“They are going to wait us out,” Gregory, the sexton of Lianta’ar, said, his voice brittle. He had presided over the quartering of the itinerant faithful, pilgrims, and tourists within the walls of the beautiful basilica, and already was showing the strain of having so many people in the people’s cathedral. “Thankfully food and water is plentiful, and the Lord Cymrian will surely not sit by and allow the army of Sorbold to command the deliverance of the head of the Patrician faith. So we are at an impasse. We will never concede to their demands. Sooner or later we will either be rescued or they will give up in boredom and go away.”
“I hope you are right, Your Grace,” said Fynn uneasily. He was watching the throngs of people milling about in the city streets, far too many to be forced indoors in spite of the orders he had issued, clogging the narrow roadways around the shops and shrines. When a second hour had passed, the falconer of the holy See appeared.
“I am ready to send that message to Haguefort if you still wish to do so, Your Grace,” he said to the sexton. “I see no other choice,” Gregory replied. “Very well, let slip the raptor.” The falconer bowed respectfully and loosed the jesses. The bird flapped its wings twice while on his arm, then took wing and rose into the air, catching a warm updraft and heading north. It ascended to a pitch that was as high as the buildings that lined the street leading to the spire. A shadow streaked overhead, sailing above the gate and over the city streets. Larger than a horse, it shot through the air on the trail of the falcon, then, with a sickening crack, caught the bird in jaws that snapped audibly and swallowed it in flight, sending a shower of bloody feathers spiraling down on the soldiers below. A collective gasp rose from the streets. A moment later the sky darkened with similar shadows. From all sides of the city great beasts appeared in the air above the houses and shops, sailing on wide, batlike wings. They were serpentine in their movements, with long barbed tails that thrashed as they flew; their legs and jaws, however, were insectoid, sharply jointed, like the plague locusts that had been one of their progenitors.
Atop each of them was a rider with a burning bundle of wheygrass stalks soaked in pitch or oil. Within seconds the thatched roofs of several buildings had ignited in flame. Black smoke poured from them, followed by the shouts of witnesses on the cobbled street and screams of terror from those trapped within the buildings.
“What—what in the name of the All-God is happening?” Gregory demanded shakily, interposing himself in front of Fynn.
“With all due respect, Your Grace, get out of my bloody way” the captain of the guard shouted back, shoving the priest to the side and hurrying to the wall. “Fire at the beasts!” he screamed at the archers, who were staring over their heads in shock. Another round of burning bundles descended from above. More roofs caught flame, the glistening white stone buildings that Sepulvarta was famous for glowed pink in the firelight as roofs and carts ignited in the streets below, raining burning ash into the streets and onto the terrified crowds.
“To the basilica!” Fynn shouted to the soldiers in the streets, but his voice was drowned in the noise of panic. He pointed above for the benefit of the stunned archers again. “Fire at the damned beasts!”
One of the archers finally was able to shake off his shock and take aim as the flying lizard soared over his head and landed on a nearby roof. He drew back and let fly, a clean, hefty shot that caught the beast square in the side, just below the wing. The arrow bounced off harmlessly with a resounding thud, the same noise it would make against a cobblestone or brick. “We are surely done for, Fynn thought. “All right, then,” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “Shoot the rider.” The archer, shaking, complied, another clean shot that made its mark in the split of the man’s cuirass. The rider straightened up sharply, then fell heavily from his monstrous mount into the street below. The captain of the guard and the archer both gasped in delight. “That’s it!” Fynn exclaimed. “That’s how we take them—aim for the riders.”
The beast seemed to stare at them for a moment. Then it stood and launched off the roof with a great leap on its insectoid legs, diving down to the street below, its serpentine head snapping viciously. The pilgrims, cowering in doorways of burning buildings, screamed as if in one voice as it caught a fleeing woman in its razor jaws, snapped her spine with a single bite, then took off in a great leap into the sky again, its prize in its mouth. Madness descended upon the City of Reason.
Fhremus observed the initial assault from the air with satisfaction. He surveyed the smoke pouring into the sky from the center of the city, black and oily with the rancid odor of pitch and burning thatch. A plethora of birds had taken wing, roosting swallows, pigeons and doves that made their nests in the eaves of buildings that were now alight. From within the city, great cries of anguish and horror could be heard issuing forth over the wall. He turned from his seat on horseback and looked up at the titan, who had been standing stock still since they had arrived at the city gate.
“Are you ready, Faron?” he asked, not certain if it was even awake or aware. The milky blue irises in the stone orbs appeared. The giant statue nodded perfunctorily. Fhremus swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Very well, then. Open the gate.”
The gigantic statue flexed its arms and legs, then began to walk forward alone. The commander turned to his aides-de-camp. “At my signal,” he said. They saluted and rode back to the column heads.
The entire army watched as their standard bearer neared the great gate of Sepulvarta, a gate that had not been broached in the thousand years since it was hung. F ire! Fire, damn it!” Fynn screamed to the archers.
The men, reeling from the aerial attack, from the smoke and the burning ash raining down on them from the buildings around them, turned their concentration on the titan and let fly. About half the arrows found their marks. About half of those shattered; the rest bounced off the enormous statue with the same resounding thud they had heard from missile contact with the flying beast.
“Dear All-God,” Fynn whispered. “This must be a nightmare.”
His words were echoed by the deafening sound of stone contacting wood. The archers reloaded, shaking, and let fly again, with the The same result—every arrow that impacted the stone man shattered or was repelled without apparent harm. “Save your arrows,” Fynn cautioned, looking out over the wall at the force surrounding the city. “They’re preparing to storm the gate—hold your fire for those it might actually affect. Stand as long as the arrows hold out, then topple the braziers onto anyone entering the gates. Make that count—it will probably be your only chance. Godspeed, gentlemen—it’s been good to serve with you.”
“You as well, sir,” came a weak chorus of trembling voices.
The wall nearest the gate shuddered as another blow battered the wood, sending splinters flying into the air. Fynn steeled his nerve and looked down over the wall. The stone giant was slamming his fist into the holy gate of Sepulvarta, punching deep holes into the wood, then ripping apart the ancient timbers of trees that had been made of Living Stone with his hands. The gate screamed as if alive as he tore it asunder. In the distance a clarion call sounded from within the Sorbold columns. The archers raised their bows, training them on the front line. With a hissing streak, one of the flying beasts soared over the wall and snatched an archer in its jaws, toppling a few more into the streets below.