“That whatever Karak has planned, it’s not going to work,” said a voice on the other side of him. It was Tristan, another of the Karak Turncloaks under Preston’s charge. The boy was only fourteen, but the confidence with which he carried himself while in armor made him seem much older.
Patrick frowned, his insides churning.
“Why not?” he asked, trying to keep himself in the moment. Ever since Tristan had told him about the murder of his beloved sister Nessa, he found it difficult to look at the boy without feeling dismay start to darken his soul.
Thankfully, it was Preston who answered him. “They aren’t ready for an attack. That single tower they’re pushing toward us is nowhere near enough to overtake these walls. Ten men at most can stand atop it at once, and they’ll be hampered, able to do little more than push forward. Even as raw as our defenders are, we can surely take out ten men at a time.”
“So why sound the horn? Why come at us at all?”
“Boredom, maybe,” Preston said with a shrug. “Or perhaps a way to test the strength of the towers they’re building. Who knows?”
Patrick leaned between the merlons once more. The tower was now only a quarter-mile away, and he could hear the clank and clink of the armored men marching beside it.
“Ten men at a time we can handle,” he said. “But what happens if Karak himself is one of those ten? You think we’ll still hold?”
Before either Tristan or Preston could answer, a commanding voice shouted from somewhere farther down the walclass="underline" “Everyone quiet!” Patrick glanced up, saw Ahaesarus was now on the wall as well, the Master Warden pacing alongside Judarius. The family’s all here. Patrick nodded to Preston, nudged Tristan without looking at the boy, and then hunkered down to await the inevitable.
It took a maddeningly long time for the tower to get within reach of their arrows, and by that time Patrick could hear the soldiers pushing the giant tower along, huffing and moaning as they strained against its hefty weight. Those marching chanted, “Karak! Karak!” with each step they took.
“Those to the left fix on the soldiers atop the tower; those to the right aim for the men on the ground,” Ahaesarus instructed when the tower was a mere hundred feet away, looming in front of them like an obelisk from the heavens. The whisper and creak of ninety bowstrings being pulled taut came next. The two Wardens continued to pace along the wall walk.
“Hold,” Judarius said, and suddenly it seemed the tower’s painfully slow progress was now far, far too rapid for Patrick’s liking. “Hold. . hold. . let loose!”
The arrows descended on the marching soldiers, slowing their approach, but those that pushed the tower were hidden behind its massive wooden frame. Arrows ricocheted off shields and armor, only a handful of the ninety or so loosed finding gaps and piercing flesh. As quickly as the first round was spent, more bolts were nocked, and at Judarius’s command the next volley launched. Patrick aimed unsteadily at an older soldier, of some importance he hoped due to the man’s lion-headed helm. His arrow plunked meekly into the ground just left of the man. Patrick grunted, reached into his quiver, and nocked yet another arrow.
The tower inched ever closer, now only twenty feet away and swaying. Those atop it stood from behind their shields and loosed their own arrows at the defenders. Others threw spears. Patrick and his brethren ducked behind the merlons as the bolts came flying toward them, arrows expertly crafted with sharp steel heads that flew with much greater accuracy than their own. Patrick groaned as an arrow flew through the gap and snapped against the inner wall. A spear wobbled overhead. Once more he wished he’d brought Winterbone with him.
“Archers back!” he heard Ahaesarus cry. “Spellcasters, forward! Focus on the tower!”
Patrick glanced to his rear, saw that during the confusion more defenders had gathered behind him, including a number of the spellcasters Master Warden Ahaesarus had brought back with him from Drake. Giving them room, he watched as they approached the parapet. Once there, all fifteen lifted their hands, words of magic on their lips. Small fireballs and bolts of electricity flew from their fingertips, and the crack and pop of the attacks striking the wooden structure sounded over the shouts of the soldiers below. A couple of stray arrows came flying at them, and one of the spellcasters-Bordo, if Patrick remembered his name correctly-took a bolt in the shoulder and collapsed moaning. Judarius grabbed him by his tunic and yanked him out of the way of the other defenders. The screams outside the wall intensified.
“Their archers are down! Finish them!” shouted the Master Warden, but it was difficult to hear him over the shrieking.
Patrick scampered back to his feet and nocked another arrow while the spellcasters ducked down to gather their strength. When he peered through the merlons, he saw that the tower leaned to one side, part of its base engulfed with flames. Two burning men tumbled off the side, crashing into a few of those who were foolishly attempting to put out the spreading fires. Patrick focused on them and released another arrow.
It took the spellcasters a half-minute before they were ready again, and now without fear of arrows they climbed atop the merlons and hurled their magical attacks, the dancing flames making them look like the odd beasts that were carved into the outer walls of Peytr Gemcroft’s estate in Haven. Thinking of Haven brought, for the briefest of moments, a memory of Rachida, the merchant’s wife, and the child he had supposedly placed in her belly. That line of thinking quickly vanished when one of his arrows finally found its mark, punching through the cheek of a burning man and dropping him to the dead and withered ground.
The burning tower collided with the wall. Patrick backed away, tossing aside his bow. Without Winterbone, he was defenseless. Soldiers scurried onto the top platform, looking frightened and angry at once. Those with pikes and swords shoved Patrick aside, rushing to the edge of the parapet just as the soldiers began vaulting over the wall. Spear tips crunched into armor, blades clanged off steel plating and chainmail. Grunts and shouts filled the air, as well as the crackle of flames. Still the soldiers rushed up to the top of the tower, attempting to leap onto the outer wall walk.
Patrick’s heart raced as the throng of defenders pushed him back toward the chasm between the walls. Swiveling his head, he saw Preston and the other young Turncloaks battling the soldiers. A few of them collapsed back onto the tower as others sailed over the side of the wall and fell sixty feet to their deaths. Five of them had succeeded in avoiding death, and now they clashed with those on the wall walk, mere feet from where Patrick was standing. Patrick glanced quickly to his right and saw one of Mordeina’s defenders standing there, a sword held limp in his hands while his eyes bulged with fright. The man was shaking. Without another thought, Patrick snatched the sword from the man and shoved him aside.
The blade was short and a third the weight of Winterbone, the steel not nearly as durable, but it would have to do. Finally armed, he shoved his way into the conflict. The Turncloaks and Wardens had the five who’d gotten onto the wall walk surrounded, so Patrick joined those trying to keep the soldiers on the flaming tower at bay. He jostled and thrust his way to the front of the line, the sword singing in his fists. He stepped between two merlons just as a soldier attempted to squeeze his way through, bringing the blade down on his head. The soldier’s helm dented when the sword struck it with a twang, and the man stumbled backward, teetering off to the side, his foot missing the edge of the tower, sending him plummeting to his death. With a grunt, Patrick drove the sword forward, trying to impale the next man in line. That one fell aside, and the one behind him came down hard with a maul, striking the merlon to Patrick’s left, sending chunks of stone into his face. Patrick reeled backward, grabbing hold of the merlon to keep from falling into the crush of bodies behind him. In that moment he peered up, and his heart nearly leapt into his throat.