Beyond that, two new guard towers rose north and south above the city gate.
“The mortar is far from dry in those towers,” Binnesman muttered under his breath. “The reavers could knock them down with a thought.” He frowned with concern and began muttering a spell, sparing no thought for Borenson, High Marshal Chondler, or any other man.
Chondler asked the wizard, “How did you come here? Why did you leave the Earth King’s side?”
Binnesman peered down at the High Marshal. “Foolishness. I came here by my own foolishness,” the wizard said at last. “I was wounded in the Underworld, and Gaborn buried me for my own protection. For long I lay beneath the Earth, healing, and pondered. As I did, the reaver horde thundered over my head. By the time I woke, Gaborn was far gone, beyond my power to reach him.
“I suspected then that the Earth suffered me to get wounded for a purpose. I led Gaborn into the Underworld because I felt that he needed me. But you are all under my protection, and I knew that I was needed here, also.
“So when I had healed enough, I took care of some urgent matters to the east, then came as fast as I could.”
“I thank you,” Marshal Chondler said. “A wizard of your stature will be welcome indeed.”
Binnesman peered at the castle walls. Worry etched his brow, and he shook his head. “I fear that there is little that I can do. But I will try.”
He dismounted and looked as if he would march into the castle. But he stopped and peered hard at Myrrima, then put a hand on her shoulder.
“Your time is at hand, woman. The enemies of the Earth are gathering, and perhaps only you can resist them. Help us.” He squeezed her shoulder, as if to comfort her, and then strode away.
Myrrima stood for a moment, then went to the moat. She reached down and dipped an arrow into the water, sat there for a long moment drawing runes upon the water’s surface, dipping each arrow from her quiver in turn.
Borenson watched her for a long moment. He did not understand the significance of the runes that she sketched, but he dared not disturb a wizardess at her work.
He headed toward the castle, just behind High Marshal Chondler, Sarka Kaul, and the Wizard Binnesman. As Borenson walked the length of the causeway a garlicky scent wafted up, a scent so powerful it nearly brought tears to his eyes.
“What’s this?” Binnesman asked, peering down.
“Onions and garlic, boiled with reaver philia,” High Marshal Chondler said. “I’m hoping that this reek bothers them more than it does us.”
A dangerous smile worked on the wizard’s lips. “Yes, this may be more help than all of your walls and all of your arrows.”
Just before the curtain wall of the castle stood one last low wall, a bulwark of substantial proportions. Here, once again, the reavers’ own weapons would work against them. The wall bristled with bent reaver blades, so that they looked like a crown of wicked thorns set atop the stone. Logs and oil-soaked rags were worked into the mix.
Three sally ports just wide enough to let a horse pass through were placed beneath the bulwark.
Chondler led the party into the town square, where similar bulwarks ringed the square. Streets led west, north, and south beneath the bulwarks. Sally ports let men pass under. Binnesman studied the bulwarks with a critical eye, as if what he saw worried him. He suddenly raised his staff overhead and began sketching runes of strength upon the wall.
The men on the castle walls cheered to have a wizard of Binnesman’s stature blessing their fortifications.
Marshal Chondler halted. Binnesman turned and uttered a spell over the garlic-strewn causeway. As he worked, Marshal Chondler bent in his saddle, and said, “That will be your station, Sir Borenson.” He nodded toward the sally port beneath the ramparts on the left. “You’ll be fighting in a team. In our last battle, the reavers took the walls in minutes. The only thing that gave them pause was men of sound heart, banded together. When confronted by such a force, the reavers grew confused. They didn’t know which adversary might strike next, or which might pose the greatest danger.
“When the reavers charge, you’ll set the bulwark here afire. It should give you ample light to see by and provide extra protection from the reavers.”
“The dead reavers will pile up quickly,” Borenson said, “leaving us no room to fight.”
“I’ve taken that into account,” Chondler agreed. “We expect that you will need to retreat, if only to give you room to fight. As you fall back, you’ll defend Garlands Street. There are three more bulwarks like this up the lane. We have archers stationed atop the roofs and in the windows of every market. You must hold the reavers as the commoners fall back.”
Garlands Street ran the length of the whole island, a distance of some two miles. Ramshackle merchant shops lined the street for the first half mile, shops that stood three or four stories tall. The buildings leaned so close together that the pitched roofs from every shop nearly joined. After that, dilapidated warehouses and smaller hovels squatted along the street’s margins.
“As a last resort,” Chondler said, “we have boats in the marina, enough to carry out a few hundred people. You’ll hold the reavers there, if you can.”
“Fair enough,” Borenson said. He’d never been down to the old underground marina, and didn’t even know the way, but he wasn’t worried. He could simply follow the fleeing warriors. Besides, he doubted that he’d live long enough to make it to the boats.
“Good luck,” Chondler said. He eyed the south tower just above Borenson’s head, not a dozen yards away. Myrrima had just come from washing her arrows. “Lady Myrrima,” he continued. “Take your steel bow up to the third story, and relieve the archer there. I suspect that you will want to guard your husband’s back.”
“Thank you,” Myrrima said.
Binnesman finished his spell, and Sarka Kaul peered up at the wizard and Chondler. “Now,” the Days said, “let us take counsel together and see if we can figure out how to save this city.”
As Chondler, Sarka Kaul, and Binnesman hurried up toward the duke’s old Keep on the hill, Borenson watched the wizard.
Despite the fact that an innumerable horde of reavers marched on the city, Borenson felt a flicker of hope.
Myrrima stood with him for a long moment, her hand wrapped about her bow. She bit her lower lip nervously and tapped her foot for a moment, but said nothing. Borenson realized that she felt shy about making public displays of affection, though she made up for it in private. Atop the walls, commoners began to sing a war song.
Myrrima leaned forward, wrapped one arm around his shoulders, and just held him for a long moment. She didn’t say anything, and finally Borenson whispered, “I love you. I think I was destined to love you.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Myrrima said. “After this battle, you can show me how much you love me, instead of jawing about it.”
Borenson said nothing. He was standing inside the castle where his father had died, and the ground trembled from the tread of advancing reavers.
“This is a good place to fight,” Myrrima said. “Water is all around us. Can you feel its power?”
“No,” Borenson answered. “I can hear the small waves lapping on the rocks, and I can smell the lake in the air. But I don’t feel anything.”
“It whispers comfort to me,” Myrrima said. “Don’t resist the reavers too much. Don’t stand against them like a wall. They’ll break you if you do. You have to yield like waves of water. Rush forward to meet their fury, and rise when you must. Flow back when you have to. Learn to dance away like perch before the pike, and then leap in again for the strike.” She had a peculiar light in her eye.
“I’ll do the best I can,” Borenson said, somewhat bemused by her advice.