Nirati covered herself with a gown of seaweed. “Welcome to Anturasixan, Prince Pyrust.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
30th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Moriande, Nalenyr
I dropped to a knee before one of the shrines to Cyron and tossed a beggar a silver coin. From within his dirty robes, he produced a small wedge of incense and lit it. The self-appointed priest of Cyron began mumbling a prayer, making up in fervency what it lacked in coherence.
The shell-shaped shrine was like nine thousand others scattered throughout Moriande. It had the requisite picture that looked a lot like the Prince and a couple of toy soldiers standing vigil. My priest had a small finger bone purported to be from Cyron’s lost arm. This hardly made the shrine unique-if only a ninth of the enshrined bones had actually come from Cyron, the man’s left hand would have once sprouted at least eighty-one fingers.
I’d seen no harm in offering a prayer for Cyron’s well-being. The Prince’s directives gave people a purpose. That purpose gave them hope. My hope was that the prayers would help us to keep Nelesquin out of the city.
Kneeling there, I felt their approach before I heard it. Vibrations rose through the ground. The finger bone danced, which the beggar-priest took as a sign of divine favor. We stood at the same time-he to pray more loudly and me to race up the wall.
Metal hooves and the thunder they made had me wishing my priest would pray just that much harder.
Giant metal beast-men, reminiscent of the gyanrigot but much bigger and more ornate, charged from Nelesquin’s camp. The lead rank of nine ram-headed men bore double-bitted broadaxes. Ranks of elephantine warriors flanked them, trunks trumpeting, and steel spikes capping ivory tusks. Tigers and wolves, bears, bulls, and lions raced north. Some were gold, others bronze, and some looked like wood and bone.
I’d never seen anything like them. I’d never even imagined war machines so large. My mouth went dry. Pirates, Viruk, Turasynd, and even the vanyesh. I’d killed them all. But here, these things…
“What will we do, Master?”
Dunos’ question brought me back to reality. “We fight, boy. Get down there. Clear the courtyard.”
“But the fighting will be up here.”
“Not for long. Go.”
I ignored his grumbles and plucked the fan from my sash. I snapped it open and gave the signal.
Our trumpets blared louder than the elephants. Hammers struck. Catapults and trebuchets lofted missiles that grazed the low-hanging clouds. Smaller stones just rattled off the metal creatures, but a large stone hit a bull in full charge, crushing its skull, dropping the metal beast. A following bull leaped over his comrade’s shell and kept coming.
A ram sprinted for the city’s gates. I expected it to lower its head and slam into them, but it stopped short. Shrugging off a hail of arrows, the ram hammered the gate with its ax. The heavy blow spun me around and dropped me to a knee. Wooden splinters shot through the courtyard. Men reeled away, stuck through with lethal fragments, and a big hunk of wood knocked Dunos down.
A tower crew levered a small ballista around and wedged it up. They had no real chance to aim, but the machines were thick at the gate, so they simply shot. Their iron-tipped spear pierced a ram, entering at the left shoulder, lancing down. The ram froze, tottered, then collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs.
More chopped at the gates. Others pounded the walls. Mortar cracked, stones shifted, and men fell. Below, in the courtyard, men loaded their ballistae and trained them on the gates. More splinters flew, then a hinge screamed.
I sped down the stairs. Stone cracked and iron bolts snapped. A piece of metal shot past my head and ricocheted off another man’s battle mask. He went down hard.
A heartbeat later, half the gate went down harder.
Time slowed. The crossbeam securing that half of the gate splintered, ripping the brackets from the other half. The door landed heavily, pulping an archer. His red-fletched arrows clicked and bounced over the cobblestones. The other door, tortured by incessant pounding, surrendered to the rams.
Nelesquin’s monsters framed themselves in the gateway. Ballistae loosed their bolts. Coiled cords groaned and torsion bars clacked. The missiles reached their targets in an eyeblink. One spear skewered the lead ram’s thigh and another took it through the gut. That ram went down, its forehooves covering its stomach before it sagged to the side. The third bolt stuck another ram through the hip.
It limped back, but two more entered.
And there I stood, alone, swords drawn, the faint scent of incense filling my head.
Ciras Dejote stood on the walls aghast as the war machines charged. The elephants drove directly at his position. He immediately recognized them. Gyanrigot!
All my skill, all my discipline, is nothing against one of these.
Beyond them, coming hard in their wake, kwajiin and human warriors screamed out challenges.
Penxir Aerant drew an arrow and let fly. It glanced off the lead elephant’s broad head, leaving a bright scar in the dull iron.
Ciras grabbed the archer’s sleeve. “You can’t do anything against them.”
The taller man pulled his arm free. “Not at that range, but they will get closer.”
He drew again and shot, this time driving a shaft through the same elephant’s breastbone. The mechanical beast stumbled and went down. The tusks carved deep furrows through the earth. Another elephant stumbled over the first. It hit hard, gouging up dirt, and rose slowly, giving the archer an easy third shot.
But Penxir never took it. Two kwajiin arrows crossed in his throat. Hot blood splashed over Ciras’ battle mask, blinding him. He reeled back, swiping at his eyes. Another arrow pierced his left hand and clanked off his battle mask. Pain shot up his arm, then something hit the wall hard.
Ciras went flying.
He hit one of the mole-catchers’ frames, partially breaking his fall. Twisting in the air, he landed on his back and smacked his head. His helmet bounced away. His battle mask hung askew. He tore it off.
High in the sky, one of the winged monsters sailed over the wall. Of more immediate concern, however, was the sally port gate. The first blow from an elephant’s club had dented both halves and cracked the bar holding them shut. A second blasted both from their hinges. The metal doors whirled into the courtyard. One cut a man in half. The other exploded water barrels intended for firefighting.
Ciras tried to get up, but slipped in the new-made mud. Someone further back screamed, “Stay down!” Durrani warriors swelled through the sally port, their war cries fearsome, only to be answered by the staccato clacking of spring engines.
The oldest of siege machines and the least sophisticated, the spring engines consisted of a stout post sunk into the earth. A man’s height remained aboveground, and the top had a V-notch a handspan across. A plank had been bound to the post at the bottom with thick cable, then bent back and secured. A sheaf of arrows had been stuffed in the notch. When the trigger cord was cut, the plank sprang up and struck the arrows hard on the end.
A cloud of arrows passed above Ciras. The first kwajiin fell back as the arrows passed through them. Those behind had arrows sticking in armor or flesh. Some paused to snap the arrows off. Others kept coming.
The spring engine’s design did little for range or accuracy, but it sped reloading. Ciras rolled clear as the wood clacked again and again. Kwajiin warriors groaned and cursed, but too few died.
Ciras gained his feet and drew his vanyesh blade in the same motion. Remaining low, he scythed through a blue-skinned warrior’s legs. Another kwajiin, this one with an arrow through the meaty part of his shoulder, slashed wildly. The swordsman parried the attack wide, then snapped his left elbow into the warrior’s face. Bones cracked. The enemy staggered back, blood pouring through his fingers. Ciras’ lunge took him through the throat.