Then he began slipping the fuses into the canisters, but had only reached the fourth canister when Ayrlyn straightened up.
“Let’s wind up the catapult,” she said.
A series of faint creaks followed her order as Borsa began to turn the wheel.
“Ser, ser.”
Ayrlyn nodded in the darkness, but Nylan saw the gesture well enough, and eased the first fused canister tube into the catapult cradle. He took the striker. “You ready?”
“Yes, ser.”
Whhsst-click. Whhsst-click. The fuse caught on the second attempt, and Nylan checked to make sure the flame was solid.
Ayrlyn adjusted the frame angle, then tripped the catch.
Thunk! The catapult’s release sounded like thunder to Nylan in the stillness of the night, and the handful of scattered sparks that followed the canister seemed like warning flares.
The blackness that welled from Ayrlyn told the engineer that she was guiding, adjusting…something.
“It hit,” she said flatly, even though Nylan could see nothing beyond the walls above and to the south of them.
“It’s set,” reminded Borsa.
Nylan belatedly slipped another fused canister into the cradle and squeezed the striker. Once was enough to light the fuse.
Snick! Ayrlyn released the catch, and another fire grenade arced into the darkness above the walls.
The engineer had the next canister ready when Vula-he and Borsa were taking turns-rewound the catapult. Ayrlyn readjusted the frame, and he squeezed the striker.
Thunk!
Borsa rewound the wheel even before the throwing arm stopped vibrating, and Nylan slipped another grenade into the cradle, trying to speed up the process, trying to ignore the headache that was so far just a twinge-but one that, were they successful, would be painful.
Thunk!
Another three grenades flew into the darkness before flickers of light-tongues of flames-darted above the walls, followed by calls of “Fire! Fire!”
Thunk!
With the growing light from the mining camp came the horn calls, haunting, demanding.
Thunk!
The four kept launching fire grenades into the dark sky, and still the walls remained black, except for the northeast watchtower.
Thunk!
Nylan sniffed. Smoke had begun to flow downhill from the Cyadoran walls. In spite of the growing pressure in his skull, he readied another canister and fuse. Beside him, Ayrlyn stumbled, and, after he placed the canister in the cradle, he slipped his arm around her. “Easy.”
“So…hard,” she murmured. “Already…some dying.”
“I know.” He put another grenade in the cradle and lit the fuse.
Thunk!
Along with the smoke came the white mist of death, and the small sharp knives that dug at their skulls. Then came a cooler wind from behind them, not quite enough to balance the heat that had begun to radiate from the mining camp-heat from their makeshift jellied demon fluids.
More intermittent trumpet blasts echoed into the night, as did the screams of horses, and the ever-louder crackling of burning timbers.
The smith dropped another canister into the catapult cradle, forcing back the bile in his throat, as he knew Ayrlyn did nearly simultaneously, bile created by the chaos of death and the rising odor of charred meat.
Ayrlyn’s fingers trembled, but she flipped the catch on the catapult.
Thunk!
Vula bent over, double, while Borsa rewound the catapult.
“Best we leave,” hissed Tonsar, touching Nylan’s shoulder. “Someone’s yelling to form up in there.”
The smith nodded and dumped another canister and fuse in place, then squeezed the striker again.
Thunk!
How many grenades left? Surely, there couldn’t be that many? Nylan half-sensed, half-groped along the lines he had laid out until he came up with another.
“Ser, we should mount up,” Tonsar insisted.
Additional watch lanterns flared up, but not along the wall, and the four kept aiming, loading, and firing the clay fire-grenades over the wall a hundred cubits away.
Thunk!
Yellow-blue flames and greasy black smoke twisted into the night sky.
Thunk!
Thunk!
Nylan looked stupidly down. There weren’t any more grenades.
“Need to get packed up.” He wiped his forehead, damp from fear, tension, and the wall of flames they had created.
“That is what I have been saying, ser angel,” said Tonsar. “I hear mounts and angry lancers.”
Half-blind, using perceptions more than a night vision that strobed and burned, he tried to fold and fumble the empty quilted canister carrier back into a roll on the pack mare.
“I can do that, ser,” offered Vula.
“Thanks.” Was his unsteadiness so obvious even in the darkness? He tottered toward his own mare, stumbling.
No…so much death…so much heat and fire…
He struggled to turn toward Ayrlyn.
“Oooo…” With that soft sound, the redhead’s knees buckled, and she crumpled to the ground.
Nylan, and Tonsar, lifted her onto Nylan’s mare. The engineer hoped they didn’t have to ride too far, but he led the redhead’s mount toward the hills.
Behind him, Vula and Borsa hurriedly threw the catapult sections into their packs and scrambled after the squad.
“Let’s go!” ordered Nylan, his voice raspy and unsteady.
“We go,” echoed Tonsar.
As they trotted through the swale and the light of the burning camp vanished behind the hill, Nylan concentrated solely on holding on to Ayrlyn and staying in the saddle.
Anything more would have been too much.
CIII
The light breeze from the north carried the faint odors of charcoal, smoke, dust, and burned meat to the two officers at the head of the column headed southward through the Grass Hills.
The two glanced back over the short line of riders straggling southward. The once-white uniforms were smudged with charcoal, some with blood. Nearly twoscore walking wounded limped before the three wagons that brought up the rear.
“His Mightiness will not be pleased,” said Azarphi. A long fresh burn covered his left cheek, and his eyebrows had been burned to stubble. Like the others, he wore a uniform that appeared gray, spotted liberally with dark splotches of charcoal, dirt, and dark red-maroon streaks.
“No,” answered the majer, his voice flat, as he glanced at the dusty road that led to Syadtar. “No doubt, I will face the Archers of the Rational Stars.” He shrugged, and started to blot his forehead, then stopped as the back of his hand touched the burn at his temple. “There is no point in remaining. We do not receive supplies, and the locals have removed almost everything we could forage for. They will not stand and fight. We cannot tell how or when the barbarians will strike. The men cannot sleep for fear of being burned where they lie. Their new fireballs are far worse than the last. They burn through earthen walls and seek out the roof timbers, and the flame clings to everything.”
“It is not the barbarians.”
“It does not matter. We have no corrals left, and no wood to build more. If we stay, what is to prevent them from killing more mounts? Then we would have no way at all to leave. The Grass Hills are too dry, and Syadtar is too far, for lancers on foot, and we have but a handful of wagons left.” Piataphi glanced back toward the trails of smoke that twisted into the morning sky.