What’s going on? What are you seeing? Jerydd shouted in his head.
Mawyndul? watched with delight as lightning struck the Gula, killing them. Flash, crackle, drop. Flash, crackle, flame. Over and over the storm delivered an unnatural series of killer bolts that left him seeing after-streaks. These Rhunes did not wear the special armor, and strike after strike, the lightning killed. While dozens of bolts fired at the same time, there were still thousands and thousands of Gula charging at them, big hairy brutes with spears and rough wooden shields. Clearly, the Fhrey could easily kill several hundred but then be slaughtered by the rest.
How can there be so many? They’re like rats.
His father realized the danger as well. “Onya, create a firewall.”
A firewall? Why? Jerydd asked.
A moment later, as the barbarians threw themselves into a wailing run, a ten-foot wall of flames appeared between the Gula and the last cohort of Shahdi. This flaming fence began in the middle of the field, then rapidly ran out to either side.
Mawyndul? didn’t understand why the Spiders didn’t just blast the savages with torrents of flame. Their strategy became clearer as the wall began to move. It curled around, driving the Gula west toward the Bern River—toward the cliff.
“Fire the bridges,” the fane ordered, and in a few seconds, fire appeared on all seven of them.
Have you become deaf or just stupid? Jerydd asked, his tone an ever-increasing whine of frustration. Answer me. What are you seeing?
He’d asked the same question every few minutes since the battle started. At first, Mawyndul? had complied, whispering descriptions, but he grew tired of narrating. He found the process irritating and demeaning. He hadn’t invited Jerydd to sit in his head that morning and felt no obligation to relay information like some courier.
“Push them off the cliff,” his father said. “Not too fast—a slow and steady creep. I want them to have the opportunity to ponder their fate. Give them time to choose between jumping to their death or burning alive.” The fane picked up his wine once more and sat down. He swirled the contents in the cup. “This is the way my mother used to do it. Show them what it means to go to war against the Miralyith,” he said, staring out at the thousands beyond the wall of fire that marched unerringly forward. “This is your reward.” He gestured to the servant to fill another cup. “Have some wine, Mawyndul?. I don’t like to drink alone.”
His father was in a dark but generous mood, at least toward him.
Mawyndul? didn’t answer. The sight and the anticipation were fascinating. An unrelenting wall of fire drove more people than he’d ever seen in one place toward a sheer drop. A few Rhunes tried to run through. He saw them catch fire and fall. When the wall moved past, he could see their scorched bodies, lumps in a smoking black field. As the wall pressed, those caught inside were squeezed. Those in the rear, row by row, line by line, began to slip into the chasm.
“It’s coming,” Synne said.
“What is?” the fane asked.
“The light,” she said, pointing up at the sky.
Mawyndul? looked toward the fortress and spotted the dark winged creature coming at them. The dragon that had breathed fire was getting larger by the second, and Mawyndul? already thought it was pretty big.
“Synne,” his father said. “Use lightning. Kill it.”
Lightning crackled and a jagged finger of blue-white light struck the beast. It didn’t even dip with the impact, didn’t fall. It barely altered its flight. Again and again, Synne jolted the dragon with bolts. The thing kept coming.
Damn you, Mawyndul?! What are you seeing?
“The Art…” Synne sounded confused. “The Art has no effect on it.”
No effect? Jerydd said in his head. That doesn’t make sense. What does it look like? Scratch that. What does it feel like? Look at it with the eyes of the Art.
“A bright light. Looks and feels like…power,” Mawyndul? said softly.
Power?
“Feels like the Art.”
Art doesn’t affect Art, Mawyndul?. If what you say is true, they are trying to burn a fire, or flood an ocean. It won’t work.
“Jerydd says the dragon is the Art, and the Art can’t damage itself,” Mawyndul? told his father.
The fane glanced at Mawyndul?, his eyes losing confidence. Once more, he set down his wine and stood up.
The beast was crossing the chasm, wings beating in a steady rhythm, tail straight out behind it. Larger and larger it became.
How big is it? Mawyndul? thought. How can that be the Art?