“Stop looking for the master!” Markal said in a commanding voice. “There’s still magic in the bridge, and we’ll spend it all. And then we will mount an orderly retreat.”
This steadied their nerves, and they obeyed when he ordered Chantmer and Nathaliey to keep throwing back enemies while he and Narud pulled stones from the balustrade. The acolytes and lesser apprentices would kill any men who broke through. Narud lifted the first stone from the bridge, lifted it over the army, and blasted it apart. Fragments of stone cut the men down.
Toth sent a shadow charge against the bridge, and by the time they fought it off, still more Veyrians were reaching the bridge. They fell back, dying. Narud lifted another stone and blasted it apart. The explosion made Nathaliey’s ears ring.
Toth and his two companions had been advancing with his army, and were now only fifty paces from the bridge. Narud tried to blast him with one of the stones, but Toth waved it away, and it exploded harmlessly over the creek. A coiling mass of shadow appeared around the dark wizard’s hands.
Nathaliey had fought the shadow attacks on multiple occasions while facing the dark acolytes, and she was prepared when the shadows coalesced into ropes and slithered out from his hands. She drew the last of her power and threw a light spell to stop it. The shadows were too thick, too strong. Her feeble defense burst apart without slowing the attack.
The sky darkened, and the sun seemed to dim in the sky. The shadow, now thicker than a man’s waist, struck the bridge. The keeper standing at the front of the bridge opened her mouth in a silent scream and dissolved into something that looked like a swarm of black flies.
The shadow poured into the bridge, and it vibrated beneath their feet. Nathaliey grabbed for the balustrade as the bridge exploded beneath her and threw her into the sky. Her ears ached and everything dimmed. She found herself flailing in the air, so high above the ground that she could see a griffin rider’s startled expression as he whipped past her on his mount, trying to avoid the debris hurled skyward.
Even as she flew into the air, Nathaliey could see everything laid out below her: the shattered bridge tumbling into the brook; enemies, surging through the water upstream and down; the dark wizard, approaching triumphantly.
Somehow, she was still alive, unbroken in the explosion, eighty feet in the air, among her companions, among the shattered stones of the bridge. She reached the maximum height, seemed to hold an instant, and then fell. Her mind worked frantically to find a spell to save her life. Nothing came.
And then her fall slowed seemingly of its own accord. She was only thirty feet or so off the ground when she hit a thin shimmering film, like the edge of a soap bubble. It gave beneath her weight, resisting, but not stopping her, before it bounced her back up in the air. She fell into it a second time, and this time the giant bubble-like membrane threw her backwards, and she landed painfully, but alive, on the stream bank closest to the gardens.
Her companions fell around her, and as she rose to her feet, she was flabbergasted to see of the eight who’d been alive when the bridge exploded, all had survived.
“What?” she said, stunned. “How . . .? Narud, was that you?”
“It was the bridge,” Markal said. “One last spell.”
The bridge was in ruins, its protective power shattered. Rows of enemies slogged through the brook, with thousands more soldiers pressing them from behind. There was no defensive magic left to confuse their crossing, nothing to slow them as they gained the other side.
It was only upon reaching the far bank that they hit renewed resistance. Men looked around, confused. Some threw down their spears and waded back into the water. But the magic was greatly weakened between the stream and the garden walls, and with so many Veyrian troops pushing forward under the dark wizard’s command, those who tried to retreat were swept forward in the sheer crush of advancing troops.
Nevertheless, getting across the river had cost the enemy forward momentum, and the force of King Toth’s sorcery on their willpower had weakened significantly. The Veyrians gasped and sweated as they emerged and dragged themselves away from the water. Their captains shouted and snarled to form them into ranks again. It bought the order precious moments to regroup and escape.
The companions fell back roughly a hundred feet and gathered around Markal, where Nathaliey joined the others in looking to him for direction. Even Chantmer. Markal glanced toward the garden walls, then at the advancing troops. The gardens looked enticing, like safety, and Nathaliey desperately wanted him to order them to flee for their lives, but at the same time, guessed what he would decide before he said it.
“One more spell,” Markal said. “I need some way to hold them while the rest of us gather magic. Who can do that?”
“I’ll flood the river,” Narud said.
“Perfect.”
“What’s the last spell?” Nathaliey asked.
“Someone give me an idea—we need something good, and it can’t be fire or hammers. They’ll be weaker the second time around. And who still has power?”
One of the acolytes gave a warning cry. The enemy force parted, and King Toth and his two marauder companions rode into the stream. Dark glamour radiated from him, and nearby soldiers shouted with renewed fury and aggression. Toth spotted the survivors from the bridge, lifted his hands, and gathered a ball of shadow from the sky even before he’d reached the bank.
“Narud!” Nathaliey shouted. “The water!”
Narud cast his spell. The brook surged, and men flailed to keep their balance. The horses were taller, more easily able to withstand the suddenly rushing current, but not with so many men flailing about them. Soon, Toth and his companions were fighting as much against their own soldiers as against the water.
If there had been more water to draw, Narud might have swept them all downstream, but he hadn’t materialized it, after all; it had come from below the riverbed, from the water saturated in the ground next to the brook. This water supply was soon exhausted, and the stream drained into a familiar trickle. The water had pushed Toth and his companions about a hundred feet downstream, and the trio forced their way through the soldiers to reach the bank. Shadows coiled around the dark wizard’s hands.
One of the Order broke and ran for the gardens. It was Kreth. An acolyte joined him. Nathaliey wanted to curse them, but it wasn’t cowardice. All her companions looked terrified, even Markal, Chantmer, and Narud, who gaped with open mouths.
It was the aura radiating from King Toth, the same thing that had hit them on the bridge, and she was the only one who didn’t seem to feel it. Markal was wrong; there would be no final, destructive spell. The aura prevented it. They would either flee to the gardens or stand here and die.
“Go!” she cried. “Run!”
This jolted Markal and Narud from their stupor. A shove at Chantmer got him moving, too. They slapped the others, and soon, they were all running but Nathaliey. The dark wizard didn’t have his main attack ready, but sent out a coil of shadow to ensnare the sluggish ones.
Nathaliey searched, and was surprised to discover that she had blood, had power. Hadn’t she expended it all? The proximity to the gardens must be strengthening her.
I am a wizard of the Crimson Path.
She threw up a ball of light, caught the coil of shadow, and broke it apart with a ringing clash of sparks. It gave her companions time to escape, but the reprieve wouldn’t last long. Toth gathered more sorcery. This time, she had nothing left, and could only turn and run for her life.
The three riders came after her—Toth and two marauders—followed by foot soldiers at a run. The garden wall was just ahead of them, and an alert member of the order had opened it from within. Her companions were slipping through already. She was going to make it.
Something washed over her, and she stumbled. Her limbs felt like jelly. The ground turned to wet sand, clinging to her feet and hindering her progress. A marauder loomed behind her, sword out of its sheath.
Just when she thought she�
��d be cut down, several riders charged out of the gardens through the open gate. They carried straight barbarian swords and glossy black shields. Sir Marissa of the Blackshields led them.
And behind them, on foot, was a familiar figure with his amber-colored beard and piercing eyes. Memnet the Great. He held the orb in his hand, and it glowed like a giant burning opal of fire. Light and shadow warred above Nathaliey’s head. The paladins rumbled past her on either side, and weapons clashed.
Her companions had reached the open gate and safety, with only Markal lingering. He shouted for Nathaliey to run, tried to cast something to strengthen her, but her limbs were still heavy and feeble, and she fell again. A spear zipped past her from behind, just missing her head, and impaled itself in the dirt. She got to her knees, then to her feet.
Arms outstretched to take her in: Markal, Narud. She had almost reached them, when someone grabbed at her from behind, and she felt, rather than saw, the sword coming for her.
The attacker fell with a cry before he could strike her. Marissa loomed above, swinging from the saddle at enemies who seemed to be all around. Flashes of light, rumbles of shadow striking the ground and garden walls. Then Markal and Narud hauled Nathaliey through, and her strength returned. She turned to see Memnet falling back, the paladins retreating into the gardens.
By the time the gates closed, the enemy was already striking it with sorcery and force of arms. The final siege of the gardens had begun.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Once Markal brought Nathaliey through and closed the gates, he blocked the sound of sorcery and force of arms battering the iron-bound doors. Dragon wasps, no longer shielded from sight, raced back and forth overhead, but the gardens repelled every attempt to descend. The wasps had, however, succeeded in driving off the griffins, who had fled the battlefield and were nowhere to be seen. Yuli’s forces had suffered great losses. Markal had personally seen ten or more griffins knocked from the sky, and another dozen flee with wounds.
The gate boomed from a tremendous blow, and the metal bindings groaned as it sagged inward. The people on the inside flinched. Marissa’s horse reared with a terrified neigh.
“It will hold,” Memnet said. “For now. Nathaliey, fetch keepers from the Golden Pavilion. I need wards to keep the wasps in the sky where they belong. Chantmer, secure the south gate—you’re in command there. Narud, to the north. There will soon be an attack from that direction, too.”
It was a relief to watch the master take command. His knowledge and power were unmatched, but also his force of will. The others had deferred to Markal during the struggle at the bridge, and midway through the battle he’d realized that he’d somehow assumed command. The leadership felt natural. He’d felt in control, thought they were winning, even after revealing the entirety of the enemy army.
And then the dark wizard demolished the bridge. Even more demoralizing, when he was trying to gather a final attack, he’d failed to find a suitable spell in time, and the enemy nearly caught them in the open.
“The bridge is gone, Master,” he said.
“I know.” Memnet sounded tired. “I saw it from the walls.”
“You were watching? Why didn’t you help?”
“I did help. We got you inside, didn’t we?”
The gate shook from another blow. There seemed to be action along the exterior walls as well, marauders trying to come over. Acolytes and lesser apprentices atop the walls threw them back. Markal turned back to Memnet, and noted for the first time the master’s drooping expression and bloodshot eyes.
“Are you spent?” Markal asked.
“Very nearly. I opened a path to the west—left the enemy defenses in tatters—and an army from the free kingdoms is marching to reinforce us. There’s still scattered opposition, but the barbarians fight with energy.”
Something else seemed to be troubling him, and Markal pressed. “What is it, Master?”
“I faced an old friend. Stephan—now a dark acolyte. He wasn’t afraid to challenge me. We fought, he proved capable. I may or may not have killed him—I’m not sure. I’m not sure I want to know.”
“I see the Blackshields have arrived already.”
“Some of them, not all. Wolfram remained behind, together with several thousand troops marching under an Eriscoban baron. If we hold on until they arrive, we might just have a chance.” Memnet put out a hand to steady himself on Markal’s shoulder.
“But you’re not injured, are you?”
“Not injured, Markal, no. But I need time to rest, to refill the orb. That leaves you in command.”
“You can’t stay and give orders?” Markal asked.
“The best thing for me—for the whole defense—is for me to meditate in the Golden Pavilion while others bring me food and drink. I’ll feed power into the orb, and I’ll be ready when the enemy batters his way in.”
When. Not if.
“I see.”
“Good.”
Another booming attack on the gate punctuated their conversation. Nathaliey had been sitting in front of the gate, sending messages toward the keepers at the pavilion, and now scaled a ladder to the wall to take charge of the defense. She stripped power from an acolyte and sent out a fireball, and a collective howl of pain rose from the enemy army beyond.
“The common Veyrian soldiers serve multiple purposes,” Memnet told Markal. “They force us to defend several points of attack, they absorb our magic so we can’t use it to fight Toth, his acolytes, and marauders. And the enemy draws their pain for his sorcery. He is never exhausted, he simply waits for more suffering and renews his strength as it comes.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re fighting on our terrain, not his,” Markal said. “Where we’ve spent decades laying down our defenses.”
“Yes. The defenses are very strong.” A distant look came into Memnet’s eyes. “Markal, about that discussion with Chantmer when we left the road. I want to explain something to you so you’ll understand if the time comes.”
“Chantmer told me some of it when he activated magic at the fairy fort.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“There’s a defensive structure that extends beyond the walls. It’s filled with destructive power.”
“It’s a last resort.”
“Why not call it up now, obliterate the enemy before he’s inside the gardens?”
Memnet studied him. “It seems you don’t understand. Not fully. You remember the walled garden?”
“I know. It’s a wasteland. Nothing will grow. We carried away the poisoned soil.”
“And?”
“And if we call up the defenses Chantmer activated, the hill will turn into a wasteland. Or am I missing something?”
“And when carting off the dead soil didn’t work? We bricked in the walled garden so it wouldn’t spread. It can spread, Markal. Far and wide.” Memnet studied Markal’s face, and nodded when he seemed satisfied of what he read there. “Which is why it’s a last resort. But be prepared. If I call for it, if I request your help, it means all is lost. That there is no other way.”
#
Memnet retreated to the Golden Pavilion to regain his strength, and Markal joined Nathaliey atop the garden walls. It was already late afternoon, and the shadows grew long.
There was no sign of King Toth in the surging armies, and Markal wondered if he was circling the walls looking for weaker points to attack. Or perhaps he was rushing to combat the Eriscoban army and prevent it from joining the garden defenders.
Four keepers worked at the gates and around the interior wall below, while three lesser apprentices and a handful of acolytes paced the wall above, casting down marauder attempts to climb over. There were half a dozen of the gray-cloaked enemies working their way up at the moment, but it was a different sort of attempt now that Toth had no wights to damage the walls and give the marauders purchase. Even without Markal’s and Nathaliey’s assistance, the others seemed to have matters under control.
More c
oncerning were the conventional attacks on the wall, simply for the sheer mass of manpower throwing itself into the fight. Much of the attack resembled a regular siege, with men hauling forward platforms covered with wet hides to shield them as they dug at the ground. Others assembled trebuchets at a safe distance, while carts brought up stones for hurling.
The magical defenses of the garden walls extended invisibly into the air—as witnessed by the dragon wasps’ inability to descend—and deep into the bedrock below, as well. Had the attempt been merely conventional in nature, Markal could have dismissed it without worry, but a pall hung over the enemy encampment. It wasn’t Toth’s sorcery he felt, thankfully, but somewhere out there a dark acolyte worked to support the enemy efforts.
Two or three dozen dragon wasps had been circling above the meadow on the far side of the bridge, and now broke suddenly and charged over the heads of the ground troops. They dipped low, barely above the height of the wall, and long, scaly arms reached down with grasping, lizard-like claws. Riders reared back and let fly spears as they approached.
The defenders on the wall ducked out of pure instinct, but there was no need. The spears slammed into an invisible wall, and the dragon wasps veered upward as if thrown by an invisible force. The failed attack turned into a confusion of twisting, writhing beasts, and riders hung on for dear life. One man lost his grip and fell, flailing, to the ground. The riderless wasp flew south, while the rest returned to circling over the meadow.
“The protection overhead won’t last forever,” Markal said. “It’s weakening, little by little, and if they ever knock down the gate or blast a hole in the wall, that will open a passage in the sky, as well.”
“I’m worried about Yuli and the rest,” Nathaliey said. “Where did they go?”
He’d been giving this some thought. “They took a beating out there. They aren’t so numerous that they can suffer those kinds of losses for long.”
She looked discouraged. “Are you saying they retreated to the mountains?”
The Emerald Crown (The Red Sword Trilogy Book 3) Page 24
