A soldier farther down the wall was signaling frantically to him. Fynn could see that behind the soldier a tall, thin man with a fringe of gray hair in later middle age was standing, clad in robes of the basilica, his arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen in fear. He hurried along the wall, stepping carefully around the archery posts that were going to be the equivalent of tossing a single bucket of water on a brushfire once the army arrived. When he reached the soldier, he recognized the older man as Gregory, the sexton of Lianta’ar, one of the Patriarch’s closest advisors.
“What’s—what’s going on?” the cleric demanded. “There must be a mistake.”
“That’s entirely possible, Your Grace,” the young captain said, “but they appear to be coming with an intent that makes action necessary.” He gave the signal to the gate tenders, and the enormous wooden doors were pushed shut with much noise and great effort, then sealed against the coming army.
Fynn turned to the sexton again.
“What does the Patriarch instruct us to do?” he asked nervously. “Does he have orders for us? We have never had to repel an attack before, Your Grace. We need guidance.”
The sexton’s face went slack.
“Er, no, His Grace, the Patriarch, has not issued any specific orders,” he said haltingly. “I believe he trusts in you, and in the men, to keep the holy city safe.”
“Your Grace—”
“That’s all, Captain. I have to get to the aviary—it may be necessary to send a winged messenger to the Alliance requesting help.” The captain of the guard smiled in relief. “That would be a boon, Your Grace.”
The sexton nodded. “Carry on.” He made his way down the wall and into the sea of refugees. Fynn returned to his spyglass.
The army of Sorbold was growing nearer, following their gigantic standard bearer. The rumbling now was audible, caught between the mountains to the south and the hill on which the city was situated, it echoed ever more threateningly as the columns approached. Fynn and the rest of the city’s guard settled in to wait.
All through the morning and into the afternoon the army approached, never stopping, just relentlessly marching onward to the steady tempo of the war toms. Finally, as the sun was set high in the welkin of the sky, burning red with the brilliance of a spring afternoon, they came within unaided sight.
Fynn had been counting all day. By his reckoning there were five divisions, each consisting of ten thousand soldiers and supply troops. The giant at their lead did not seem to speak or give orders; the army merely followed him across the open steppes. Strangely, the heavy ballistae, catapults, and other siege weapons were relegated to the rear of the ranks. Fynn thought that odd; from what he remembered of his training, generally those weapons were kept in the mid ranks of an advancing army, to make their setup quick while protecting them from the initial wave of repulsion.
In addition, there were dozens of enormous carts with flat sides, on which wide, low tents had been erected. Fynn could not see what was inside those tents, but the sight of them made his intestines threaten to turn to water. “Any word from the Patriarch?” he asked the soldiers milling the streets below the wall. The men shook their heads nervously. Fynn sighed. “All right, then, we wait. We can do little else. Make certain the population is in shelter as much as possible.” His words rang hollow.
Suddenly the great war toms ceased.
All around the holy city the noise of the approach slowed, the creaking of wagon wheels, the groaning of wood, the tramping of boots and the squeaking of armor, the muted clopping of heavy horse, the rattle of weapons still sheathed, all fell to a quieter level. A single officer on horseback with two aides-de-camp broke off from the ranks to the right of the giant and headed for the gate. One of the aides-de-camp had a hooded falcon on his arm. They stopped outside of bow range. The officer rode slightly forward while the aide loosed the leather jesses that bound the falcon’s feet.
“I am Fhremus, commander of the imperial army of Sorbold,” he announced, his voice carrying on the wind with expertise born of a long command. “Harm the bird, and it will be considered an attack upon the whole of the army.” He nodded to the aide, and the man let slip the falcon. “Where’s the sexton?” Fynn demanded from atop the wall. The soldiers, massing beyond the gates, parted, and the cleric was brought forth. The bird took wing and rose to a pitch that would crest the wall. It warbled gracefully, then went into a rapid stoop, dropping an oilcloth scroll over the wall, and banked, returning effortlessly to its handler.
The message was rapidly retrieved and handed to Gregory. The sexton broke the seal with trembling hands and read the message, which was graphed in the common tongue of the continent, as well as the sacred script of the Patrician faith. Constantin, the Patriarch of Sepulvarta, is a heretic who has committed an atrocity against the Creator, the people of Sorbold, and the Empire of the Sun. Open the gate, send him out, and we will spare the city.
Gregory stared at the oilcloth, then tossed it to the ground angrily. “Sacrilege!” he fumed. “Sacrilege and blasphemy.” He turned to Fynn. “This is an untenable demand that cannot even be repeated, let alone considered—hold the gate, Captain, keep the wall as long as you can.” He glanced up at the Spire, the shining star atop it gleaming in the fading light. “May the All-God defend us.”
He made his way back to the manse, knowing, unlike anyone else in me city, that at least one of the reasons that the demand would not be met was that the Patriarch was already gone. How long shall we wait, Commander?” Minus, one of Fhremus’s aides-de-camp, asked as the falcon returned to Trevnor, the other. “We will give them an hour,” Fhremus said. “That seems sporting.” He glanced over his shoulder at the titan. Faron, as the emperor had called him, stood silent and unmoving, his arms at his sides, looking for all the world the statue mat he once was. Perhaps he remembers this place, where the Patriarch imbued him with unnatural and unholy life, Fhremus thought, disgusted at the thought. He had no idea what feeling the statue was capable of, if any, but it would not have surprised him if it were ready to exact vengeance of its own.
When the hour passed, with nothing but the constant ringing of the alarm bells of the basilica as a reply, Fhremus turned to Minus.
“Time’s up,” he said. “Prepare the iacxsis.”
He turned west and watched the sun as it continued its downward path toward night, burning hotly over the wide Krevensfield Plain.
30
The hastily assembled support force had stopped at each garrison and town along the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare. From western Navarne through southern Bethany, Anborn and Constantin had presented Ashe’s articles of command at each of the way stations of the guarded mail caravan and each outpost of Alliance reserve, and come away with whatever meager offerings in men and supplies there were to be had.
In spite of the region being sparsely populated, and contrary to the Lord Marshal’s dark assessment of the preparations Ashe had made for war, he and the Patriarch discovered ready caches of willing soldiers, highly trained and able to depart within minutes. They had been routinely escorting travelers and merchant wares across the continent for more than four years, and knew every side route and alternate pathway from Bethe Corbair and Canrif all the way to the seaport of Port Fallon in Avonderre. Additionally, they had made standard use of the system of avian messengers that Llauron had begun and Rhapsody had established, and so by the time they came to the next successive encampment, they were pleased to discover all available men-at-arms saddled and awaiting them. The soldiers fell in easily, and took over the tasks of maintaining what few heavy weapons the Lord Marshal had brought, as well as the wagon on which the walking machine was being transported. By the time they had reached the last of the outposts they had assembled a small but eager force of slightly less than ten thousand men, mostly career soldiers but occasionally joined by farmers and merchants who had trained alongside them. Anborn was astonished to discover in some of the later garrisons that volunteers had streamed into the surrounding farms and villages just for the honor of getting to ride with the renowned Lord Marshal of the Cymrian War who was coming to the rescue of the holy city.