‘No city is impregnable,’ Orius said. ‘Some are simply more difficult to get into than others.’ He glanced at Lynos, who nodded with some reluctance.
‘It’s true. The city has been besieged before. Our walls are high and thick, but the dead are relentless and do not tire. They will come again and again, until they succeed or we destroy them to the last corpse and banish the last spirit.’
‘This city possesses some defence against the dead other than walls,’ Balthas said, gesturing to the map. ‘I noticed the great channels of silver that circumnavigate the districts, and the purple salt that fills it.’ The channels were marked on the map, and they formed a precise circle of many lines, stretching across the city and encompassing each district in turn. Despite its seemingly continuous nature, the circle was broken in twelve places. ‘What do these points mark?’
‘The Twelve Saints,’ Knossus said, as he laid a hand flat against the map. ‘The mausoleum gates they are interred within form the extremities of a star of protection about the city. They are at once our strongest points and our weakest. Only the most powerful of spirits can endure the celestial energies radiating from those sacred bones.’ He frowned. ‘If they are to truly take the city, they would need to destroy as many as they can and breach the wards keeping Glymmsforge sacrosanct.’
‘If they’re smart, they’ll focus only on a handful,’ Lynos said. ‘Three, maybe four. Once they’ve forced a wedge in our defences, they could flood the city.’
Knossus nodded. ‘Yes. The question before us is which ones?’
‘We cannot defend them all.’ Balthas studied the map. ‘We lack the numbers.’ He indicated the concentric walls. ‘Perhaps we should pull back to the inner walls. Conduct a defence in depth, rather than a more conventional stratagem.’
‘Is he insulting us?’ Orius murmured to Lynos, loud enough for Balthas to hear.
‘Not intentionally, I suspect,’ Lynos said.
Balthas frowned. ‘This city has defences, does it not? Runnel networks to pour blessed lead down on the enemy, and more besides. Evacuate the outer city, close the portcullises and use the time to reinforce the inner walls.’
‘We’d be sacrificing a third of the city,’ Orius said.
‘To save the rest,’ Balthas said. ‘Surely that is an acceptable trade?’
‘And what of those who live there? We cannot evacuate them all on short notice,’ Varo Tyrmane said. The mortal did not sound opposed to the idea, so much as curious. ‘Their deaths will only add to the enemy’s numbers.’
‘We could begin the evacuation now,’ Balthas said.
‘And we’d have a full-scale panic on our hands a few hours later,’ the Silver Company captain said. ‘The citizenry are on edge. Attacks by the dead have been on the increase for days. If it starts to look like we’re abandoning half the city, the situation will become untenable.’
Balthas shook his head in annoyance. He thought of the necromancer’s words. What did a lunatic like that know that they didn’t? ‘It is already untenable. The enemy is coming. We cannot simply do nothing and hope for victory. Even high walls and sacred circles can only do so much…’ He trailed off and looked at the map again. ‘But they do enough.’
‘Brother – what is it?’ Knossus asked.
‘We have been asking the wrong question,’ Balthas said, leaning towards the map, trying to see what it didn’t show. ‘Too focused on the where and when, but not the why.’
Knossus looked at him. ‘What do you mean, brother?’
‘If this city is inviolate, why bother attacking? Nagash is not some blood-mad warlord, seeking to impress the Ruinous Powers. He never does anything without purpose. If the dead are mustering, then there is a flaw in our defences. One we are not seeing.’ Balthas turned. A murmur swept through the others, at this. Knossus looked at the map.
‘I hope you are wrong, brother. But I fear that you are not.’
Chapter fifteen
The Fall of Fort Alenstahdt
Juvius Thrawl wrapped his scarf about his face and flung the door to the station office open. Purple sand, cast into the air by the wind, scraped against his exposed flesh as he hurried towards the walls. The portly scribe had an armful of scrolls and records, several of which he dropped as he navigated the cramped courtyard of Fort Alenstahdt.
Made from blocks of sandstone and imported timber, the fort was shaped roughly like a star, with sloping walls and a wide courtyard, dotted with long, timber-frame structures. The station office was one of these, while the others were mostly used as barracks and storehouses. An immense well-house rose from the centre of the courtyard, and was connected to the walls by gantries of rope and wood. Great, tottering stacks of crates, barrels and sacks lined the walls, and groups of Thrawl’s fellow scribes moved among them, recording the contents or preparing them to be transported to Glymmsforge.
From its position, Fort Alenstahdt stood watch over the Great Lyrian Road, a flat serpent of raised stone that stretched across the Zircona Desert from Glymmsforge. It was dotted by duardin-made oases and trading enclaves like the fort, garrisoned by whoever the merchant families of Glymmsforge could pay to do the work. Often, that meant one of the smaller clans of fyreslayers or otherwise uncontracted bands of Freeguild mercenaries.
The fort was a way station, situated amid a nexus of ancient trade routes stretching across the Zircona Desert. Those routes had been set by the great fortress-wagons of the Zirc nomads, which forever trundled across the deserts of the underworld, carrying the tribes from one oasis to the next. The nomads traded shadeglass and other oddities culled from the sands for iron and silver, both of which were in high demand by the desert tribes.
Thrawl sidestepped a pair of scribes arguing with a duardin trader. The duardin thumped a meaty fist into his palm, his tone becoming bellicose. His bodyguards fingered their axes and glared silently at the Freeguild soldiers lounging nearby, watching the proceedings with rude amusement.
The men wore what could laughingly be called a uniform – voluminous breeches of varying shades, tucked into knee-high boots, heavy leather coats made from the hide of some large species of reptile and reinforced caps of the same, hidden beneath the floppy, wide-brimmed hats that seemed to serve only to hide their grinning, scarred faces.
Both wore bandoliers heavy with powder, shot and an assortment of knives, axes and various implements of murder. Their hair and moustaches were long, and intricately braided. Both carried the long-barrelled handguns prized by the members of their company.
The Leatherbacks were a gun company, from the fenlands that stretched across the south of Ghur. As far as Thrawl was concerned, to call them disreputable was to do a disservice to the term. They were all but barbarians, with manners that put orruks to shame. Worse, they were all related, in ways too complex for an outsider to sort out. Thrawl had spent most of his time at the fort navigating a web of internecine alliances, blood feuds and grudges that had the local duardin nodding in appreciation.
But they were hardy warriors, capable of enduring the blistering days and freezing nights without complaint. They had little fear of the deadwalkers that roamed the dunes, and often trapped the hungry corpses in cages to use for target practice. And if they were a bit rough with the Zirc nomads who came to trade, so much the better as far as their employers were concerned.
One of the pair watching the argument lifted his handgun in the general direction of the duardin and sighted down the barrel. The other scratched his throat meaningfully, as the trader’s bodyguards tensed. Thrawl wasn’t concerned. The duardin knew better than to cause a scene, and the Leatherbacks were too lazy to actually start a fight.