The pause was momentary, but suddenly Elenya could hear the desperate sounds of war from the battlements. Behind her attackers, she saw figures scurrying to put out fires. Many of the stalls had been disassembled during the morning, the awnings rolled up, but lack of fully functional workers had prevented completion of the task. Most of the arrows landed on stone or packed dirt, but several had found fuel. She saw an Azuraji civilian from her caravan beating out a burning wagon, only to be struck himself.
The garrison soldiers redoubled their attack. With each fresh opponent, Elenya wondered how long she could keep up the pace. The wound in her side – a shallow slice – bothered her now. The loss of blood would weaken her.
Another man down. She could almost count the number left. Was it five, six? If she could last, they would soon run out. The rest of the garrison was too busy now with the attack beneath the battlements or the fires to reinforce the group attacking the inn.
Something grabbed her ankles. She tumbled backward, landing hard on her rump.
One of the men she had defeated was still alive and had managed to tackle her. His grip was weak, however. She pulled free as she fell, rolling backward and regaining her feet in time to meet the charge through the door. She parried, halting the progress of the lead man.
A jab from the side clipped her elbow.
She spun, instinctively lashing out. Her sword thudded into the leather armor of a garrison soldier.
The side! He should not have been there. She retreated, blocking two enemies at once, and her heart caught in her throat.
Shigmur lay on the floor by the window, an arrow through his throat. Three men had climbed in over the sill, and the archer was standing just outside. The first man had come for her, the other two were closing on Lonal.
Falol swung his blade like an axe, hewing a gash in the head of the Zyraii at the top of the ladder. The warrior fell, knocking off the next two climbers. Falol allowed one of his men to take his place, so that he could reconnoiter the battle.
At three places down the battlements, Zyraii had achieved the top and had established footholds. For the moment, these parties were being held at bay, thanks to the armor worn by the garrison, but the ladders continued to appear, and there were not enough men left to fend them off.
Down in the fortress, two buildings were burning. The firefighters had all given up in order to defend the walls.
They were losing. Slain desert men were piled in layers at the foot of the walls, but the demons would not be stopped. Falol lifted his horn and sounded the retreat. They would fall back to the southern keep.
The soldiers in the rear ranks responded with obvious eagerness, hurrying in an orderly fashion toward the bridge. But Falol and others in the front rank remained. They would hold the walls and the gate until their comrades were safe.
Falol hefted his sword once more and discovered that his arm moved more slowly than it should have. He was stiff all over.
The Zyraii sorcery was at last affecting him. Surely he would be mown down the next time he tried to engage in battle. Falol felt his gorge rise at the prospect.
He refused to be helpless. While he retained control over his body, he would at least determine how he was to die. He wouldn't give a barbarian the satisfaction of slaying him.
A ladder slammed into place at a nearby embrasure. Falol stepped forward, waited for the Zyraii to scale most of the way, and plunged downward to his death, taking the lead climber with him.
Elenya shouted, but it was unnecessary. Even as Shigmur had silently died and Elenya had been driven from her position of strength, Lonal had finished off his last foe. He turned in plenty of time to meet the new attack coming through the window.
His attackers stopped short. Realizing they had failed to surprise their victim from the rear, they sidestepped. The archer at the window recognized his cue and fired at the war-leader.
Lonal had noted how Shigmur had died and was ready. He leaped out of the arrow's path. Before the bowstring had stopped vibrating, the archer received a demonblade in his chest.
Elenya and Lonal hurriedly joined each other, trying for the cellar door. They were blocked off by the rush of men. Instead, they backed into a corner, and were instantly surrounded.
There were eight of the garrison left. They, fresh and well-armored, regarded Elenya and Lonal for a moment. The latter were both wounded. Sweat poured down their faces. Their breath came in wheezes and rasps.
"Who's first?" Lonal grinned.
They heard a fortress horn blaring. A shadow of doubt filled the soldiers' eyes.
Lonal and Elenya seized the initiative. They worked in unison, one attacking while the other covered. The eight, daunted, yielded a pace, then another. One man went down. Lonal and Elenya remained in their corner.
"Get the bow!" one of the soldiers cried.
The rearmost man scurried to the window and plucked the bow out of the dead archer's grip. Lonal and Elenya pressed again, but decisive moves eluded all parties. The skirmish was aborted. The crowd parted. The man with the bow took aim and released.
Lonal caught the arrow in his fist.
The garrison soldiers stared at the war-leader, who broke the arrow in two. Suddenly they made up their minds. The horn of retreat, the shouts and the clatter of running boots outside, and the smoke streaming in from the common room all had their effect. First the man with the bow threw the weapon down and bolted. The others were only a few steps behind him. They made for the bridge and the southern keep.
Elenya, when she had caught her breath, said, "That's a good trick. Will you teach it to me?"
"I just learned it myself," Lonal answered.
For a few moments, all they could do was stand in place and feel exhausted. Then, slowly, they found their demonblades and picked them up. Elenya also took Shigmur's and returned it to its sheath. As she kneeled over the body, she thought how content the war-second looked. He had died the warrior's way, as he would have wished.
"He will play the Bu again," Lonal stated passionately.
She nodded sadly. "There's a fight out there," she said. "We'd better go."
They emerged from the small service alley beside the inn into a cloud of smoke. It took them a moment to see that the men swarming on the top of the battlements wore white robes. The last of the garrison were vanishing over the bridge. The gate of the southern keep was closing, threatening to abandon a pair of mercenaries who, slowed by poison, were not able to run fast enough.
The only remaining active resistance to the invasion was by the gatehouse. The guards had held the great portal of the main fortress until their companions were safe. Now completely surrounded by Zyraii warriors, hope cut off, they fought all the more desperately.
Elenya and Lonal rushed to the fray. They were almost too late to be of any use, but Lonal killed a soldier just in time to prevent him from stabbing a Zyraii in the back. When the rescued Po-no-pha turned to them, they saw it was R'lar.
"Well met, nephew," the war-second said.
"My pleasure."
R'lar hugged his sister's son, then noticing that only Elenya accompanied him, said, "Shigmur?"
Lonal bowed his head.
Their grief was cut short by the sound of the iron gates rising. Zyraii riders flowed into the courtyard. The bloodshed was momentarily over. The Zyraii had taken the northern fortress. The only battles still being fought were against the fires.
The victors, when they realized Lonal was among them, raised a shout and gathered around him. Quasham, war-leader of the Olot, though he had lost an eye in the attack, shrugged off the man who was bandaging him and, handing Lonal his demonblade, kneeled down before him.
"I will follow you, opsha!" he declared.
Lonal reverently spotted the weapon with blood from one of his superficial wounds and handed it back to Quasham. He postponed other congratulations, turning instead toward the southern keep, which reared its formidable mass on the other side of the bridge.