Michael Stackpole - The New World

“You’ll get the chance tonight.”

“I know.” He nodded toward a spot further down the wall. “It will be from there.”

“Go.”

As he departed, Dunos reappeared. “The count thanks you. If you feel plans are in error, he bids you send me to him with new information.”

“There’s no mistake.”

Dunos drew my old sword. “Then I am ready.”

The determination in his voice made me smile. I guided him to a crenel. “Watch what arrogance will make a man do.”

The enemy’s drumming shifted tempo, announcing a new attack. Troops marched forward through the darkness. They had to see the walls and the fires. They doubtless breathed prayers to Wentoki or Kojai or even Grija, hoping the gods would see them through the fight. Officers shouted orders and encouragement, but many wanted to run.

I knew because I could remember that far back.

As the enemy reached the edge of the firelight, their ordered formations melted into screaming masses. Men bearing long ladders, swords, and bows raced forward, yelling fiercely to scare those they faced. Men in their midst bore standards identifying troops from Moryth and the other of the Five Princes or Erumvirine or even western Nalenyr.

Nelesquin, having lost any advantage of surprise, sent our own people against us. “He’ll let us destroy our brothers, Dunos, to learn what we have in store for his kwajiin.”

“Teach him a lesson, then, Master.”

I snapped a fan open and raised it. Trumpets blasted. I brought my hand down sharply and nines of small siege engines launched their missiles. The ballistae lofted clouds of arrows. They cut swaths through the charging soldiers. Some men died pierced by three or four, which then held them upright-bloody, twitching scarecrows guarding fields of carrion.

Catapults hurled earthenware globes. These had not been filled with fire. I would have gladly immolated kwajiin, but men, no. Instead we used other things. These vessels shattered, scattering caltrops. They always landed with a spike pointing upward, and that spike punched through sandals with ease. Soldiers screamed and limped back, or sat and pulled the spikes from their feet.

Elsewhere along the line, tightly wrapped bales of smoldering vaear — root arced through the air. So effective at settling the stomach when brewed as a weak tea, vaear — root burst into flame as it flew. The riverine breeze sent the thick smoke south and east, choking the battlefield. When inhaled it induced vomiting and dizziness in some, blindness in others. The truly unfortunate saw horrible visions. Coughing men staggered and fell, some clawing at their eyes.

Most retched and wept.

Our archers stepped up to display their skills. They shot anyone who came into range-putting arrows through their limbs. That was by Count Derael’s order. A dead man is simply dead. A wounded man has friends who hear his screams. He must be rescued and a wounded man eats as much as a hearty one but doesn’t fight.

Nelesquin’s drums beat a retreat. Men abandoned their ladders. They formed chains, dragging themselves and their compatriots south. Soon enough, all that remained on the battlefield slithered, crawled, or begged to die.

“Have we won?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

The drums changed their beat. “Now he comes in earnest.”

25th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Moriande, Nalenyr

Ciras relished the tight press of the battle mask against his face. The mask’s long white fangs jutted down and blood stained the corners of his mouth. He knew well the effect of such a fearsome visage, yet Ciras wished he could go into battle without it.

The mask hid him from the enemy. He wanted them to know whom they faced. He wanted to be feared not for what he wore, but for his skills in combat. He was worthy of their fear.

He sat astride his mount with the other Voraxani. He’d not yet hit the switch that would extend the armor and spikes. While there was no pretending that he was on a real horse, he didn’t want to be part of a war machine. The other champions of the Empress seemed to have no trouble with it, but it still didn’t feel right to him.

At the further end of the plaza, crews operated their ballistae. They drew the arms back and locked the pusher plates in place. Some they loaded with stone or cast-iron balls. Others took sheaves of arrows with broadheads fully a handspan long. At a signal from the wall, lanyards were yanked, missiles flew into the darkness, and the whole process began again.

The ballistae crews fought earnestly and hard but he could not think of them as being his equal. They dealt death, but did so anonymously. They did not see their enemies die.

That made them no more honorable than the gyanrigot soldiers lined up in the plaza. The machines could not care. They could not grieve. They could not consider mercy, nor could they beg for it. They knew no fear. They just killed until destroyed themselves-inexorable, implacable harvesters of souls.

Courage and discipline were vital. The automatons were slaves to their commands. Some took that for perfect discipline, and some mistook their lack of fear for courage, but it was the antithesis of courage. Courage was to face down the very fears the gyanrigot could not even recognize. Courage was to fight on in spite of looming disaster.

Trumpets blared, calling the Voraxani to alert. Guards stationed at the western sally port hauled away on thick ropes. Crossbars swung up. Sweaty, loincloth-clad men turned capstans. The gate swung outward.

With Vlay Laedhze in the lead, the Voraxani poured onto the battlefield.

Things had developed much as Moraven Tolo had predicted. The city’s main southern gate was its weakest point, so the assault had been concentrated there. The first wave of humans had broken. The battlefield lay littered with casualties-be they still or crawling back toward their own lines. They had been a distraction while the boring beasts had tried to tunnel beneath the walls. Neither of those ploys had worked, so Nelesquin had shifted tactics.

Conventional siege machines rolled along the Imperial Highway. A massive ram mounted within a long wagon led the parade. A roof over the top and shields covering the front and sides protected the men as they pushed the creaking machine forward. Two siege towers came next, each as tall as the city’s walls. Along line of kwajiin soldiers propelled the towers along the road. Once they had them in position, they’d mount the towers and hurry across bridges to top the wall. Soaking-wet hides covered both the towers and the rams’ roofs to repel fire.

The kwajiin were the antithesis of the gyanrigot warriors. Their standards, terrible and yet glorious, had been affixed to the machines, proclaiming pride in past deeds. The warriors chanted rhythmically and the engines moved in time with that music. Even the rams’ steel-shod points swayed with the tempo, seeming eager to pound the city’s gates to pieces.

Formations of men flanked the engines, though marching through the corpse-strewn fields slowed their advance. Nelesquin’s monsters and conscript attendants hemmed them in, preventing defections. The hammer-headed xonarchii pulled wagons, like children’s carts, bulging with smaller stones. They’d dig a hand in, raise it, and throw, scattering rocks against the walls and battlements. Men toppled, screaming, and the kwajiin cheered.

The men of Moriande answered with well-aimed arrows and flights of their own stones.

The mounts’ hoofbeats pounded up into Ciras. The Voraxani drove at the monsters. The conscripts shouted warnings and bared swords. The warnings turned to screams as the Voraxani appeared on their metal mounts, festooned with spikes and blades.