Through sheer will Antonil rose to his feet, and he banged his sword against his shield in a vain attempt to counter the wailing.
“On your feet,” he screamed to his men, and he pushed through the ranks, striking his shield again and again. “On your feet, you cowards. Going to piss yourselves over a little screaming? It’s just a damn trick, now on your feet!”
Slowly his men returned to their senses. Antonil’s heart felt as if it were racing a hundred miles a minute, but the fear was receding, the screams no longer carrying the same edge. Up and down the wall he continued, calling to his men, commanding them to stand. It felt hopeless, as for every man he convinced to stand, two more remained whimpering, but he had to try. Lightning cracked above, and glancing up, he saw that the fire of the skulls had dimmed. As the orc army continued its approach, the skulls winked out one by one, falling lifeless to the ground, where they shattered on the stone streets and walls.
It was as if a vise had been removed from his throat. Those who had cowered now stood, embarrassed, angry. Antonil slapped men on their backs, still shouting, barely aware of what he said and knowing his men would not truly hear, either. The tone was what mattered, the force of his words, the power of his conviction. They would live. They would fight. They would win.
“They better hope they have more than cheap tricks if they want to get inside these walls,” Sergan said as Antonil returned to the wall above the western gate. Antonil looked to the field and road outside the gate, where the army was massing. With the dark and the rain, he couldn’t begin to count. His best estimate put them at several thousand. Solid numbers, but unless they had ladders and rams, the walls would still hold.
A hand tapped his shoulder, and Antonil realized Sergan was trying to get his attention while also pointing to the sky.
“Looks like our friend is back,” Sergan said.
Sonowin looped above the city, the white of the horse’s body and wings a startling contrast to the dark storm.
“You’re in charge,” Antonil said as the horse looped lower and lower toward the nearby city district. “I’ll be back shortly, I promise.”
“Don’t take too long,” Sergan called after him as Antonil descended the stairs. “I’d hate for you to miss all the fun!”
From his lower perspective, Antonil did the best he could to watch where the flying horse landed. He counted the homes as he passed them, trying to remember where he’d last seen the white beast fly. Finally at one of the alleys on his left he turned in, hoping he’d guessed correctly. Being away from his men at such a crucial time upset him to no end, but the elf would not come flying in amid the rain and the chaos without good reason.
Come bringing good news, Antonil pleaded in his mind as he stopped halfway through the alley, which was disappointingly empty. Letting out a sigh, he started to move, then heard a whistle from above. Looking up, Antonil chuckled, then lifted his sword in a salute. From the rooftop leaped Dieredon, landing lightly on his feet.
“Greetings, Dieredon,” Antonil said as he pulled off his helmet.
“Greetings to you as well, Guard Captain,” Dieredon said as he took a step back and then kneeled in respect. His long hair was wet and sticking to his face, and he looked about as haggard as Antonil felt. “Though I fear greetings are all I may offer you.”
It took little imagination to understand what the elf could mean. Antonil pointed toward the west wall as the distant army of orcs let out a great communal roar.
“We can’t defeat them on our own,” Antonil shouted to be heard over the din. “Where is our aid?”
Dieredon shook his head, and the softest hint of sadness pulled at his features.
“The Ekreissar will not aid you,” he said. “We have been forbidden. Ceredon insists this is a minor skirmish, and nothing more. We are not the keepers of man.”
“Minor skirmish?” Antonil asked. “What about the necromancer traveling with them? You’re the one who said he was dangerous, that he might bring down our walls all on his own.”
Another communal roar washed over the city, louder, closer.
“I know.” Dieredon said. “Forgive me, Antonil. I will watch, and I will pray. Whoever started this war will not go unpunished.”
The elf whistled, and Antonil glanced up to see Sonowin landing atop the nearby roof, wings fluttering to flick off the building rain. Dieredon bowed one last time and then leaped, kicked off the side of the building, then twisted to catch the side so he might pull himself up. Antonil watched him mount the horse, feet rooted to the ground until at last the elf took off into the dark night, quickly vanishing amid the storm. Once Dieredon was gone, he felt free to let out how he truly felt.
“Damn it all!” Antonil shouted, slamming his mailed fist into a wall. They were alone now. The mockery of the skulls showed they faced no normal army, yet their walls of wood and stone would have to hold. Still shaking his head, he stormed back to the gate, muttering curses. Upon arriving, he saw that the ground forces were still terribly thin.
“Where the bloody Abyss are Lady Gemcroft’s mercenaries?” he cried to no one in particular. With so many on the wall, only two dozen stood before the solid wood-and-metal gates, the most Antonil could spare. He’d expected several hundred to join him. It seemed Alyssa had different ideas. Did she plan on keeping them with her at her home? What did it matter if the whole city burned so long as her mansion endured? Antonil was used to such thinking from the highborn, but he’d hoped for better from her. Apparently he’d been wrong.
“What, are we not good enough for you?” a familiar voice shouted over the din.
Antonil turned to see Tarlak pushing his way through the soldiers so he could hurry down the stairs of the wall, his yellow robes looking ridiculous contrasted with the black and blue of the night. For some reason it made Antonil smile, and eased his anger and stress.
“Forgive me,” Antonil said. “I didn’t think a wizard for hire would be the most reliable of defenders.”
“Are you kidding, we’re the most reliable of all,” Tarlak said, closing the distance and offering Antonil his hand. “Though we need to work on the ‘for hire’ part. So far as I know, we’re not getting paid…”
“Later,” Antonil said. “Are you alone?”
“Del and Brug are up there,” Tarlak said, jerking a thumb toward the top of the wall. “Both should prove more useful than you might expect. Well, Delysia will be, anyway. What is it you want me to do?”
Antonil stared dumbly for a moment, then shrugged.
“I’ve never commanded a wizard before,” he said. “I don’t even know what all you can do.”
“Think more in concepts, then. Defense? Offense? Walls, gates, fire, ice, what?”
Antonil gestured to the wall, and the chorus of war chants and drums on the other side.
“Orcs bad, humans good, do what you think is best. Is that basic enough?”
Tarlak snapped his fingers, and a bit of fire sparked from them.
“Kill as many as I can,” he said, grinning. “Got it.”
Despite himself, Antonil smiled.
“I think we all have those same orders,” he said.
“If you two are done sucking each other off, there’s a battle to fight up here,” Sergan shouted.
Antonil secured his shield on his back, then hurried up the stone steps to the wall, the wizard following just behind. Upon reaching the top, Antonil overlooked the thousands of orcs, who were preparing a charge. They looked so similar to men, just more muscular and broad-shouldered. The shade of their skin was most noticeable, a pale likeness of flesh, as if all color and life had been drained from their bodies. Some wore crude armor, but they were few, with the majority wearing war paint, skulls, and straps of leather. Each orc looked capable of handling two men at once in battle, and given how they outnumbered them so terribly …
Tarlak nudged him with his elbow, pulling him from such thoughts.
“Behind the army,” Tarlak said, lowering his vo
ice as if afraid of being overheard. “What is that?”
A thin line formed the very rear of the orc forces. It was difficult to tell, but they did not appear to be orcs. As to what they could be, Antonil had no guess. In the center of the line, though, was a man or woman clothed in solid black, not even their face visible due to a heavy hood.
“That’d be the necromancer leading them,” Antonil whispered back.
The wizard let out a grunt.
“Interesting,” he muttered. “I might not kill as many orcs as I’d like if whoever that is out there decides to come play as well.”
Antonil clapped him on the shoulder.
“You’re like any other soldier now,” he said. “Do your duty, and we’ll be fine.”
“If you say so, but don’t hold any delusions about being my commanding officer…”
He stopped, unable to be heard due to the great cry the orcs let loose while simultaneously smacking their weapons together and stomping their feet. Thousands, Antonil saw, so many thousands, and with another cry they surged toward the city.
“The gates better hold,” Antonil muttered so that only Tarlak could hear.
“Don’t see any reason why they won’t,” the wizard replied. “What are the orcs going to do, beat it down with their bare hands?”
“Seems like it. Here they come. Arrows, loose!”
The rows of archers on the walls released arrow after arrow as the army of orcs came barreling forward. A great cry accompanied the charge, deep, throaty roars easily drowning out any shouts of pain from those brought low by the shafts. Antonil watched the arrows fly, taking grim satisfaction in watching the wounded drop, quickly trampled by the orcs who came stampeding after. Volley after volley they fired. With so many in the fields before them there was no need to aim, only release as fast as possible.
Beside him, Tarlak rubbed his hands together, nearly overcome with glee.
“Just a little bit of fire along the walls and we’ll all be heading back to bed within the hour,” he said. That glee vanished when a red dot appeared from the back line overlooking the battle. Tarlak cocked his head, watching as it grew, and then his eyes spread wide.
“Oh shit,” he said, then turned about to scream at the dozen soldiers bunched up before the gates. “Get out of the way! Move!”
Antonil turned back, then saw that the red dot was a roaring inferno of fire surging toward the city in a great beam. It burned through the orc army, consuming bodies as if they were oil-soaked cloth, and then slammed into the city gate. The beam never slowed. The wood exploded, shrapnel shooting in all directions. The soldiers behind the gate screamed as the molten rock flowed over them, melting through their armor and shields. Their dying screams were terrible but mercifully short, death claiming them swiftly. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the beam vanished, leaving only a trail of smoke and scorched earth.
The way was clear, and the orcs let out a great cheer, not caring about their losses.
“Down, now, form a line!” Sergan screamed. “We can’t let them in!”
Antonil stared in shock, knowing he should act but unable to. The way was clear. Just like that, all their walls, all their preparations, meant nothing. The way was clear.
“Snap out of it,” Tarlak shouted as he joined the surge down the steps. Antonil grabbed him before he could get away.
“You protect us from him,” he said. “We can fight the orcs, but that foe is beyond us.”
Tarlak paused, then nodded. That done, they both rushed to the ground, Antonil taking his place in the center of the formation of shields and swords. Through the blackened stone and broken pieces of the gate, they watched the orc army come barreling in with wild abandon. Antonil spared a glance over his shoulder, hoping for a miracle, but hundreds of reinforcements were not marching down the street to save them. They were alone.
Thanks, Alyssa, he thought bitterly. You’re our city’s savior.
“Hold!” Sergan shouted from the front line, a wall of shields on either side of him. “Hold!”
The walls nearly empty but for a few scattered archers, the remainder of the forces gathered to hold the gate, a mere four hundred against thousands. The challenge was overwhelming, the narrowness of the entryway their only hope.
“They broke our gate,” Antonil shouted, mere seconds before the army slammed into them, and the bloody chaos began. “Let’s build a new one with their dead!”
CHAPTER
27
Every hour someone came to change the torches that bathed Zusa in light. She remained chained to the wall, her wrists rubbed raw by the metal of the manacles. She’d tried wriggling free, but they were far too tight, and it seemed her fingers were always tingling, just shy of falling asleep.
“Time to eat yet, Scar?” Zusa asked the man, middle-aged and with a long scar across the top of his head that left a gap in his short brown hair. He was one of several she saw consistently coming down into her little prison, and she had yet to learn his name despite repeated attempts. Eventually she’d named him herself, the reference to his obvious deformity annoying him, and Zusa found amusement in that little bit of power.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Scar said, lighting a fresh torch using the old one, then setting it into its holder.
“How about a bath? You know I look forward to it.”
The man glared and remained silent. Zusa leaned back her head, closing her eyes as she smiled. Muzien, in his insanity, seemed to truly believe he could win Zusa over with time. Despite her imprisonment, she’d been treated well, fed meals twice a day and given water to drink whenever she requested it. Every night someone, always a woman she noticed, would come to remove her clothes and then bathe her. She’d clean the shit and piss, washing it away with buckets of water and plentiful rags, and then scrub until Zusa was clean, relative to her surroundings. Her original clothes remained in the far corner, just within the reach of the torchlight, while the outfit she currently wore was one of the many they’d changed her into after bathings.
She’d thought to escape during the bathing, but the bather never seemed to have the key to her manacles, and she saw no way to escape them even if left unguarded. If only she could find a way to snuff out the damn torches …
“I’m not the one in charge of wiping your ass,” Scar said, moving on to the next torch.
“Do you want to be?” she asked. “I know some men like that sort of thing.”
He rolled his eyes in disgust. Zusa continued to watch, wishing she could get more of a rise out of the man. Once she decided on an attempt to escape, being able to manipulate her lone guard could prove vital. By the Abyss, if she could get him close, get him angry and careless, that might be all she would need, for swinging from his belt was a single large key, and she felt certain it was for her manacles.
As Scar was finishing swapping out the last of the torches, the door on the far side banged open, and Zusa flinched at the sudden noise. Two men rushed in, one she recognized, one she did not. The familiar one was a fairly squat man with green eyes, missing teeth, and an impressively large nose. She’d begun calling him Wart, due to the many that grew on his hands.
“What the fuck?” Scar asked, glaring at the two. “Nearly burned my hand off ’cause of you.”
“Everything’s gone to shit,” Wart said, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Thren made this giant spider illusion over the whole city, and it’s triggered something fierce. Seems our entire damn guild has turned traitor. Had to kill two of our own just to make it here without dying.”
Scar stood frozen where he was, mouth hanging open.
“Jace?” he said, and the tall man with Wart nodded his head.
“It’s bad,” he said, and he swallowed as if he tasted something foul between his teeth. “We might need to start thinking about abandoning the Sun Guild if we want to live.”
All three of them fell silent for a moment, until Scar muttered a curse under his breath.
“Let me see
this,” he said, pushing past them so he could exit through the door. Jace and Wart remained down there, arms crossed, looking lost and confused. The rug had been yanked out from underneath them, and it amused Zusa to no end seeing how lost they looked without their precious Muzien to guarantee them safety.
Scar came back down the stairs, and he appeared angrier than before.
“Cheap tricks,” he said. “That’s all it is, cheap tricks to go with one last desperate attempt at power. We’ll ride this out, the three of us, until Muzien gets things back under control.”
“You don’t get it,” Wart argued. “There is no getting this under control. You think I’d be this scared if it were only a few casting aside the pointed star? You two are Mordan outsiders, but I’m from here, right here, and I got a spider tattoo hidden on my arm. You want to know what Thren’ll do to me if this overthrow succeeds, and I’m not a part of it?”
“Muzien will do you ten times worse if you turn traitor now,” Scar argued. “And if you’re from here, then you know how easily we took over these streets. We won’t lose them, not when Muzien hits back.”
From the far corner, Zusa interrupted them with her laughter.
“Which killer will you run to like the scared children you are?” she asked them. “Which one will you bet your life on succeeding? Guess right and live, guess wrong and die like the traitors you are. I’m the one in chains, yet my life is safer than yours.”
None of the three seemed too pleased with that fact.
“We can’t stay,” Jace said. “No matter which side we join, too many know about this place. I say we cut our losses and run. Take neither side, and see if we can hide in the chaos. When things settle down, we’ll join with the winner, and no one will be the wiser.”
“We leave, and abandon her, there’s no rejoining Muzien,” Scar said. “We might as well cut her throat and then toss on the gray cloaks of the Spider.”
Zusa grinned at them despite the chilling of her blood. Suddenly the conversation was not quite so amusing.
A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance Page 28
