The defenders of Phlan weren't impressed by Marcus's maneuvers.
"Hey, Ston-lookit these weird tree-things they're sending at us this time!"
"Yeah, I heard about those the other day. The guys who went to bargain for peace told all about 'em. They smell like the inside of a moldy ale keg, and they might even spit poison gas. Be careful, Tulen old buddy, or you might get turned into some kinda tree fungus before this battle is over." Ston snorted in laughter.
Nearby, on the same wall, two wizards were preparing to launch their spells.
"Whaddya think-lightning or fireballs on those slimy beggars? Course, we could always try freezing 'em." The mage was digging through his pockets, looking for charred scraps of paper, a vial of sulphur, and the other materials that would power his spells.
His companion nervously exercised his fingers, stretching each digit and cracking knuckles loudly. "Those things are awfully wet and slippery. It's hard to get a good look at them. Wait-see those five coming way ahead of the rest? Why don't you blast a fireball at the one on the right, and I'll try a lightning bolt on the one at the left."
The two wizards timed their attacks carefully. Twin bursts of magic, one a fiery yellow sphere and the other an orange streak of lightning, darted from the wall. The magics exploded on the minions of Moander, knocking them to the ground. The mages slapped each other on the back, congratulating themselves. "Hurray, both worked! We're geniuses!"
A few yards down the wall, the grizzled old Tulen spit over the crenellations and sneered in amusement at the two young spellcasters. "Look again, geniuses."
The other three tree-creatures had stopped moving, silently waiting for their two leafy brothers to rise. When they did, the five continued their march as if nothing had happened.
Ston and Tulen were snorting with laughter. "We warriors ain't much for magic, but watch what our buddies are gonna do." Ston was directing their attention down the wall toward several catapults. In accordance with the commands barked out by the catapult captain, each unit adjusted its weapon. The captain bellowed out the order to fire.
A series of loud squeaks and thuds announced the launch of ten separate catapults. In a heartbeat, the moldering tree-things were buried under a pile of gigantic rocks.
Not a twig twitched under the rock piles. This time, Ston and Tulen slapped each other on the back, congratulating their comrades. "Nice shooting, boys! Now that's what I call the magic of old Bessy, old Mamie, old Daisy, and all the other faithful old gals. We got plenty more rocks where they came from, you betchy! Heh, heh, heh. You young fellers should put away those wands and think about joining up with the catapulters. They might take you, too, if your aim is good."
The wizards attempted to look dignified. Although the demonstration of rocks was impressive, the mages weren't about to trade in their spellbooks for crowbars.
A flutter of violet robes drifted out of the sky behind the two mages. Flustered, the two men turned to stammer out an explanation. "Shal! We were only-that is, we-"
The sorceress chuckled and raised a hand for silence. "Nothing to worry about. Now listen carefully. These are your instructions for defending against the siege…"
Marcus still circled high above his troops, astride the pitch-black nightmare. Such a position exposed him to arrows and magical attacks, but he trusted his numerous protection spells. Marcus was alive with anticipation, his blood tingling in his veins. He ordered the nightmare to fly faster, as if that would bring victory more quickly. The wind whipped the wizard's hair, billowing his red robes. The speed enhanced Marcus's euphoria.
As he passed over the battlefield, his attention turned to Phlan, off in the distance. The magical lights of the cavern shone down on the black walls of the city. "Well, that's peculiar," Marcus noted from on high. The walls, which had formerly been a deep red, were now a dull black. The outer defensive wall as well as the second ring of walls were all mysteriously darkened. The wizard shrugged it off. "Whatever you pathetic souls are planning, it won't matter. Your fate is sealed."
At that very moment, an invisible, menacing force of powerful skeletons marched under the sea toward Phlan. The unbreathing creatures would arise on the shores of the Moonsea and take the city completely by surprise. Marcus congratulated himself for thinking of this brilliant idea-even if Commander Brittle would have disputed whose idea it really had been.
When Phlan had been torn from the earth and deposited in the cavern, all of the bay alongside the city and a large section of the Moonsea had been magically stolen with it. The fish and other creatures inhabiting these waters were the only sources of food the defenders of Phlan could depend on.
But now, the bay was filled with warriors, each twice as powerful as the ordinary skeletons raised by evil spellcasters. Each was magically intelligent, unlike their automaton counterparts. Marcus had used extraordinarily powerful enchantments in creating these units. The effort was worth it; they would be deadly in battle. Even the most devout clerics, normally empowered to turn skeletons to dust, would find these mystical warriors nearly impossible to destroy.
The observations of a clever priest had alerted Phlan's defenders to the unseen danger in the bay. Tarl had ordered troops to wait in position along the beaches. Hundreds of eyes watched for the telltale ripples in the water that would signal the beginning of the assault.
Suddenly, a helmet arose out of the bay. The alarm was shouted down the beach.
But instead of three hundred bony horrors rising out of the water, only Commander Brittle strode onto the sand. The enchanted warrior strutted boldly up to the first assembly of clerical defenders. These men bravely raised their holy symbols and ordered the skeleton to return to the dust from whence it came.
"Put away your toys, weaklings. They won't work on me. Besides, I've come to make you an offer."
Many of the clerics raised their hammers and flails to attack the skeleton, but one of the younger priests, eager to parley, stepped forward, asking, "What terms do you bring us? What guarantees do you make?"
On the other side of the city, the battle was boiling.
The tree-minions of Moander, reduced by a few hundred by the weight of catapult rocks, boldly advanced to the walls of the city. Rooted feet stomped forward in menacing strides. Each tree-thing stood over ten feet tall and dripped an oozing, fetid, poisonous sap. Each creature bore a layer of fungus spores that puffed up in a sickly cloud every time it was hit. Each plant-horror was armed with branchy javelins.
"Masks up! Beware the javelins!" The cry echoed down the wall from captains and warriors alike. Each man pulled a woolen mask over his head to prevent the spores from being inhaled.
Shal had ordered the masks prepared immediately after she'd rescued Tarl and his comrades from the evil forest. After learning of the spores and poisons emitted by the trees, she had experimented with numerous forms of headgear to protect the warriors. The women of Phlan had spent every minute of the day and night spinning, weaving, and sewing the masks. All the wizards of Phlan had been ordered to magically heat sand and create thin glass lenses to allow the wearers to see. Within a few days, every warrior, cleric, and wizard in Phlan was outfitted with a special mask.
Dozens of these outfitted wizards-from apprentices to grand masters-were strung along the walls. Protected by the crenellations and the shields of assisting warriors, they cast their deadliest blasts. Shal and two other mages floated along the top of the wall, directing the efforts into a unified attack and casting their own potent energies.
Fire spells in the forms of waves, sheets, and exploding spheres blazed forth in a terrifying but beautiful rainbow. The searing heat that would have roasted an ordinary army to cinders proved ineffective against the tree-monsters. The wizards changed tactics and instead cast narrow cones of blazing fire that hung in the air for long minutes, broiling the horrid tree-minions. The sustained flames dried the poisonous wet ooze of the trees, charred bark and leaves, and roasted the creatures to ash. The unearthly stench that arose smelled like something straight from the Nine Hells. The minions shrieked and writhed, trying to move forward. But the huge, squirming tree-monsters soon turned to twisted pillars of ash.