Wards of Faerie

24

When Aphenglow Elessedil woke at dawn on the following morning, Bombax was already up and gone. She lay where she was for a moment, reflecting on last night, and on how they had bridged the gap that had opened a few days earlier by recapturing a little of what had brought them together in the first place.

But soon she was out of bed, washing and dressing, wondering what was happening outside with the Federation army. She was aware as she pulled on her black robes and laced them to her body that it was unusually quiet, even for Paranor. There was an air of expectancy that was troubling. No birdsong, no kitchen sounds, no voices coming from the walls.

Where was Arlingfant?

She went next door to see and found her sister gone, as well.

Now she was moving quickly—or as quickly as she could manage on her damaged leg—passing down the hallways and out into the courtyard. She could see Arling standing on the walls with Cymrian and what looked to be the entire complement of the Druid Guard still in residence at the Keep. They were staring out toward the Federation encampment, watching something she couldn’t see. They had their backs to her and were so absorbed by whatever was out there, they didn’t see her coming.

Aphen limped across the courtyard to the walls and climbed the stone steps to the ramparts, leaning heavily on the staff she had brought to support herself. She was much stronger by now, her broken leg mostly healed. It still ached, of course, but it was nothing compared with what she had experienced earlier, and she was good at ignoring pain. Everyone turned as she approached, and the looks on their faces were enough to tell her something was wrong. She slowed beside Arling, who pointed wordlessly out toward the Federation army camp.

Except that what she was pointing at was much closer. The entire Federation command was positioned right in front of Paranor’s walls. Rank upon rank of armored men faced the Keep, their lines neat and straight amid a forest of spears, bowmen on the flanks and to the rear. They were standing silently, looking straight ahead, shields up, tense and ready as if awaiting a signal.

She was so shocked that for a moment she couldn’t speak. “What are they doing?” she managed finally.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Bombax answered drily.

“They look as if they’re getting ready to attack! But they can’t intend to do that! It would be suicide!”

“So it would seem. But maybe they know something we don’t.”

Cymrian shook his head. “This looks like a feint. They can’t scale these walls, so they’re drawing our attention here while trying to get in some other way.” He pushed off the wall. “I’m going to have a look around.”

Swift and fluid, he jogged down the ramparts, heading toward the north wall. Aphen watched, envious of his agility and strength, anxious to regain her own.

She turned as Arling gripped her arm. “What do you think we should do?” her sister whispered.

Aphen gave her hand a squeeze. “Wait them out. They aren’t doing anything yet. We have to be patient. Bombax, have you checked any of the approaches to the other walls?”

He shook his head. “You go. I want to stay with Krolling in case this isn’t a trick and they actually do attempt an assault. They have ladders, so they might think they can scale the walls. Madness, if they try it. But who knows? Go on, Aphen. Take Arling with you.”

She didn’t particularly want to do that, but she guessed Arling was just as safe going with her as staying behind, and if they were together she could keep an eye on her sister. So together they set out for the west wall, descending the stairs from the ramparts to the courtyard, cutting across to the first of several walls that bisected the outer courtyards like spokes from a wheel, allowing them quick access through the Keep proper and the courtyards adjoining the west wall. Aphen was thinking that somehow things were getting away from them, that all their efforts to stay safe were on the verge of failing. It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the source of this premonition; they still hadn’t found out who fired the rail sling the previous day. If there was a traitor within the walls, they were very much at risk.

She had asked Cymrian the previous night for his impressions of the boy Deek Trink. “Too clever for his own good,” Cymrian had responded. “Too ready to persuade you he’s your friend when maybe he’s not.”

He didn’t say aloud what was clearly in his mind—that he didn’t like Deek Trink—but it was obvious enough. It made her think she should have locked the boy away in spite of Bombax. But that would have meant another confrontation, and she wasn’t certain her suspicions were valid. It was easier just to have him watched.

Now she was wondering if she had made a mistake putting but a single guard on him.

“What do we do if they attack?” Arling asked suddenly. They were climbing the stairs to the west wall now, hurrying to have a look at what was happening outside. “Can we stop them? We’re so few.”

Aphen shook her head, unwilling to answer. In truth, she didn’t know. Her only plan at this point was to rely on the wards of the Keep to protect them. If that failed, she didn’t see how thirty could stand against what looked to be close to five or six hundred, even with Paranor’s walls to protect them.

They reached the ramparts and peered over. The clear-cut area that separated the Keep from the forest lay empty below. No sign of anyone. But the walls had been built in a zigzag fashion to allow for defense from more than one angle, and from where they stood they could see only a portion of this one. So Aphen, wanting to be sure the others were safe, as well, began walking north with Arling trailing after in silence. Together they reached the end of that section of wall, rounded the watchtower, and turned down the next.

Instantly they saw the line of armed men slipping out of the trees and sprinting for the Keep, one after another, before disappearing inside through an open door.

Although Aphen had been looking for something like this and had been half expecting to find it, it was a shock nevertheless. She wheeled on Arling, backing them both away from the edge of the wall where they might be seen. “Run back for Bombax and Krolling. Tell them the walls are breached and the Federation is inside. Bring them here at once. Tell them to hurry!”

To her sister’s credit, she raced away without arguing. Aphenglow continued ahead to the next watchtower, pulled open its heavy wooden door, and started down the winding stairs.

Federation soldiers were inside! The safety of the Keep was compromised and Paranor was at risk!

The words screamed in her mind, harsh and insistent, demanding she do something. She wondered how far inside the enemy had penetrated. She wondered what their orders were. At the very least they would try to open one of the four sets of main gates to let the others in. Her hands tightened on the walking staff as she limped from step to step, her senses attuned to the silence of the tower’s dark interior. She heard sounds of movement, soft and furtive, from below. The soldiers were moving about in the hallways, settling themselves in place, waiting until all were inside before trying to reach the gates. How many would she have to face alone? How many would she have to stop?

Her leg began to ache, and she realized she was tense and stiff and forced herself to relax. She found herself wishing Bombax were there. Or Cymrian. Maybe Cymrian even more, so cool and collected and seemingly always prepared. But they were both elsewhere, and she couldn’t depend on either of them.

She eased her way to the bottom of the winding stairway and stopped again in the lower entry. Passageways branched both left and right, but it was from the latter’s dark interior that she heard the faint sound of movements. She realized that she was between the west gates and the soldiers—and they were advancing toward her, creeping through the shadows and hoping not to be discovered until it was too late.

She would have to stop them here.

She glanced around quickly. There were no interior doors on these passageways. Quick movement from one tower to the next was important, and so the corridors were kept open. The point was to stop an enemy before it got inside. Interior doors were more an obstacle to a defender than a help. Given that the Keep’s walls had been breached only once before in its two-thousand-year history, it was hard to argue with the reasoning.

But now it had happened a second time, and Aphenglow wished she had at least one door she could put between herself and the invaders.

They were getting closer.

She tried to think what to do. She wanted to keep them contained in the narrow passageways of the Outer Wall where they couldn’t spread out to the inner Keep. If they got into the courtyard, they would be all over the place.

The tower room was too confining to use the magic she would need to hold back the men pouring into the walls, but she had no choice. Going outside meant giving them a better chance to get behind her and reach the gates. She backed into the shadows of the next corridor, giving herself a clear view of the tower chamber and thereby a window of vision large enough to see the men she knew were coming.

Then she waited.

Drust Chazhul hunkered down in the forest just beyond the west wall, watching his soldiers cross the open space to where the tiny service door gaped open to admit them. Stoon was crouched at his side, the two of them counting heads as the soldiers disappeared inside.

“Good as his word,” he observed softly.

“Always has been.” Stoon was watching the top of the wall intently, scanning it end-to-end, searching for signs of the Druid Guard. “He’s clever, that one.”

Another two or three soldiers had made it inside. That made it more than thirty now. They had brought fifty, thinking that would be more than enough to force at least one of the main gates. They had left the rest of the army at the south gate as a diversion. A second force was hidden in the trees behind them waiting to enter when the west gate was opened by the advance party. It should happen quickly once all fifty were inside.

“Don’t forget,” Drust said. “I want the Elessedil girl alive.”

Stoon shrugged. “Why bother? You’ll just kill her anyway.”

“Maybe not. After my soldiers have reminded her that insolence has a cost, I might still send her back to her grandfather.”

The assassin gave him a look. “Kill her and be done with it. You don’t want to play games in this business.”

Drust turned away. “When are you going in?”

“In a little while. No need to rush things.”

They went silent, watching as the last of the advance force disappeared through the doorway. On the walls above, nothing moved and no one appeared.

“I think I’ll move over to the west gate and wait there.” Drust was restless, impatient. “I want to be there when it opens.” He rose, looked down at Stoon and smiled. “It’s almost here. The end of the Druids and their precious Keep. The end of their magic. And I will have been the one who brought them down.”

Stoon was tempted to suggest it was a little early to celebrate, but he managed to hold his tongue.

When the first of the Federation soldiers crept out of the corridor across from where she was hiding, Aphenglow was ready for them. Her magic summoned, she let the first three attackers get clear of the opening and then stepped into view. The soldiers reacted at once, bringing up their weapons and rushing at her. But the Druid magic slammed into them and threw them back against their fellows, clogging the passageway with screaming, cursing men.

She didn’t wait for them to untangle themselves, but went after them immediately. Shielding herself with magic spun from one hand, she attacked with magic thrown from her other—a heavy, weighted blow that crashed into all the soldiers she could see and flattened them in their tracks. The corridor became a madhouse, the shock of what had happened stopping the advance completely, forcing those still able to retreat. Those at the forefront of the strike yelled to their comrades to fall back. There were more doors farther down, Aphen knew, but at least they were farther away from the west gate.

Fair enough.

She went out the tower door, stepping into the open courtyard beyond, searching for the help she expected to find.

No one was there.

She stood where she was for a moment, shocked and confused. Where were Paranor’s defenders?

Then she heard shouts and cries from somewhere on the other side of the Keep, and realized that the real battle was being fought elsewhere. She wanted to rush over to find out what was happening, but that would mean abandoning her defense of the west gate, which she knew would be a big mistake.

She would stay where she was needed.

She was making her way down the interior of the wall toward the next tower when its door was flung open and the rest of the Federation advance force poured out into the courtyard.

She stopped where she was. She could tell at once that she was too far away to stop all of them and with her damaged leg could not move quickly enough to remedy that. Changing her plans, she began crossing the courtyard toward the Inner Wall of the Keep, flinging shards of magic at the men who were coming at her. She took down a few, but the rest came on. They were ignoring the west gate, intent on reaching her instead. She dropped into a crouch, summoned the broadest strike she could manage, and unwrapped it like a sheet of hammered steel across their path. They were blocked and for the moment could not get through. She spun out the magic then folded it over them, cutting off their air.

Struggling to break free, they began to choke and gasp.

She knew the magic would not last long, but it gave her the chance she needed to escape. She could not stand against so many without aid. She hastened as quickly as she could for the safety of the Inner Wall, and with her back turned she only just managed to catch sight of the lean, swift figure coming up behind her. She swung back around just as her attacker dropped to one knee and sighted down the length of a long blowgun.

Reacting solely on instinct, Aphenglow managed to throw up a protective shield. The blowgun darts disintegrated on contact, the brightness of their poison exploding in red bursts against her shield as they did so. Aphenglow had risen and begun running once more, limping noticeably, when her attacker used the blowgun a second time. Even though she was ready for the attack, she stumbled and went down, the darts skimming past her head, black missiles in the bright morning sunlight.

This time when she rose, she went after him.

But her attacker had anticipated her and was already running the other way. She sent an entangling magic after him and brought him down in a jumble of arms and legs, his blowgun flying away. She would have done more, but by now the magic that had confined the Federation soldiers had collapsed and they were coming toward her anew.

There’s no time for this, she thought.

Using magic to slow them—a tripping incantation that ensnared their feet—she began backing away once more, keeping an eye on both soldiers and the blowgun artist. But her efforts had drained her, and she was beginning to stumble badly. Holding back her attackers was sapping what remained of her strength, and she was still fifty feet from the safety of the Inner Wall.

They were almost on top of her when Bombax appeared.

He surged out of a haze of smoke and brume and flew across the ramparts with a roar, charging down the stone stairway and leaping into the courtyard, black robes flying out behind him. He was screaming at the attackers to draw their attention, challenging them to come for him. The Federation soldiers turned away from Aphenglow, caught sight of the black-clad apparition across from them, and fled at once. The blowgun artist was already gone.

Aphenglow called out to Bombax, and he raced toward her, his dark face intent, his eyes wild and dangerous. Fresh attackers were appearing all about them, coming through courtyard doors and down off the ramparts. They seemed to be everywhere. Somehow the Federation must have breached Paranor’s defenses in more than one place. Aphen kept backing away toward the Inner Wall, still using her magic, rallying against this new threat, trying to protect Bombax as he was protecting her.

He reached her while still on the fly, swept her off her feet without slowing, and raced for the closest doorway. Using his magic as he ran, he released the locking devices so that the door sprang open. Spears and arrows flew all around them, and Federation soldiers, howling in rage, closed in from three sides.

But by then they were through the dark opening of the Inner Wall entry and the door had slammed shut and locked itself behind them.

Stoon, bruised and battered and furious with himself, stumbled back down the corridor tunneling through the Outer Wall to the door that had let him in and pushed his way back outside again, heading for the surrounding forest. Behind him the fighting was intense, raging all along the Outer Wall. He didn’t look back to see what was happening, having lost interest in being involved in any way. He was lucky to be alive, and he knew it.

He was almost to the trees when Drust Chazhul rushed out to meet him.

“What are you doing? You were supposed to stay inside and bring out the girl!”

Stoon waited until the other was right in front of him, and then said, “You want the girl, Drust? You go in and get her. I’ve seen all of her I care to see. I didn’t sign on for this.”

Drust seemed to catch the look in his eyes and backed away. “All right. Someone else will bring her then. But I can’t believe you let …”

Stoon was right in his face. “Don’t say it! Don’t even think it! You didn’t see what happened in there, but I’ll tell you this. If you get your hands on her, you better kill her fast.”

He swung away dismissively, looking back toward Paranor’s walls and the sounds of battle. “What’s going on in there? Your men were everywhere! The advance force didn’t have time to open the gates. How did the rest of them get in so fast?”

Drust handed him an aleskin and waited for him to drink from it. “Your man managed to give us a second way in. The Druids and their guards were so busy watching for us from the south and then rushing to stop us from the west that he managed to reach the east gate unnoticed. Once it was open, we rushed a contingent of men over from the south to hold them. The Trolls fought to retake them, but couldn’t manage it. Now we’re inside. It’s only moments until the Keep is ours.”

“Ours, is it?” Stoon sounded doubtful.

“What can they do to stop us? We’re inside their main walls. We can find a way to breach the Keep. You didn’t see any strange magic stop us from getting through the gates once they were opened from the inside, did you? No, we’ve got them! Our right to finish them off is clear enough. They attacked us first; they brought it on themselves. That’s what we’ll tell everyone. There are plenty of witnesses to corroborate the story.”

He grabbed Stoon’s arm. “Come with me. Let’s find a place to watch it happen.”

Atop the battlements of the Inner Wall, Aphenglow and Bombax stood watching the Federation soldiers scurry about the courtyards below, removing their dead and injured and readying themselves for a fresh assault. Ten of Krolling’s Druid Guards were dead and another five too badly injured to fight. The fifteen or so who were still sound enough to do so had taken up positions on the Inner Wall battlements to await the expected attack. It was not entirely clear yet what direction it would come from, but it was clear that it was inevitable.

“We can’t hold back so many,” Bombax muttered, watching the soldiers as they began to form up their lines. “Not if they find a way to get inside the Inner Wall, too.”

“It’s not your fault they got this far,” she answered quietly. “We were all fooled by that boy.”

“I’m the one who brought him inside the Keep. I’m the one who trusted him when I should have known better.” Bombax shook his head. “I should have seen the truth.”

“You were drugged by whatever liquid the Mwellret poured into your gag. You were unable to speak or move properly, and you couldn’t reason things out.” She glanced over. “None of us would have done any better.”

Bombax looked unconvinced. “I just hope I live long enough to get my hands on him. Five seconds would do it.”

“We’ll settle with him one day.” She scanned the courtyards and the Outer Wall. “What became of him after he opened the east gate?”

The Borderman grimaced. “He slipped out to join his friends. If he were still inside the Keep, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

They were silent for a few minutes, standing close, lost in separate thoughts focused on finding an answer to the same question: What would happen when the Federation attacked the Keep? Aphenglow thought she should go inside and say something to Woostra. But what was there to say? That they were under attack? That they were all in grave danger? Woostra would already know as much. They were all trapped, and advising the old man of what that meant was unnecessary.

“It would help if we hadn’t lost the airships,” Bombax murmured.

But they had, and there was no help for it. The landing platform and their airships lay between the Outer and Inner walls, and the Federation had seized possession of both almost immediately. It didn’t give them access to the Keep, but it kept the Druids from being able to escape by air. If they wanted out, they would have to walk.

They could do that, of course. There were tunnels that ran from the depths of the Keep to the world outside. But escaping would mean abandoning Paranor to an enemy, and no Druid would ever consider doing that. Surrendering the Keep to Drust Chazhul and his Federation minions was unthinkable.

Cymrian appeared, white-blond hair streaked with dirt, Elven features intense. Wherever he’d been while she had been fighting her way clear of the Federation advance force and the blowgun assailant hadn’t been any less dangerous.

“Are you all right?” she asked, giving him a long look.

He nodded, shrugged. “I almost had him.”

Bombax looked over. “The boy?”

“I spotted him when I was coming back around the north wall to the east side of the Keep. I knew right away what he was doing. He had already gotten the gate open most of the way, but the Federation soldiers hadn’t reached it yet. I went after him, thinking I could get to him before he did any more damage. But he heard me or maybe just sensed me and fled through the gate, screaming for help. It came too quickly for me to close the gate again in time.”

“At least you tried.” Bombax held out his hand, and Cymrian gripped it tightly. “We’ll get another chance at him.”

“There he is now,” Aphenglow said suddenly.

The men looked where she was pointing. Deek Trink stood atop the Outer Wall perhaps three hundred yards away from where they watched, part of a small group of men studying the Keep from afar. Aphenglow recognized the blowgun assailant as one of them.

“That’s Drust Chazhul standing with him.” Bombax hissed out the Federation Prime Minister’s name as if it were poison on his tongue. “This must have been his plan all along. Get the boy inside the Keep to open the gates for his soldiers after faking an attack to justify doing so. It was the boy who fired on the Arishaig, a ruse for prompting a Federation response.” He glanced over at Aphenglow. “Just as you said.”

They watched as Deek Trink pointed this way and that, clearly describing the defenses of the Keep, revealing what he knew about its strengths and weaknesses, sharing information he had collected with their enemies. Aphenglow felt a red-hot flush surface, climbing from her neck into her cheeks.

“I’ll be right back,” Cymrian said suddenly.

He turned and raced away, whipping past an approaching Arlingfant without a word. Arling gave him a glance and then joined her sister and Bombax. “Is anything happening yet? Aphen, are you sure you’re all right?”

Aphenglow nodded. “I’m fine,” she lied.

Arling had helped clean her up after her escape with Bombax, washing her wounds and applying salves. But there were wounds on the inside that couldn’t be treated so easily, even though Arling could always detect them.

Down below, the Federation soldiers had their lines in place and were waiting for the order to attack. Apparently, the Federation army commander had decided that coming at the Keep from the west wall was the best approach. It was the one Aphenglow would have chosen, as well, which worried her. It was here that the Keep was most vulnerable.

“Won’t the Keep defend us like she did before?” Arling asked. “Won’t it be just the same with the Inner Wall as it was with the Outer Wall since no one is going to let them in voluntarily?”

Aphenglow wasn’t sure. She wanted to believe this was true, but she didn’t know enough about the magic’s conjuring to be confident that it would respond. Maybe breaching the Outer Wall had negated its effectiveness. Maybe it hadn’t been designed to defend if attackers got this far inside.

As they watched, a formation of flits eased into view from above the trees and hovered just beyond the perimeter of the main wall. Apparently, the Federation airships were going to try again. They would test the magic that had stopped them earlier, and if it failed to respond the pilots would use the flits and maybe something larger to force an entry from the air as well as the ground.

“Rail slings might stop them,” Bombax muttered. “Knock them right out of the air, those puny little things.”

Cymrian was back, moving to an open space on the wall close by. He was carrying the bow Aphenglow had seen him fashioning some days earlier in the gardens. It was a formidable-looking weapon, fully five feet long, its ends curved and notched to allow maximum draw, its surface polished to a bright sheen. Cymrian must have been working on it a long time, Aphen thought.

And then she wondered why he had brought it up here.

Without a word to any of them, Cymrian fitted a black arrow to the bowstring, lifted the bow so that the arrow was angled upward, hesitated, and then lowered it again. He looked beyond Paranor’s walls at the trees, reading their movements, looked up at the sky and watched the clouds drift, and then brought the bow back up again, sighting along the length of the arrow as he pointed it toward the group with Drust Chazhul. They were paying no attention to him, their interest focused elsewhere. Cymrian drew the arrow all the way back to its iron tip, held it there for a long moment, and then released the bowstring.

The black arrow arced skyward, sharply outlined against the blue of the sky as it flew across the space separating the Keep from the Outer Wall, its trajectory steady and sure, rising and then plummeting into the group that surrounded Drust Chazhul and piercing Deek Trink’s narrow chest through and through. The boy staggered backward a step, eyes wide with shock, and then toppled over dead.

For an instant, no one standing close to Cymrian said a word. Then Bombax exhaled sharply. “Shades!”

“That was the greatest bow shot I’ve ever seen,” Aphenglow breathed.

“It was the luckiest,” Cymrian grumbled, lowering his bow. “I was just trying to scare him, not kill him.”

“I think I like this result better,” Bombax said.

Across the way, Drust Chazhul and his group had scattered in all directions and were now crouched behind anything that offered protection. The rows of Federation soldiers lined up below had turned to look and were milling about uneasily, breaking ranks and looking back at the Keep as if at any moment an arrow could strike each of them, too. Even the flits, which until now had been hovering impatiently at the perimeter of the Outer Wall, had backed off so far they were almost out of sight.

Deek Trink’s body lay abandoned on the ramparts. No one seemed willing to retrieve it.

Bombax nodded to himself. “Much better.”

For about thirty minutes it seemed as if the Federation would postpone any further action until the next day. But then Drust Chazhul and his commanders and sycophants rallied the attack from behind the series of protective barriers where they had sought shelter. The soldiers who had broken ranks and scattered were reassembled behind spears and shields and unit leaders, presumably with promises of what would happen if they fled a second time, and the flits eased back into position just outside Paranor’s walls.

Aphenglow watched in silent desperation. Arling was beside her. Both of them stood between Bombax and Cymrian. All of them were thinking the same thing. If the magic that had warded the Keep thus far did not repel this fresh assault, they were finished. Paranor would fall, and they would have no choice but to flee into the tunnels beneath and from there out into the countryside, fugitives from their own home. They might stand and fight, but even with their magic to aid them, they would be quickly overwhelmed and captured.

But so much worse was what would be lost to the Federation and to Drust Chazhul. All of their histories and records that had been so painstakingly compiled down through the centuries, all of their talismans and artifacts, the chambers that had never housed any but those who were Druids, the cold room and the scrye, the depthless, bottomless well at the tower’s heart that housed the dangerous and sometimes malevolent spirit of the Keep, the earth’s furnace that gave her heat and presence, the landing platform and the airships. And most damaging of all, the belief that Paranor was impenetrable and the Druids invincible in their own fortress would be shattered. It was a stomach-wrenching prospect, one that none of those who were Druids could accept and none who stood with them could conceive.

They had talked briefly about taking action to save what was threatened, about hiding those things that could be hidden, about adding wards and spells. But even Woostra had dismissed the idea. It was too late for that; the job was too overwhelming. The Druid Histories were already protected against intruders, and the talismans and artifacts were well concealed. Best to trust to what had kept them in one piece for this long. Best just to have a little faith.

But more than a little might be required, Aphenglow thought, standing with the others, the tension ramped up to where it was almost unbearable, her skin crawling with it.

She watched as the Federation lines steadied, men and airships both, and everything went unnaturally still.

Then the battle horn sounded and the Federation army attacked. Lines of armored soldiers and bowmen rushed the Inner Wall and threw up scaling ladders and grappling hooks. Flits shot forward to clear the Outer Wall in an airborne assault on the Inner. Shouts and cries and the clash of weapons rang through the afternoon air, and the combined strength of hundreds threw itself against Paranor and the handful of defenders who waited.

It was a disaster.

Once more the shadowy presence warding the Druid’s Keep surfaced, just as Aphenglow had hoped it would, as ready to protect the Inner Wall as it had been the Outer. Its dark, amorphous presence coiled like a serpent—a venomous, hissing creature. In the blink of an eye, it swatted away the flits, sending them spinning out of control into the woods from which they had emerged, effortlessly shattering their attempt to penetrate the plane of the walls. Then it sank into the stonework of the Inner Wall and reemerged as a suffocating black cloud extending outward from the stonework’s vertical plane to knock away the scaling ladders and the men hanging on them and blow the rest of the soldiers back across the courtyard with a giant’s breath that sent men and equipment whirling and spinning like so many autumn leaves caught in a north wind.

Everyone broke and ran after that, soldiers and unit commanders alike, fleeing the battleground for the comparative safety of the Outer Wall, where they huddled in shock and terror.

From behind his shelter on the ramparts where he knelt beside Stoon, Drust Chazhul signaled for the attack to be broken off. He slumped back against the stone barrier, enraged. “We’re being made fools of!” he hissed.

But his watchful companion had remembered something he had heard the unfortunate Deek Trink mention while he was still upright. “Maybe,” he mused quietly, giving Drust a careful look, “there’s another way.”