Keeton, still rallying his soldiers on the southern battlements, left for the west instantly. By then Sefita Rayne had four warships in the air, two flying into each battle. It made all the difference. Fighting as a pair so that one vessel warded the other and both had sentries aloft in the crow’s nests watching for the dragon’s return, they hammered the attackers on the ground with onslaughts of rail sling missiles and fire launcher flames alike.
It became a war of attrition on both walls, but the deciding factor was the presence of the warships. The dragon returned briefly, but was sighted quickly in the improving light and met with intense weapons fire from each pair of vessels when it tried to approach. Only once did it get close enough to set fire to one of the light sheaths, but the sheath was cut loose quickly and dropped away before the fire could spread.
On the ground, the defenders kept control of both the south and west walls, and the gates held firm against any number of efforts to force them open. As noon approached, the demon army began to withdraw, leaving their dead and wounded where they had fallen. They turned away with studied indifference to the arrows still tracking them, their rage undiminished. Keeton was appalled that his soldiers had killed so many of them and still the creatures seemed as numerous as ever. He called for a cease-fire from his defenders, not wanting to waste resources that would be needed later.
Below the west wall and on the approach road winding between the now abandoned watchtowers, scavenging beasts from the demon army caught hold of the bodies of fallen defenders and dragged them far enough away that they could feast on them, still within view of those soldiers manning the city walls.
Standing with Wint, peering through the smoke and ash rising from the last of the oil burning in the trough, Keeton watched the remnants of the demonkind slowly disappear into the distance.
“They’ll be back, Commander,” his second said quietly.
Keeton nodded in agreement. “They’ll be back.”
Seersha was exercising on the Home Guard practice field, using various members of the elite corps as sparring partners, when the messenger arrived. He stood to one side looking flushed and impatient until there was a pause in the fighting, then he rushed over.
“The King wishes to see you immediately,” he said.
No matter its portent, this was welcome news. The Druid was eager for anything that would break the monotony of her current life, of endless hours spent waiting for the King to mount an Elven advance into the deep Westland to monitor the prospect of an anticipated demon breakout. She had thought it would happen long before this. She had been certain, after Aphenglow and Arling departed with the Ellcrys seedling, that their grandfather would move quickly to advise the High Council of the danger and then act on it.
She had been wrong.
The old King had waited two more days before telling the High Council of the collapse of the Forbidding, of the fate that had befallen the Druids and their companions, of the warnings given by the Ellcrys of its failing, and of the need to prepare for war.
But the members of the High Council had split into two groups, and the one led by the King’s son Phaedon had urged restraint, arguing that no one really knew anything, as yet. A breakout could be weeks away; the words of a young girl who might or might not have fully understood what the Ellcrys had told her were no reason to dispatch an entire army into the wilderness of the Westland. Better that flits be sent to skim the countryside and search for signs of a breakout. Better that the army be properly mustered and prepared. Better that everyone know more than they did at the moment about what was happening.
In spite of support from both Emperowen and his brother Ellich, the younger Elessedil carried the majority of the Council. Heads in the sand, the lot of them, Seersha had thought at the time. It was especially disappointing when the old King went along with this nonsense. Seersha had been enraged, but resigned to waiting them out. What else could she do? She could take Crace Coram and fly back into the Westland, just the two of them, searching for a way back into the Forbidding. But what she needed was a strong military force so they could withstand an encounter with the Straken Lord and his demonkind.
Admittedly, she kept thinking the King would change his mind, that he would grow impatient and realize that delay in this matter could prove fatal and he must act, High Council support or no. But days went by and nothing happened, and she lacked a way to force the issue. She was a Dwarf, not an Elf—an outsider and a visitor of limited status in Elven country—and all her allies had gone elsewhere save for Crace Coram. More to the point, she was a Druid, and the prevailing view on Druids was that they could not be trusted.
No one was going to listen to her.
But now, at last, after more than a week of waiting, it seemed things might change and the waiting come to an end. She couldn’t imagine another reason the King would summon her. Her impatience to confirm that she was right was matched only by her exhilaration at the prospect of doing something besides sitting around.
Nevertheless, she took time to strip off her protective gear and weapons, gather them up and put them aside, and then straighten her clothes and hair. She would see the King looking somewhat better than a tavern brawler—whatever the news he was about to impart.
A part of her was anxious to make her escape from Arborlon and the Elves because of how uncomfortable she was with both. A fish out of water didn’t begin to describe it. She was a rough-featured Dwarf woman with an eye patch, multiple tattoos, and a body ridged with scars acquired in countless battles both while serving as a Druid and before. She was not openly shunned by the Elves, but she was clearly avoided. Except for a handful of the Home Guards who respected her skills as a fighter and cared nothing for the prejudices harbored by so many others against all things and people Druid, she was pretty much alone. Only Sian Aresh had shown more than a passing interest in spending time with her, talking at length about military tactics and training. But while the Captain of the Home Guard visited with her as often as he could, he was limited by the extent and demands of his duties.
At least she had Crace Coram for regular company, and they had whiled away long hours reminiscing about growing up in the Eastland and the Dwarf communities that had been home to them at various times in their lives. Coram was as impatient with their inactivity as she was, and in the last two days he begun coming to the practice field to spar with her, as well. The two shared the common bonds of Race, homeland, warrior background, and the events of the Druids’ ill-fated journey into the Westland to find the missing Elfstones.
But it was the absence of Aphenglow that really left Seersha feeling isolated and alone. The two had been friends from the beginning of their time together at Paranor. Whatever secrets or private thoughts they chose to reveal, they revealed them to each other first, even after Aphenglow fell in love with Bombax. This sense of closeness had only increased since the rest of the Druid order had been decimated. And now, with Aphen gone in search of the Bloodfire, Seersha felt increasingly isolated.
She finished cleaning up, stowed her fighting gear, and signaled the messenger that she was ready. As she departed the practice field, a few of her sparring partners called out, making tart, rough-hewn comments and wishing her well, bringing a smile to her face. She waved back to them, cheered by the sense of camaraderie.
Things really weren’t so bad, she decided.
With the messenger a few steps ahead, keeping silent and apart as they walked back through the city toward the palace grounds, Seersha found herself studying the young man’s lithe, slender frame and comparing it with her own thick, stocky build. Here was another contrast that served to point up the obvious differences between Elves and Dwarves. She was enormously powerful and could probably crush the messenger’s head between her bare hands. But while she was inordinately strong, she was slow afoot and not particularly agile. She envied him his ability to move so smoothly and with such little effort. She envied all Elves, for that matter. She could never expect to move like that.