“Jenla!” Tepa yelled, gripping Lyopi’s arm and halting her cast. “It’s Jenla! She’s alive!”
Sister of his deceased mate, Jenla was the beekeeper’s best and oldest friend. She’d been lost in one of the early battles outside the wall, and everyone in Yala-tene assumed she’d been killed.
Heedless of the spears flung by the raiders, Tepa ran to the edge of the parapet, calling for Jenla. Lyopi yelled at him to get back just as a stone-tipped missile hit the edge of the wall at his feet and shattered. Tepa reeled back, face bleeding from cuts caused by flying shards of flint.
Lyopi caught him by the shoulders and hauled him back. “Jenla’s down there! We must save her!” he moaned, pulling at her hands.
“There’s nothing we can do!” she snapped.
The attack seemed to be getting nowhere. Bundles of brush filled the corners of the baffle, but the pile never mounted very high. The fascines tended to roll down rather than build up to any height. Even so, the raiders continued to drive their reluctant prisoners forward to dump their loads. The ground around the western baffle was thick with bundles of dry brush and senseless or dead attackers.
Their loads delivered, the slaves ran away, still hounded by their pitiless taskmasters. Jenla was carried along by a gang of fleeing prisoners, but those on the wall could see the tan square of her face turn back to them as she was borne away. Tepa remained huddled on the ground, weeping, until Hekani stood over him with a spear.
“Tepa, get up and take this,” Hekani said. “Jenla’s best hope lies in our victory, and we need you for that.” Tepa stared up at the young man for a moment then stood, wiping the tears from his stubbled cheeks. He took the offered spear and gripped it tightly.
“This isn’t much of an attack,” Hekani said as the raiders retreated. “I guess Zannian was just talking big again.”
“They’re not done,” Lyopi told him. She shaded her eyes with one hand and surveyed the enemy horde. “Something else is stirring.”
A line of horsemen approached at a slow trot, dragging travois. Pairs of captives, empty-handed now, ran along behind them. The travois were laden with what looked like large wicker baskets plastered over with river mud.
The defenders were so puzzled that they allowed the horsemen to approach unchallenged. Seeing their slack-jawed confusion, Hekani exploded into profanity.
“What are you staring at? Let them have it! Fight! Fight!”
Pain and death rained down on the raiders. Their response was to ride faster. Bouncing wildly on the travois, a few of the baskets lost their lids. Smoke rose up from the open baskets, plumes of gray playing out behind the galloping riders.
Lyopi lowered the javelin she’d raised to throw. The meaning of the smoke struck her, and she screamed, “Fire! Everyone get back from the wall! Away from the baffle, now!”
The raiders galloped to the piles of fascines and stopped. Orders were shouted, and the prisoners grabbed the trailing ends of the travois and dumped their contents on the brush heaps. Hot coals scattered everywhere. Streamers of smoke rose, followed by the first flickers of flame.
Hekani shouted for water, and children waiting in the street below hurried to comply. Before any of them could return, the dry fascines began blazing. Two bonfires, one on each side of the baffle, drove the defenders off the parapet.
As they retreated along the wall to escape the flames, Hekani said, “This is new, but I don’t see the point. They can’t burn down stone walls!”
“Zannian’s driven us away from the entrance, hasn’t he?” Lyopi barked angrily. “They must mean to isolate it for further attack.”
The travois-dragging raiders rode away. From their positions by the river, the assembled raiders cheered the success of their new tactic. The cheering quickly faded when a new sound filled the battlefield—the deep, rhythmic pounding of many large drums.
Ungrah-de rested his giant axe on one shoulder. “Let the storm drums sing,” he rumbled.
Nacris, seated in her litter next to her towering ally, couldn’t stop an involuntary flinch as ten ogres behind them began to pound on hide-covered drums. The deafening sound was loud enough to be heard all over the Valley of the Falls. It rattled Nacris’s teeth.
The ogre chieftain nodded and added, “The power of the drums will fill the humans’ hearts with fear.”
Nacris did not remind him that his allies were human as well. It seemed impolite and not a little dangerous. Ungrah-de was dressed for battle in lapis-studded leather, the skulls of his victims hanging from his chest by thongs. More than a few of these trophies were human.
Since arriving in the Valley of the Falls, he and his ogres had killed sixteen of Zannian’s men in brawls—all of them provoked by foolish humans. Ungrah made no secret of his scorn for his frail, treacherous allies, and his barbed comments and contemptuous manner had goaded the hotheads into making stupid challenges. The worst incident had occurred on the ogres’ second night in camp. Two of Ungrah’s warriors asked for provender, and lazy raiders told them to find it themselves. The ogres took them at their word, went to the prisoners’ pen, and dragged out two young men. When the raiders realized what was going on, they stopped the ogres from slaughtering the humans. Words ensued, then a sharp fracas that cost the lives of eight of Zannian’s men. Half the raider band would have deserted then and there, but Nacris cajoled and threatened them into staying. Her performance that night had not been lost on Ungrah-de.
Now, looking down at her, he said, “You are the only one here I worry about.”
“Really?” she replied, flattered.
“These others”—he waved a dismissive hand at the raider host—“are wolves, eager to swarm over the weak or the few. Not you. You care nothing about danger. Your heart is dark. You would do anything to get what you want.”
“You’re right, great chief. I shrink from nothing.”
Surrounded by the punishing sound of ogre war drums, Nacris could hardly contain her excitement Emboldened by his backward praise, she asked Ungrah if one of his ogres would carry her into battle on his back. The chief responded to this notion with a withering glare.
“Females and cripples don’t belong in battle. A warrior of mine would stamp the life out of you before carrying you.”
As Ungrah did not offer idle warnings, she let the matter drop.
Gradually another more threatening sound joined the drums: The ogres were banging their axe heads against the bosses of their shields. The ominous clank was deliberately off the beat of the drums: boom, BOOM, clank; boom, BOOM, clank. From a monstrous heartbeat the noise now sounded like the advance of massive metallic creature—a dragon, perhaps.
Nacris shifted in her seat. Sweat broke out on her face. She could not miss the final destruction of Yala-tene! She had to be there for the kill. Her Jade Men would carry her litter anywhere she ordered, but, jealous of their success in slaying the Arkuden, Zannian had left them out of the attack. They languished in the river camp, guarding the raiders’ slaves.
Ungrah watched impassively as flames licked up the steep walls of Yala-tene. When he judged the flames were at their height, he raised his shield and joined in the cacophony. His thunderously deep voice broke through the uproar as he commanded his warriors in their ancient tongue. The drumming ogres finished with a flourish and joined their comrades.
“Now we go,” he said to Nacris.
Striding through the dust and smoke drifting back from Yala-tene, the ogres appeared even bigger than they were. Even Zannian’s hardened fighters edged their horses back, leaving a wide path for their savage allies.
Unable to bear being left behind, Nacris struggled to her feet and braced herself on her crude crutch. She would see the final fight, she vowed, even if she had to crawl all the way to the battlefield.