The western wall looked out over what would once have been empty farmland, but was now covered in goblins. They were the most unruly bunch, always yelling and hollering, making obscene gestures and fighting amongst each other. They were more a source of entertainment than a source for concern.
The southern wall shift was the trickiest. It overlooked the main city of Reneul which was full of buildings for the enemy to hide in. The east half of the city, which included the huge academy arena and the majority of the homes had been taken over by orcs. They seemed the most organized part of the army, always marching around in units and busily taking buildings apart to build siege engines. In the short time since the siege had begun, they already had several catapults, battering rams and trebuchets.
Western Reneul had been overtaken by trolls and other monsters. Strangely, they seemed to mill about peacefully, only screeching and attacking when the orcs threw them food. At night, while the other parts of the army were aglow with torches and camp fires, western Reneul would be scattered with the glow of yellow and green moonrat eyes. The unsettling sound of their chittering moans made night on the southwestern wall the most dreaded shift on the wall.
Willum groaned as he approached the duty desk at the base of the wall. Roobin was in charge of check-in again. Roobin wasn’t a bad guy; he was good-natured most of the time and not bad with a sword, but he had recently graduated and loved giving Willum a hard time about it.
“Willum, son of Coal, reporting for duty.”
“Oh, the mighty son of Coal, eh?” Roobin chuckled, though it was only a few short weeks ago that he had been known as Roobin, son of Roobin the Knuckle.
“Just sign me in, okay?”
“You are kind of late, aren’t you? Whoo, students should not be tardy.” Roobin dipped his quill and looked down at the log-in sheet. His smirk faded. “Lucky you. Go on to station twenty eight. I guess I don’t have to report you.”
“You were gonna report me?” Willum said in disbelief.
“Of course, except that it says here that Tad called you away. So you have an excuse.”
“Oh, so it’s just ‘Tad’ now, is it?” Willum said, getting in a jab of his own. “Just because you have graduated, you two are on a first name basis? Should I be calling you, ‘Roobin, the Well Connected’ now?”
Roobin’s eyes narrowed. “Shut up, Willum. Just go on up. You’re relieving Swen, son of Rolf, the Fletcher.”
“Yes sir!” Willum said with a salute, and grabbed a bow and quiver from the rack next to the stairs. Some students carried around their own bows, but that wasn’t Willum’s forte. He was okay with a bow, but his specialty was his scythe and throwing daggers.
He headed up the stairs pleased with the irritation on Roobin’s face, but as he reached the top of the wall, his pleasure faded. A mix of his fellow students and academy graduates lined the walls looking down at the massive army that sprawled below. The dull roar of the enemy was much louder up here. It was rough and rhythmic.
Willum was careful not to touch anyone as he walked to his station. The top of the wall was wide enough for three men to walk side by side and there was an abdomen high barrier on either side, but no matter how many shifts he took, it always made him nervous if someone brushed against him while he was at the edge.
Swen was at post twenty eight, bending over the edge and staring down unconcerned at the height. Swen was a tall man, maybe six foot four and the wall’s edge only came up to his waist. Though he was only a few years older than Willum, his face was angular and weathered, with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from squinting in the sun. He was also the best archery student the academy had seen in decades. Swen made all his own arrows and the other students had started calling him Swen the Feather. Willum thought the name was going to stick.
“Swen I’m here,” he said. “Sorry, but Tad the Cunning called me away for a while.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” The tall man barely gave him a glance as he spoke. His eyes were focused on the army below. “I’ve been up here for eight straight hours, what’s another one or two?”
“What’s the problem?” Willum looked down, trying to see what was bothering the man. The base of the wall was clear of enemies for a good two hundred yards on this side of the school as the army tried to keep out of shooting distance. But there was one group of goblinoids that were gathered in a bit closer than the others. They were the chanters. There were groups of them all around the wall. A mixed group of orcs, gorcs, and goblins sat cross-legged on the ground, slightly swaying back and forth, chanting loudly. They had been at it for days. Every once in a while one of them would pass out and be dragged away, but they were always replaced.
“I don’t like the sound of that grunting down there,” Swen said, his voice a low monotone.
“Yeah, it gives me the shivers.”
“What do you think they are doing?” Swen asked.
Willum had asked Coal the same question the night before. He had relayed his memory of the chant and had Coal pass it on to Bettie. Her answer had been unsettling.
“They’re chanting a prayer to the Dark Prophet,” Willum said. “They ask him to bring the wall down.”
“Oh.” Swen’s face paled. The big man lifted his massive bow and pulled a long arrow from his quiver. Swen’s bow was nearly as tall as Willum and as thick as his forearm. Swen had named it Windy. It had been reinforced with runes to keep it from weathering or cracking and most of the other students couldn’t even string it, much less shoot with it. Even Mad Jon, the archery teacher, had difficulty with firing it.
“Be careful,” Willum said. “You know the rules. We aren’t supposed to waste any arrows. Only fire if they come in range.”
Swen looked at him in surprise. “Have you ever known me to miss?” He focused on the group chanting below. “I figure the one with the black feathers on his armor is the leader.”
Willum peered down and located the orc Swen spoke of. It wore some kind of headdress bristling with something like feathers and walked among the rows of chanting orcs waving its arms about as if to encourage them to chant louder. “He does look the most energetic.”
Swen pulled the arrow back to his ear, the muscles on his arms taught with the strain.
“It’ll just . . . make it.” Swen grunted. Willum heard the wood creak as he gave it an extra pull. Swen sucked in, then slowly released his breath as he fired.
Willum saw the arrow arc out, but lost track of it for most of the distance until he saw the black-feathered orc squirm and squeal. The arrow had it struck it in the belly. The chanting stopped and the goblinoids pointed urgently at the top of the wall. Swen waved. Several of them grabbed their dying leader and they retreated back another fifty yards.
“Great shot!” Willum said.
“Hit it in the belly,” Swen said with a slight frown. “I was aiming for its neck.”
“Can you hit another one?” Willum asked. They were startled now. If another went down, they might not be able to chant so freely.
Swen shook his head. “Just out of range.”
“Well I’m here now. You can go rest if you want,” Willum said. “Unless you want to move further along the wall and see if you can disperse some more chanters.”
The tall man smiled. “Good idea.” He pulled another arrow from his quiver and walked down the wall looking for more targets.
Willum took his place and looked down at the mass of beasts below. A cool breeze blew and the smell that wafted up was horrible. The air on this side of the academy used to smell of tilled earth and pine trees. Now it stank of beasts and filth and cook fires mixed with an underlying rot.
Willum shuddered. It was hard to believe that this was all the work of his uncle.
The Bowl of Souls: Book 01.5 - Hilt's Pride Page 14
