“Only the weak,” he replied coolly. He disengaged his blade from hers in a nimble riposte. His sword whispered close enough to her throat to leave a hairline cut. He laughed.
Fate, in the form of a Silvanesti catapult, played a hand in their duel. Catapulters on the more southern tower had aimed their engine and flung two hundred pounds of lead weights at the Dargonesti ladders still standing. The sea elves were trying to carry firelances to the battlement. The catapult missiles smashed the ladders and set the firelances crashing to the ground. Fire exploded among the ruined ladders and wounded Dargonesti.
A great gout of flame soared up behind Coryphene. The heat singed him, and he leapt to one side to avoid being burnt. Taking the advantage, Vixa took her cutlass in both hands and swung. The rude iron blade bit through his shell armor and into the flesh of his left arm.
With a howl, Coryphene dropped his sword and flung his right hand out. There was a flash, bright as the noonday sun, and Vixa found herself falling over the wall. One thought filled her astonished brain: I didn’t know he could do that!
Expecting to die on the paving stones of the street, Vixa felt herself hit, not hard marble, but a sloping roof. Breath whooshed from her lungs, and she rolled wildly down the incline. Then she was falling once more. Cold water slapped her back, and she was sinking. She fought her way to the surface, gasping for air. Hands seized her. She would’ve fought them as well, but had no strength left for the struggle. The hands dragged her out of the water.
She had landed in a fountain. The hands that held her belonged to two wide-eyed Silvanesti soldiers who’d been bathing their wounds in the fountain’s pool. They hoisted her to the side of the pool and stood by, regarding her with awe.
“That was-that was amazing!” one of them breathed. “You fell forty feet to that rooftop, rolled down, and dropped another twenty feet straight into the fountain!”
The Qualinesti princess tried to stand. Her legs buckled, and she fell, knocking her head against the rim of the fountain. The warriors, still with awestruck expressions, obligingly hauled her up again. The Qualinesti princess sat on the cold green stone of the pool rim, holding her throbbing head and groaning at the pain of her cut shoulder.
The blaze started by the gnomefire spread rapidly among the docks. The Dargonesti reeled away from the searing heat. The Silvanesti closed in on those remaining atop the wall.
Coryphene rallied his fighters, with Dargonesti fighting on two fronts, toward each of the guard towers. The Protector shouted encouragement, but even as the more powerful Dargonesti were pressing the Silvanesti back, the elves in the towers readjusted their siege machines to bear along the wall.
Whomp! A boulder flew in a high arc over the Silvanesti fighters and crashed down among the Dargonesti. For the first time since gaining the wall, they wavered. Coryphene commanded them to capture the catapult, but the mass of Silvanesti between them and the machine was a powerful dissuasion. The catapult hurled a second stone, which bounced along the parapet, wreaking fearful havoc among the closely packed ranks of Dargonesti.
At this juncture, a lone figure appeared on the roof of the southern tower, climbing onto the stout timber frame of the catapult. Cupping his hands to his mouth, the Speaker of the Stars yelled, “What are you waiting for? Take them, my brave Silvanesti!” His gold-bordered white cape whipped back from his shoulders, and the Crown of Stars on his head flashed in the torchlight.
A screaming cheer rose from the throats of the Silvanesti elves. They drove forward on two sides. The enemy from the sea fought stubbornly, but couldn’t hold out against deadly boulders, masses of patriotic warriors, and the runaway fire that threatened them from below.
The surviving sea elves, including Coryphene, fled down the remaining ladders. Even that did not save all of them, for when the defenders regained control of the wall, they pushed the heavily laden ladders over, sending scores of Dargonesti into the flames below.
By the first hour after midnight, the battle was over. The western waterfront was a smoking ruin. Hundreds of elves on both sides were dead or wounded. Vixa worked her way through the clogged streets to the southern tower; she’d been told the Speaker was there. She climbed the steps to the roof to see the catapult that had turned the tide of battle. Its crew was gathered in a tight group, and she called out praise to them. The elves said nothing, but stood aside, revealing a terrible sight.
The Speaker of the Stars lay by the catapult, a spear in his side. The dark gray slate around him was stained red with his blood.
“Great Speaker!” Vixa exclaimed, rushing to him.
“Cousin,” he said weakly. “What luck, eh? The battle won, and I stop a javelin.”
The spear stuck out below the ribs on his left side. A healer was working feverishly over him, but the Speaker’s pale face was waxen from loss of blood.
“You must live, Majesty,” Vixa said, pressing his cold hand. “Victory will be yours in a few days!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he whispered. His eyes closed; his head lolled.
The young priestess pushed sweat-dampened hair from her face. “He will live,” she said tiredly. “He only sleeps from the potion I gave him, to spare him pain.”
Speaker Elendar was carried away on a litter to the temple of Quenesti Pah, goddess of healing. As the senior priestesses were still engaged in the great invocation to lower the Thon-Thalas, the younger healers would have to attend to him as best they could.
Vixa questioned the catapulters. “What happened? How did the Speaker of the Stars get wounded?”
The elves were in shock. One of them shook his head in bewilderment and tried to explain. “He climbed atop our machine to rally the warriors. As the last of the enemy was going down the wall, some of them cast spears at him. One struck.”
Vixa clapped the brave elf on the shoulder, then wearily made her way back to the palace.
Just a few more days, she told herself fiercely. Soon, Coryphene will have to know the river is falling. Already it was more than six feet below normal. The middle channel, the deepest part of the Thon-Thalas, now carried but fourteen feet of water.
Coryphene trudged into the river, heading away from the city. Most of his fighters had thrown themselves face first into the muddy water along the riverbank, so badly were their gills beset by smoke and heat. The Protector of Urione had too much dignity for that. He waded out some yards from shore and with great deliberation raised a handful of water to his face.
The battle was over, lost, but he did not despair. Somewhere on the miles-long perimeter of Silvanost there had to be a weak spot, a place not easily accessible to reinforcements or those infernal rock-throwing monsters. He would find that weak spot. He would find it for his queen.
He walked farther into the river and submerged himself. As the life-giving water flowed through his gills, Coryphene looked around at Silvanost. For the first time he noticed the condition of the city’s piers. Some of the shorter ones were surrounded by mud. The Protector of Urione frowned, bringing his head above water.
Queen Uriona had come forward from the deep channel, watching the survivors drift back, burned, dazed, gasping for water. Their suffering meant nothing to her. Only their failure was important. And where was Coryphene? She saw him now, standing there, staring as though dumbstruck.
“You live!” Uriona cried. Her relief was only momentary. Anger quickly displaced it. “You failed, Lord Protector! You are defeated!”
“Only in this battle, Divine One. The campaign is not over. Your Majesty must depart, however. There is great danger for you here.”
His words fueled her anger. “What danger? The drylanders cannot reach me here in the river. You said so yourself.”