She hobbled after the ogres.
Crouching behind the parapets upwind of the burning brush, Lyopi and forty-odd villagers could hear a distant, regular booming. It didn’t get louder or closer, and after a while they dismissed it as another of Zannian’s ruses.
Smoke from the fires obscured much of the open ground between the village and the river. This made Hekani more uncomfortable than the fire itself. He sent runners down to the street to circle behind the baffle and warn the defenders on the other side to be wary of any raiders who might emerge from the smoky cover.
“What’s happening, Lyopi?”
Those behind the parapets looked up to see a small knot of elders coming up the ramp from the street below. Montu was there, along with Adjat the potter and the mason Shenk. With them was another person in a hooded cloak.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Lyopi told them. “It’s too dangerous.”
Adjat spoke again. “We heard drums. We came to see what’s going on.”
Hekani said, “I think they mean to storm the ba—”
“Hai! Hai! Look!” Cries echoed along the parapet. Hekani, Lyopi, and the rest strained to see what the shouting was about.
Advancing through the smoke were many large figures, far taller than any human. At first, Hekani thought they were masked raiders on horseback, but when they cleared the smoke he saw they were walking on their own two legs. His mouth fell open in shock, and he turned wide eyes on Lyopi. Her face was pale as snow. The elders crowded around trying to see.
“What is it?” asked the cloaked man. “What do you see?”
“Ogres,” Lyopi gasped, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s brought ogres to the valley.”
Ten of the jut-jawed monsters were in view, and more were emerging from the smoke. They arrayed themselves in an irregular line behind the tallest of their kind—evidently the leader. Catcalls and insults usually hurled at the raiders were absent, as those defending their homes simply stared in horrified disbelief.
“Twenty-four, twenty-five,” Hekani counted.
“We’re dead!” Adjat proclaimed. “We’re done for!”
“Shut up!” Lyopi snapped. “We did not bow down to them when they had a dragon fighting on their side. Why would we give up now?”
The villagers held a hasty council on the ramp. Every able-bodied person—young, old, male, and female—gathered in the street behind the closed western baffle. A barricade of timbers and scrounged stones would be thrown up inside the wall, closing both blocked entrances. If the ogres managed to gain the low wall atop the baffle, they would face a fresh barrier beyond.
The largest and strongest men in Yala-tene were rounded up and armed with the heaviest weapons available: stone hammers, axes, and stout, wooden clubs. The last pots of burltop oil in the village were assembled in the street north of the baffle, and Hekani called for fishermen’s nets. Puzzled but obedient, gangs of boys dragged the nets out of storage and passed them to the defenders on the walls.
The word from the lookouts was that there were thirty ogres.
“Only thirty?” Lyopi tried to make a joke.
From a hundred paces away, the ogres raised their weapons high and shouted, “Ungrah-de! Ungrah-de!”
They broke into a run, heading straight between the blazing piles of brush. A thick hail of stones and javelins fell on them, but they shrugged off the barrage and kept coming. Nearer the wall, heavier stones stunned a few ogres, but the rest came on like an avalanche.
“Get ready!” Hekani called down to the street behind the wall. The barricade was still taking shape.
“We’re not done yet!” Montu shouted. “You must hold them!”
Ungrah-de, as befitted a chief, reached the baffle first. He sprang up and used his axe to hook the top of the wall. Gripping the axe handle in both hands, he walked up the sloping stone barrier. A small boulder hit him at the base of the neck. His left hand lost its grip, but he hung on with the right. His followers leaped up beside him, one throwing a beefy arm around his chiefs waist. Thus supported, Ungrah took hold of his axe again and levered himself onto the baffle wall.
For a moment the villagers’ barrage dwindled as they beheld the terrible spectacle of armed ogres standing on their wall. Ungrah-de brandished his huge axe and urged his warriors onward. He jumped down from the baffle wall onto the heap of boulders Duranix had piled up to block the entrance. Skidding in the loose rubble, Ungrah clambered across the gap to the undefended stretch of wall bordered by fire. More ogres followed him. The fifth one to gain the top of the baffle arrived in time to receive the brunt of a renewed bombardment. Larger and larger missiles struck him. With a grunt, the ogre toppled backward, knocking down several of his comrades.
Whatever glee the villagers might have felt with this small victory was lost when Ungrah marshaled his four warriors and charged through the flames. By chance he chose to go to his left, away from Hekani, Lyopi, and the village elders.
With two sweeps of his broad stone axe, Ungrah cleaved aside the villagers in his path. Smelling victory, he bellowed for his warriors to follow.
The villagers gave ground, retreating along the wall until they came to the ramp leading down into the town.
There they stood, shoulder to shoulder, many openly trembling as the ogres advanced. They were joined by townsfolk carrying bundles of fishing net and pots of oil, hurrying up the ramp.
Ungrah waited for more ogres to join him. When his strength reached ten, he charged. The ogres came bellowing at the terrified villagers.
Up went the fishing net, held aloft on long poles. Ungrah had never seen a net before, but it didn’t look like any sort of barrier that could resist the stroke of his mighty axe.
They were almost in chopping range when the net fell forward, covering them. The ogres thrashed and hacked at the heavy cordage. While they were engaged, villagers upended two tall jugs of nut oil.
Ungrah slipped in the oil, and fell heavily on his back. A stone-headed spear buried itself in his right calf. He roared with anger and plucked the puny weapon out.
All around, his fighters were struggling with the fishing net and treacherous oil. The thick liquid lapped over the edges of the wall and ran down, leaving dark stains. Out on the plain, Zannian had advanced his horsemen to within a hundred paces of the wall. He watched the ogres’ charge, the ensuing melee, and the oil seeping over the stones.
“The walls are running with blood!” he declared. “What monsters those ogres are! They’re wallowing in the mud-toes’ blood!”
Then the liquid reached the burning fascines. Blue flames raced up the wall.
A few of the ogres had almost freed themselves from the net when it suddenly caught fire. Ungrah saw the danger and, ignoring heat and pain, chopped his way out. He stood erect, bathed in fire, and saw the humans dumping a fresh amphora of oil on the parapet.
“Back!” Ungrah roared at his troops in the ogre tongue. “Go back!” So saying, he leaped feet first to the ground. It was a long drop even for him; he hit hard, rolled, and took a few seconds to shake off an impact that would’ve killed a human. A torrent of rubbish fell on him—rocks, wood, mud bricks, and, most insulting of all, offal and dung.
Outraged, mighty Ungrah heaved himself to his feet and struck Yala-tene’s wall with his axe. A stone shard six hands long flew out, leaving a deep crevice in the block. It was a fell blow, and it also cracked the head of his axe.
Screaming from their burns, more ogres jumped off the wall, hair singed, skin blistered, and leather armor smoldering. The rest of the ogre force, still embroiled at the baffle, saw their leader’s jump from the wall and abandoned the fight.
Nacris had crossed the battlefield alone, leaning on her crutch. She saw the repulse of the ogres and felt curiously elated at their overthrow. Served them right for leaving her behind, she thought.