Sharfy hadn’t known about the two catapults which waited where Anfen had told Izven to send them. They were already reassembled. Any sign of their city of origin — colours worn by their crew, the runes usually scratched into a panel of their wood — had been removed, but their low-built squarish shape looked to Sharfy’s eye like the kind made in Yinfel … how curious. Not a city known for its war machines; they didn’t even use magic-crafting Engineers to enhance their works. One Mayor, then, was in on it, and perhaps only one Mayor. Sharfy thought: Anfen may just start a new war into the bargain here, if he’s not careful …
The crews, huge men whose main purpose in life was to lift big stones, saw Anfen approach and began speaking amongst themselves. Sharfy laughed inside at this fine joke. Catapults? They think catapults will break the Wall? He kept his thoughts from showing and kept waiting for the moment to dawn on Anfen. Maybe he needed a round of launched stones first. Anfen didn’t seem inclined to give the order. He sat on the ground with his legs crossed, head in hands. Sharfy told the crew, ‘Give it a try. Fire.’
The crew looked at one another. ‘Aye, well, yeah, here’s the thing we been wondering. Fire at what, sir?’
‘At what they’re pointed at. The Wall.’
‘Aye, the Wall, sir. Some of us thought that’d be it, only …’ The crew exchanged looks and Sharfy felt acutely embarrassed. ‘Worried about that giant yonder?’ said another of the men, pointing at the one to the west, which had turned its head to watch them.
‘Plenty of time to see it coming,’ said Sharfy, shrugging, though he was, now that they mentioned it, worried about it indeed. ‘Holes just behind us to duck into, if it comes. Go on, fire.’
The crewmen shrugged, food in the belly — s’long as we’re paid, we couldn’t give a fuck how stupid the orders are — and pulled taut the creaking twisting ropes which stored energy for the launch. They loaded up the first round of stones into the bucket, lifting them with grunts and heaves. The catapult’s arm creaked and moaned as it was pulled back, then it sprang forwards, launching the missile. The heavy stone hit the Wall hard, broke into pieces and fell. The other catapult fired, its cargo hitting the Wall higher up than the first, with the same result.
The crewmen looked to Sharfy. ‘Was it to your satisfaction, sir, as much as it was to ours?’ said one. The others laughed.
‘Keep trying,’ said Sharfy, even more embarrassed. They fired again, again, again, until the pile of ammunition had been used up. They had large cudgels for breaking off more stones, if stones could be found, but made no indication of going to seek them. For a moment, Sharfy thought he saw some sign of damage, but the markings on the Wall were just dabs of powdered stone. It wasn’t going to work.
Anfen had sat and watched each flying rock without comment, closing his eyes about halfway through. Sharfy could actually see the ugly moment dawning. It was coming … three, two, one …
Anfen laughed. It was not a good thing for Sharfy to hear, for it was loud, uncaring and building to hysteria. He had seen Anfen walk with steady steps into grave danger and out of it, but hysteria was something he’d never thought the former First Captain capable of.
Anfen drew his sword and held it carelessly as he staggered towards the Wall. Sharfy followed him. The catapult crew, panting and sweating, watched him go. ‘A sword!’ one of them called, while the others laughed. ‘Now that’s a good idea.’
‘You soften it up for us,’ called another.
At the Wall, Anfen raised his sword and swung it: chink. No mark, no crack, nothing. He swung again and again, and beat it with his fists, sometimes laughing, sometimes screaming in rage. Sharfy winced at the senselessness of ruining such a good weapon, newly bought and all, probably one of the last things anyone would buy from an Elvury smith for some time. Panting, exhausted, Anfen sat at last leaning on the Wall and staring ahead.
‘Combination of forces,’ Anfen murmured, ‘that’s what he said. It can be done.’
‘We should go and talk to the Mayors,’ said Sharfy. ‘Things’ve changed. They’ve lost a city. They’ll listen, now. And you have one of them on side already, by the look of things.’
Anfen didn’t reply.
‘There’s an inn not too far. Their ale’s good, the crew were saying.’ Still no answer. ‘Tell you what,’ Sharfy said, angry now; if he didn’t deserve to be agreed with, he could at least be heard. ‘I’ll go sleep there. Maybe for a week.’ He looked nervously at the stoneflesh giant to the west, whose torso had now angled towards them, its interest in them growing. They were probably slow to get going, those ancient guardians, but slower yet to calm down …
‘If you come to your senses any time in the next few days, come have an ale with me.’ Sharfy went to his horse, hopped on and rode away, angling his path for the great dividing road.
Anfen sat there for an hour longer, hoping the giant would come and kill him. The catapult crews had called out to him: ‘Sir? Master?’ but eventually gave up and began the slow task of dismantling the machines.
The late afternoon gloom set in. Anfen stood, looked at the notched, dented sword. It had come up all right, considering how much he’d laid into the Wall. Suddenly he seemed to see himself for the first time in a long while, and was amazed and dismayed by the sight. An attack of stupidity and it lasted a whole week. What the hell am I doing out here?
He was almost inclined to laugh. Some broken rocks, a dented sword, and all the time he’d ridden down the great dividing road, he’d felt a burning sense that the world’s fate hinged solely on him …
And as he succumbed to laughter, he saw someone else approaching. From her outline against the dimming sky, he knew it was her, but then the glimpse of a green dress was gone. Had she been there at all? ‘Hey!’ he called to the catapult crewmen. ‘Did you see her?’
They traded amused looks. ‘Yes, good sir. We see her. Very nice to look at, she is. Would you like us to leave you two alone?’ They roared with laughter. Anfen felt a white-hot flare of anger but he knew the men were right to mock him, however unused to the feeling he was.
He sat back, thinking about Stranger, wondering what she’d say or advise, if she were here. There’d been no sign of her, almost no thought of her since that early morning he’d stumbled out of the underground passage with his arm tired from killing.
A bird cackled its hoarse laughing call, shockingly loud from the bushes to the right of the war machines. The sound startled him, and he looked over only to see a few black feathers gently floating to the ground. Then from behind the scrub emerged a different outline, a limping, hobbling shape, carrying a forked silver staff. That wasn’t Stranger.
Anfen got unsteadily to his feet, heart now beating very hard. The figure’s limp was pronounced. A long tail of black feathers dragged on the ground behind. It threw back a hood and revealed three thick, heavy horns curving from the sides of its skull, and from the middle, which seemed to weigh down its head.
The Arch Mage turned to the catapults, stopped some way from them, raised both arms high. His body seemed to convulse. A wave of air blew from him, at first just sending pebbles and dust scattering before it swept through the catapults, their crewmen and beyond, blasting all of it into piles of rubble and red streaks in the air. The mess scattered a long way. The silence after the last piece had clattered to rest was one of the most complete he’d ever heard.