmlessly; magic burst over the serpents, did no damage. It was afternoon. The armies of the enemy stood on the frozen river and cheered the serpents on, waited for the walls to fall.
Headman Vasu climbed up to where Haplo stood atop the wall. A shuddering blow rocked it beneath his feet. “You said you once fought these creatures, Haplo. How can we stop them?”
“Steel,” Haplo yelled back. “Inscribed with magic. Drive it into the head. Can you find me a sword?”
“That would mean fighting them outside the wall,” Vasu shouted.
“Give me a group of our people skilled with sword and dagger,” Haplo urged.
“We would have to open the gates,” Vasu said, his expression dark.
“Just long enough to let us out. Then shut them behind us.” Vasu shook his head. “No, I can’t permit it. You would be trapped out there...”
“If we fail, it won’t matter,” Haplo returned grimly. “Either we die out there or we die in here. And out there, we’ve got a chance.”
“I’ll go with you,” Marit offered.
“So will I,” said Hugh the Hand, frustrated, eager for action. The assassin had tried fighting, but every spear he threw went wide of its mark; the arrows he shot might have been flowers for all the damage they did.
“You can’t kill,” Haplo reminded him.
The Hand grinned. “They don’t know that.”
“You’ve got a point,” Haplo admitted. “But maybe you should stay here, protect Alfred...”
“No,” said Alfred resolutely. “Sir Hugh is needed. You will all be needed. I’ll be all right.”
“You sure?” Haplo regarded him intently.
Alfred flushed. Haplo wasn’t asking if Alfred was sure he’d be all right, but if he was sure about something else. Haplo had always been able to see through him. Well, friends could do that sort of thing.
“I’m sure,” Alfred said, smiling.
“Good luck, then, Coren,” Haplo said.
Accompanied by the dog and Hugh the Hand, the Patryns—Haplo and Marit—left, disappearing into the fog and smoke of battle.
“Good luck to you, my friend,” Alfred said softly. Closing his eyes, he delved into the very depths of his being—a place he had never before visited, consciously at least—and began to search among the clutter and the refuse for the words of a spell.
Kari and her band of hunters volunteered to go with Haplo to fight the serpents. They armed themselves with steel, taking the time to inscribe the magic on the blades as Haplo instructed.
“The head of the serpent is the only vulnerable part that I know of,” Haplo told them. “Between the eyes.”
No need to add what they could all see, that the serpents were powerful, that the lashing tails could batter them until their own shielding magic gave way, the enormous bodies crush them, the gaping toothless maws devour them. Four serpents crawled around the walls, including Sang-drax.
“He’s ours,” said Haplo, exchanging glances with Marit, who nodded grim agreement. The dog barked in excitement, dashed in circles in front of the gate.
The walls continued to hold, but they wouldn’t much longer. Cracks spread from base to top now; the flaring light of the runes was starting to dim and in places had gone out. Hosts of the enemy were taking advantage of the weakness to throw up ladders, begin scaling the walls. The attacking serpents occasionally knocked down their own allies, but paid little heed. Another swarm arrived to take the places of the dead.
Haplo and his group stood by the gates.
“Our blessing on you,” Vasu said, and, raising his hand, he gave the signal. Patryns who were guardians of the gate’s magic placed their hands on the runes. The sigla flashed and darkened. The gates began to open. Haplo and his people dashed out rapidly, squeezing through the crack. Seeing the breach in the defenses, a pack of wolfen let out a howl and flung themselves at it. The Patryns cut them down swiftly. Those few wolfen who managed to win through were caught between the iron gates as they boomed shut.