Tamas finally reached the lip of the wall where he paused to rest before taking a deep breath and lifting himself to look over the edge.
Farthing was already on a parapet, securing a rope to toss down behind them. Body trembling, Tamas pulled himself over and set about lowering his own rope. Together they secured a third, then Tamas leaned over to wave to the three almost imperceptible figures below.
He watched them begin their climb, then turned his attention to the towers. Reaching the top, as he’d told them before the climb, was not the end of their woes. It was only the beginning. His heart hammering in his chest, he drew his knife and approached the nearer of the two towers.
The guardhouse in the tower was quiet, dark, and cool. He could sense the black powder inside, enough charges for two men. Slowly he pushed open the door, wincing as it creaked, only to be greeted by the sound of snoring.
Tamas crouched beside the two Gurlish guards, watching the rise and fall of their chests. They were slumped together, their faces haggard but peaceful, deep in the sleep of the exhausted. Their uniforms were torn and dirty, patched in a dozen places with whatever material they could find during the siege. He found himself hesitating as he raised his knife. As much as he scoffed at the idea of a gentlemanly war, this was different than combat on the parapets or in the field. This was murder.
But what, he reasoned, was a pair of cold-blooded murders next to the lives of all the Adrans who would die trying to take this place?
He cut the throat of the first, and then stabbed the second twice, jerking the blade quickly in and out, once in the lung and once in the heart. He left them to die, resting against each other as they had in sleep, and wiped the blood off his knife.
He found the cannons in the dark, his trance-fueled preternatural senses allowing him to see better than most. He produced a barbed spike from his belt and positioned it above the touchhole of one cannon, raising his hammer, eyes on the sky through the window. Lightning flashed, and he brought the hammer down as the crash of thunder followed. He did the same five more times, three strikes to drive each spike, before heading back out to find Farthing and the others.
They had cleared the opposite tower, their knives dripping. Tamas gathered them around with a gesture, and pointed at the next tower. “Spike as many cannons as you can,” he said quietly. “Once you hear an alarm, run for the ropes and get off the wall as quickly as possible.”
“What do you mean?” Lillen asked, adjusting her sodden jacket. “I thought we were using the well for our exit?”
“A watery grave,” Tamas said, shaking his head. “A story to get Seske to let us make the attempt.”
“We won’t torch their munitions?” Farthing asked with a scowl. “I’ll do it,” Tamas said. “Alone.”
“You’ll get yourself killed.”
“I can move faster than all of you together. I’ll light their munitions and be back here before you’re done. Time’s wasting. Move.”
He stifled the rest of the protests and exchanged his hammer, spikes, and boot knife with Farthing for a long fixed-blade knife and a loaded pistol. He checked to make sure the powder was dry before heading around the length of the wall, alone, and into the spiral staircase of the nearest tower.
He reached the bottom without incident and paused beside a thick wooden door, listening. Low voices reached him above the distant thunder. Opening the door a crack, he spied a small group of Gurlish soldiers squatting in a circle, playing dice by the light of a single oil lamp. He watched them for a moment, absently drawing a new powder charge to sprinkle on his tongue.
The grit of the powder between his teeth, Tamas drew Farthing’s knife and took one long, deep breath.
He dashed into the guardhouse, clearing the space between the door and the gambling infantrymen in two long strides. His heart thumped, the power of the powder trance flowing through him, making the infantrymen’s every movement seem slow and unwieldy.
He killed the quickest of them as he went for his musket. The second lost her life to a flick of Tamas’s knife, while the third managed to draw his own and deflect Tamas’s slash as he leaped for the door, a cry on his lips. Tamas jumped after him, reversing his grip on the blade midair and ramming it into the base of the man’s spine, jerking it free and sinking it once more between his ribs.
Tamas turned as the fourth guard brought the stock of his musket to bear, slamming it across Tamas’s jaw with enough force to drop a camel. Tamas staggered back, his head ringing from the blow, grateful for the powder trance that kept him coherent. He caught the next swing of the musket and jerked it out of the guard’s hands, jamming the stock into the man’s throat. The Gurlish collapsed, gasping and gurgling.
Tamas’s hands shook from the speed of the fight, his chest heaving. His head pounded, and there was a slash across his thigh – a distant burn from within the powder trance. It was hard to think through the fog, and his preternatural sight seemed adversely affected by the blow to his head. More powder did nothing to help.
The temptation to retreat back up the tower and follow the squad back over the wall was strong. Surely they’d spiked enough of the cannons? Would destroying their munitions really make a difference?
Of course it would. Spiking the cannon would hobble the garrison. Destroying the munitions would destroy their spirit and perhaps even force a surrender without the need for any more Adran blood. Tamas couldn’t stop here. He was too close. His men needed him.
He could sense a large concentration of powder down below the next tower. But he had to move fast.
He dashed to the next guardhouse without incident, looking up through the rain to check on the squad’s progress. He could see dark figures hunched over the cannons, moving along the wall slowly. No alarm.
Yet.
He broke the chain to the grated door of the munitions dump with a few sturdy blows of the butt of his knife, then crept down the stairs in complete darkness where even the vision from his powder trance, impaired as it was, only gave him the slightest impression of stairs and walls.
The stairwell became cool and quiet, the sound of the rain gone, thunder muffled above him as he descended. The stairs led down into an open room where he could sense the barrels heavy with gunpowder. using the knife, feeling his way, Tamas went about prying the lids off several before upending them, kicking them haphazardly across the room. He could taste the dust from the black powder on his lips.
He snatched up one powder keg and left a line of powder from the center of the room to the edge of the stairs, where drew a demolition cord from his pocket and unraveled it up the first few steps. He pressed pinch of black powder against the tip of the cord and then concentrated, focusing on the powder with his sorcery.
The cord flared to life, illuminating the munitions room, throwing shadows on the walls. Tamas watched it burn for several moments, finding himself enraptured by the flickering ember as it hissed toward the black powder.
Until something caught his ear.
The shout was distant, muffled, but it had him on his feet in a fraction of a second, sprinting up the stairs to the courtyard. He burst out of the munitions room and into the chaos of men shouting in Gurlish. Half a dozen soldiers poured out into the rain from the barracks, their muskets raised at the four figures racing across the top of the walls. Tamas reached out with his senses, lighting their powder with his mind. The explosions blew apart the muskets, searing Gurlish faces. One unlucky man with a powder horn hanging around his waist was ripped clear in half by its detonation.
Three men emerged from the nearest guardhouse. Tamas threw himself forward, knife drawn, making short, bloody work of the soldiers before dashing inside. He drew his pistol as he mounted the stairs, listening to the shouts of the Gurlish as soldiers swarmed the courtyard. He reached out with his senses, detonating all the powder he could reach.