Peregrin snorted a white ghost of breath. Who would steer a floating city into a thunderstorm?
The Lhaodagms would, apparently, replied his rider. It's the only way to approach our enclave without being spotted. They probably thought to drop out of the clouds and bash Tith Tilendrothael to pieces.
Never in the three hundred years of animosity between the two floating cities had they approached this close-within five miles. Only griffons and other aerial units had ever engaged each other. As with any other Netherese enclave, Lhaoda and Tith Tilendrothael kept their citizens safely out of battle. Though fully fitted with rams and spikes and grappling equipment, enclaves preferred to float serenely above their conflicts-safe and aloof.
Lhaoda's advance upon Tith Tilendrothael was tantamount to a declaration of war.
Peregrin banked into a steep dive. He headed for the misty spot directly in front of the struggling crows. The cloud there boiled darkly, mounded currents above something solid and vast.
Peregrin shrieked once.
The sound sliced through the rarefied air and reached the other griffons. They turned in their flights and saw the screaming golden comet of Peregrin, diving toward the turgid chaos of the cloud.
Peregrin's wings were folded tightly to his sides. He dropped from the heavens. Josiah perched close atop him, eyes low and keen.
In one wet, roaring moment, griffon and rider plunged through the fleecy head of the storm and into the loud blackness beneath.
They flew through ink. The darkness was complete. Water saturated Peregrin's feathers. He spread wide his wings-sluggish and heavy. Rain sheeted away behind him. Wing tips trailed spirals of sleet.
A diffuse flash of lightning came below, showing Peregrin his own coverts against a momentary gray. Then, only blackness. The boom of thunder did not lag long before it shook the heavens. The very storm shivered.
I see it, Peregrin thought. He sent Josiah the image of faint yellow lights moving evenly through the blackness below. Yellow glow, not blue. Fire-perhaps magical fire, but still fire-not lightning.
Take us there, Josiah responded.
Peregrin dropped easily back into his steep dive. His pelt riffled. Claws curled toward pads.
The others were beside them now: Fletching, Evensong, Glazreth, and the rest of the cavalry. They had seen the fires below, too. Lhaoda hung there, in the turbulent throat of the storm.
It was a bold strategy, hiding within a thunderstorm to approach an enemy enclave. The flying city of Lhaoda would have to be bold; it was half the size of Tith Tilendrothael, and its griffon troops were little better than rabble. Their mounts were old catflesh. Some of their mages even rode enlarged crows. In a fair fight, the Lhaodagms didn't stand a chance.
By the looks of it, they had no intention of fighting fair.
Still, the harrowing flight path had not paid off. Tith Tilendrothael's scouts had magically sensed the presence of the rock in the cloud and had called forth the cavalry. Long before it reached the enemy enclave, Lhaoda would be besieged by four hundred top aerial cavalry. This would be a full-scale, all-out attack. The city would be strafed until it turned back or surrendered.
For whatever reason, the Lhaodagms had shattered the relative peace of centuries, and they in turn would be shattered.
Stay sharp. They'll have fliers, too. The rain will help us-mask us, keep them from looking up, thought Josiah as he drew a slender wand from his belt. His free hand ran through his hair, and he smiled in anticipation.
Peregrin's eyes scraped the darkness below. In the belly of the cloud, a vast monster of rock and magic slowly took shape. Staving spikes glittered darkly along the edges of the floating city. War rams bristled, thick as thistles. Buildings honeycombed the sloping brow of the flying citadel. Magic threads of blue and orange and green cobwebbed the mountain. Rainwater drizzled from its edges in dim, brown cascades.
She might be halfTith's size, thought Peregrin, but she's plenty big, all the same. And fully armored.
When we're done with her, Josiah replied as he weaved sorcerous protections around them, she'll not be more than a smoldering coal in the sky. With that, he spoke an arcane word.
The stinging pelt of rain suddenly gave way to the scintillation of wards. Peregrin flexed his wings. A blue-green glow limned each feather. In the darkness, he seemed no longer a living being, but a sketchbook creature. The other griffons and their riders, one by one, also glowed with azure outlines.
Powerful sorceries crowded through Josiah's mind. Some of the alien words and gestures verged into Peregrin's thoughts. The griffon fought away the distraction. He focused instead on the target below.
As the city of Lhaoda struggled along in the streaming chaos, the storm uncoiled a scorpion tail of lightning. It struck the city's shields, crackled angrily, and broke through long enough to blast apart a twisted tower in the center of the enclave. Other blackened buildings smoldered from previous lightning strikes.
"Ready for raking fire," Josiah shouted aloud.
Peregrin understood. He swooped from his dive. The staving spikes and rams shone dead ahead.
A crackle of green power leapt from each of Josiah's hands, shrieked past Peregrin's ear slits, and whirled toward the city. The twin bolts thickened as they went and trailed coils of sulfuric smoke. They punched through the first invisible shell of protections. A flash brighter than lightning showed the point of impact. Ripples of sorcery moved in rings out from the spot. The bolts continued on. They popped twice more, in deeper layers of protection. The energies dissipated in crazy gyrations.
No single wizard could have shut down those defenses… but four hundred top mages…
Matching green bolts arced out all around. In hundreds of places, the spells cracked through the city's defensive shells. Emerald magics were still crashing into the shields as Peregrin flew through the breach Josiah had made.
Sharpened spikes skimmed by below. With each flap of Peregrin's wings, sheets of water broke against the spikes. The griffon himself soared over the rampart and slid into a long, low course over the city.
Though once splendid-with white spires, onion-shaped domes, red-tiled roofs, flying archways, ornamental gardens, and streets cobbled with something that looked like silver brick-the city had been 'sieged and sacked by the very storm that cloaked it. Fires stood in pillars across the skyline. Winds had felled many trees. Sudden changes in pitch and yaw tumbled anything not secured with rope or magic. Waters flooded the streets and sluiced whichever way the city tipped. Citizens ran pell mell from ruin to ruin and were swept away on the ravaging tides.
I'm amazed the Lhaodagms didn't abandon the cloud after all this abuse, sent Peregrin.
They've got far worse coming from us, Josiah responded.
The mage sent more blasts, these from a pair of wands. A swarm of purple sparks formed above Peregrin's head. The motes hovered and spun for a moment, as though awaiting instructions, and then rushed away. They flared above the city and punched through the bone-white wall of a tower. The windows lit with an orange light, which intensified to white. A whirring whistle rose to become a shriek. The walls cracked like glass, and the tower majestically began its collapse.
The last of the rubble had not struck ground when a fireball from Josiah's other wand splashed across a tile rooftop and set the eaves ablaze. The mage then flung out a grasping gesture. A gigantic hand formed below and gripped a footbridge. The fist squeezed. Stone and mortar tumbled away into the cleft beneath.
More attacks came from all around. The griffons swarmed the city. Fiery nets dropped atop thatched buildings and set them ablaze. Channeled winds and funneled rains leveled structures of limestone and marble. Magical lightning leapt from dozens of wands. Where bolts struck would-be defenders, mordant gray puffs of smoke went up and greasy bones went down. Feathery blasts of poison gas dropped others who rushed into the streets.