The horses, Turic and Hunnuli alike, stretched out their necks, pinned back their ears, and sprang forward into a gallop straight toward the gates of Cangora. Horns blared on the city walls. The tribesmen and Clannad answered back with horns of their own that sang a challenge that reverberated throughout the city. The Turics lifted their voices in a wild, high-pitched ululation that sent chills down Helmar’s back. The polished gates, already closed and barred, gleamed like a beacon in the sun.
The Clannad warriors, those most talented, drew together behind Sayyed and Helmar. Others spread themselves along the charging line. As the horses thundered closer to the city wall, the magic-wielders drew on the omnipresent magic and shaped it to their will. At Helmar’s command, they fired as one at the massive Copper Gates and at selected places along the wall.
The wards Sayyed had predicted were in the gateway, and they were even more powerful than the sorcerer had feared, yet they had never been meant to withstand the sustained power of so much magic. The wards groaned and sparked and held for several precious minutes until at last, in a thunderous explosion, they gave way, and the attackers’ magic blew out huge sections of the towers on either side of the gate. The copper doors themselves sagged and slowly toppled to the ground in a resounding boom. Other sorcerers breached the wall in two more places, opening new entrances into the city.
The Kirmaz men roared with triumph and charged to the breaches. The Clannad followed more slowly. They had expended much strength fighting the gryphon and destroying the wards, and they were starting to tire.
Stunned by the blasts, Zukhara’s forces hesitated a few vital minutes, allowing the attackers to gain a foothold just inside the wall. The Fel Azureth, already accustomed to Zukhara’s sorcery, recovered first and rallied their forces into action. Men from every quarter of the city rushed to beat back the invaders at the wall. All too soon the Kirmaz-Ja’s charge bogged down under the overwhelming numbers of rebel troops that surrounded them. The warriors were forced to dismount and fight hand to hand in a vicious, bloody struggle to maintain their positions. Archers fired down on them from sections of the wall and buildings nearby. Swordsmen charged their defenses. A small mangonel was brought down the main avenue and used to batter the Kirmaz-Ja’s force with chunks of rock and deadly spiked balls.
Only the sorcerers of the Clannad kept the tribesmen from being decimated. They were spread out among the three attacking groups along the wall, and they desperately worked to deflect missiles, provide cover fire, and protect the loyalists as best they could with defensive shields of energy. But the magic-wielders were tiring from the unending struggle. A few had already had to stop and rely on their swords for protection; several had already been killed.
In the Kirmaz-Ja’s troop, Sayyed felt his energy flagging. He had not imagined the Gryphon’s forces would be so relentless. They pushed forward, regardless of the cost, and slowly but steadily wore down the loyal Turics. Try as they might, the Kirmaz could not move forward or backward. They were trapped in a steadily shrinking circle that could end only in death.
The war song of the horns soared up the mountain’s bay, carrying farther and longer and louder than any other sound from the battle at the city wall. The citizens heard it in the streets and in their houses. Some answered the call and marched down to join in the fighting on one side or the other; some listened to it and barred their shops and homes.
One boy, dressed as a beggar, lifted his head for the blink of an eye, the mindless grin on his face slipping to reveal a shining flash of excitement. Clutching his bowl, he ambled up the road, closer to the palace.
The music soared on ever higher and lapped against the high walls of the palace where the Gryphon’s guards heard it and readied themselves—just in case.
Zukhara paused once in his preparations and recognized the horn music for what it was. The puny loyalist force had somehow evaded his gryphon and come knocking at his door. Let them knock, he sneered. His army and his gryphon would soon annihilate them. He had more important things to do this day of days.
In her room high in one of the palace wings, Kelene flung open her window and leaned out on the sill. “Listen, Mother!”
Gabria joined her on the window seat. Her smile lit even her dark-ringed eyes. “They’re coming,” she murmured.
Kelene stared down toward the gates, hoping to catch a glimpse of something or someone, but all she saw were the sandstone buildings marching down the slope to the distant wall, where smoke drifted above a few rooftops. A winged shape floating over the lower city caused her to catch her breath, and her fingers gripped the sill. “The gryphon. He’s set the gryphon on them,” she cried, torn between her fear for the attackers and for the gryphon. She hadn’t seen the wild creature since Zukhara locked her and Gabria in their room, and Amara only knew what he had done to the beast since then.
“She will be unharmed,” Zukhara’s voice said from the doorway. “I would not endanger a thing so precious without some protection.”
Kelene spun around, ready to heap four days’ worth of frustration and anger on his head, when she saw him and nearly choked on her words. The counselor stood in the doorway in front of a retinue of priests, officers, and supporters. He wore ceremonial robes of royal blue velvet tipped with white fur and decorated with hand-sewn pearls and silver threads. A silver mantle draped his broad shoulders, and a simple crown ringed his jet-black hair. Tall, slim, and elegant, he looked to all who beheld him the quintessential monarch. Only the icy glitter of his impersonal eyes gave any hint of the cruelty beneath.
“Are you ready, ladies?” he said without preamble. He held out his hand to Kelene.
Kelene forced back her temper and did not demur. She was dressed now in a red gown trimmed in gold, ready for whatever would come. The sorceresses looked at one another in silent understanding, and Kelene gave her mother an almost infinitesimal nod. She ignored Zukhara’s hand and took Gabria’s arm instead to help her mother out the door. They walked down several flights of stairs and to the south end of the palace, where the throne room sat in sunlit splendor.
The room was part of the oldest wing of the palace, built nearly three hundred years before Zukhara’s time. Its architect had used white stone to build the walls and designed the floor into a mosaic of tiny tiles of lapis lazuli, agate, and marble. Delicately carved buttresses held up a vaulted roof tinted black and ornamented with paintings in blue, white, and silver to represent the firmament—from whence came the name, the Celestial Throne. Between the buttresses were long, narrow windows that had been thrown open to the morning sunlight and wind. Light poured in brilliant bars into the room, reflecting off the gleaming floors and shining on the great sun throne of the Shar-Ja.
Hunkered over a broad dais, the heavy wooden seat was covered entirely in beaten gold that reverent hands had polished to a brilliant sheen. In the wall behind it was a huge, round stained-glass window that depicted a golden sun. Blue hangings were draped above the throne, and two men, dressed in the blue of the Shar-Ja’s personal guard, stood beside it. It wasn’t until Kelene had passed through the shafts of sunlight and stood at the foot of the throne that she realized the two guards were dead and merely propped there before they accompanied their slain ruler to his grave.
She closed her eyes. She didn’t know if the clan gods would be present among a people who did not believe in them, but she prayed fervently that Amara could hear her plea. “Help me find the right moment,” she silently begged the mother goddess.