“Have you seen Talon?” Fallion asked.
Rhianna shook her head no. “She’s been gone all night. I think she might be down on the lower wall. Where do you want to fight?”
“The closer we get, the better the view,” Fallion said. “But with an unfamiliar enemy, that might be dangerous.”
“You’ve been training with weapons all of your life,” Rhianna said. “I doubt they have any tricks they can teach you.”
“Yes,” Jaz teased. “He’s been training all of his short life.”
Fallion felt nervous. He could feel the electric thrill in the air that comes before battle. Yes, he’d trained all of his life, but not to fight against giants that outweighed him by three hundred pounds. “All right, I’d like a front-row seat, if it’s okay with you.”
“I’ve always wanted to get front-row seats to something,” Rhianna teased uneasily. “I’m just not sure if this is the best time start demanding them.”
Jaz asked, “So, how long do you think it will take before the wyrmlings bow to our superior skills?”
“Oh,” Fallion said, “they look like slow learners. I bet it will take them hours.”
“Good,” Jaz said. “We should all have quite a pile of dead at our feet before they catch on.”
“Let us hope,” Rhianna said, as they strode down the winding road to the lower levels.
Thousands of human warriors crowded atop the lower wall as the wyrmlings marched on the castle. But breaching the wall would not be easy. Luciare was no minor fortress. The lower wall rose eighty feet. Moreover, it was carved from living rock and thus had no seams, save the cracks made by frozen water over the eons. Even a kezziard could not climb it.
Fallion raced down the city streets to the outer wall, and stood upon the precipice, peering down. Clouds had wandered in overnight, sealing the skies, releasing a cool rain in some places, a slight mist that had abated only moments ago. A wayward breeze blew down the mountainside, mussing Fallion’s hair, buffeting his wings.
Out in the darkness, under the cover of trees, he could make out wyrmlings stirring in the shadows. But none dared the road, and he could not see what they were up to.
Young boys stood upon the walls, torch-bearers.
Fallion drew light from the nearest torches, sent it snaking down the hill under the woods, where it lingered among the fallen leaves beneath the trees.
Suddenly the outlines of the wyrmlings appeared.
The wyrmlings had brought enormous drums unlike anything that Fallion had ever seen-black drums, made from hollowed baobab trees. Each drum was at least forty feet long and was lugged by dozens of wyrmlings. One end of each log was covered in some dark hide, while the other end opened with a narrow hole.
The wyrmlings stayed afar off, about a quarter of a mile, and wrestled the drums, aiming the holes toward the city wall.
Upon the wall, the human defenders hunched low and braced themselves. There were cries of awe, and Fallion saw defenders counting in their own crude tongue. He estimated fifty drums in the woods, and the defenders seemed dismayed.
What are our people so afraid of? Fallion wondered.
Then huge wyrmlings with enormous clubs began to pound.
The first drum snarled and boomed, as if to hurl a curse. The drum exuded a percussive force like a physical blow that lifted Fallion from his feet, and set his very bones to aching.
“Ah!” Jaz cried. Fallion looked up to see him wiping blood from his nose.
The wall beneath them cracked. Stone shattered and rained down from the ledge.
“What makes them so powerful?” Fallion wondered aloud, for he had never seen such terrors. His very skin seemed to ache with the roll of the thunder drum.
“Spells,” Rhianna guessed. “Some type of rune of the air?”
Fallion wished that Talon were here so that he could ask her of the lore, but he had not seen her all night.
A second drum called out in a tone higher than the first, and did far less damage. The wyrmlings struggled with it, loosening the lid of the drum, and then a third called out, slightly deeper than the first.
“They’re looking for just the right pitch,” Rhianna guessed, “to break this stone.”
“Or my bones,” Jaz proclaimed.
Four or five more drums rang out experimentally, until the wyrmlings found the pitch they wanted.
Suddenly dozens of drums opened up. A wall of sound hit, blasting and thrumming, causing the mountain to shake as if it would collapse. Fallion had heard terrible thunderstorms in the summers back in Landesfallen, the thunder echoing from mountain to mountain. But this was fifty time worse. The air filled with snarls and booms, and the mountain shook mercilessly.
The wall beneath them cracked. Rubble began falling as the lip of the wall crumbled away. With each blast, the wyrmlings shifted their drums, taking aim at an unblemished portion of the wall.
Fallion had thought that the wyrmlings would take hours to breach this wall, but suddenly he realized that the lip was dropping at a rate of inches every moment. He could not have imagined the damage done with each blast. It was like striking soft stone with a mallet. The outer wall was crumbling, and with each crack, each indentation, it left an invitation for the kezziards’ claws.
In mere moments, the walls eroded as if a millennium’s worth of wind and ice had wrought upon them.
Fallion had imagined that it would be a long siege and that the humans might hold the outer wall all night. But the wall looked as if it might be breached in moments.
In dismay he realized that it had never been Luciare’s strong walls that had protected the city. Nor was it the power of its fighting men. Only a single hostage had stood between mankind and destruction.
The emperor must prize her more than we ever guessed, Fallion thought.
Fallion felt for sources of heat, wondering if he might set the woods ablaze. There were torches at his back all along the wall. But a light rain had fallen earlier, little more than a mist.
At this distance, it was enough to foil even his strongest spells.
A few men upon the walls fired huge bows or hurled the massive iron war darts that seemed to be favored here. They did little damage. The wyrmlings in the wood were shielded by leaf and limb.
Fallion drew heat from the torches into himself, savoring it. He exhaled, and smoke issued from his nostrils. He knew that if anyone looked at him, his eyes would be shining. He felt powerful, dangerous, even as the fortress walls shattered beneath him.
Then a huge shout erupted from the woods, and trees began to tremble as kezziards rumbled past them. The ground beneath the woods suddenly filled with white-the white of helms and armor whittled from bone, the white of the wyrmlings’ pale skin, and the white of their eyes shining like crystals.
Suddenly something huge lumbered up over the woods, giant graaks on heavy wings. A dozen of them came at once, wingtip to wingtip, forming a living wall. Scores of wyrmlings rode their backs.
Shouts of warning erupted as human warriors recognized the danger. The wyrmlings wouldn’t need kezziards to breach the walls. They could drop troops from the sky.
Upon the stone archway above the great gate to the city, the Wizard Sisel stood. Flowers and vines hung from the arch like a living curtain, and he stood there surrounded by greenery, as if in a forest. Down below, the wyrmlings troops rushed forward, roaring, and the giant graaks came winging well above the trees, the rush of wind from their wings rising like a storm.
The human defenders braced themselves, terror plain upon their faces, and Sisel raised his staff.
And there, from the grass along the castle wall, a million fireflies suddenly rose, arcing into the air like bright green sparks, filling the fields with light.
“Now,” King Urstone called at the wizard’s back. “By life and light, now is the time to strike!”