Miro watched as the Black Army drew closer to the first of the white marker stones. As the enemy passed the line, the eight dirigibles blinked into existence as their charge of essence was depleted and the shadow wore off. Miro released his breath. He hadn’t even realised he was holding it. They had lasted.
The dirigibles dropped their loads of orbs in a black rain. Men and dirt flew in all directions as the prismatic orbs exploded in blue fire. The airships turned to fly back to the protection of the defenders, enemy mortars shooting up at them in a fiery hail. Five of the dirigibles were hit. Three escaped.
Miro looked on, his chest squeezing his heart like a vice, as the stricken pilots activated the new sequence that had been built into their airships. He had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Pilot Varoun was in their number.
As they struck the ground, the airships self-destructed, taking their pilots with them, along with vast numbers of the enemy.
Still, the Black Army came on.
They reached the second of the white markers. Miro’s four great catapults released their loads — hundreds of smooth stones from the river. They hadn’t had the essence to enchant the stones, it had been Marshal Beorn’s idea to instead enchant heatplates and bring the stones to an incredible temperature. Miro almost felt sorry for the Black Army. Almost.
The air whistled as it was seared by the countless projectiles. They hit the enemy like a giant squashing thousands of men with his foot. The soldiers simply went down.
They were soon replaced. The weight of their numbers pushing them forward was simply too great.
The enemy now began their own catapult bombardment. The tall earthworks had been enchanted to the strength of iron. Miro now watched to see if it would hold. He saw a mighty boulder sail through the air. It flew over the barricade to crash into an Alturan mortar team, exploding on impact, tearing them to pieces.
Miro caught the ashen faces of the commanders around him. His face stayed impassive.
The Black Army reached the third of the white markers. The Alturan and Halrana mortar teams began their bombardment. Orbs fell down from the sky. Miro watched an avenger go down in a haze of blue fire. He saw the bodies of legionnaires scorched black, and then trodden into ash by the surging men behind them.
The men in green and brown roared their defiance.
Still, the Black Army came on.
An imperial avenger ran ahead with its strange gait, the point of a wedge of countless soldiers. It passed the fourth white marker. A dozen bladesingers materialised, high on a hill, their armoursilk flaring like the sun. Miro could hear their great song from where he stood. Part of him longed to be with them in that fierce charge. They smashed into the side of the attackers, blood spurting like an irregular fountain. Miro could see Bartolo rampaging through the enemy, his zenblade like a purple flame. An avenger went down, followed by a second.
Their advance momentarily halted, the enemy began to pile up against the extreme force of the world’s finest swordsmen. But from his vantage point, Miro could see the enemy’s momentum building, unstoppable as the tide.
He watched as one bladesinger went down, followed by a second. Then Miro saw Bladesinger Huron go down as another avenger was destroyed.
"Pull out," Miro muttered. "Pull out!"
As though they heard his command, eight bladesingers left the fray to regroup behind friendly lines.
The Black Army continued their assault, an avalanche of men. The fifth white stone was reached.
The bottoms dropped out of a camouflaged series of ditches, as deep as the height of two men, lined with sharpened wooden spikes. As Lord Rorelan had said, "Forget about essence for a moment; the old tricks are often the best."
An avenger fell and was impaled, roaring like thunder. Miro saw hundreds, thousands of men fall to their deaths, unable to stop because of the weight of the men pushing them from behind. It was sickening, a massacre. Legionnaires ran over the bodies of their comrades. The corpses became bridges over the trenches.
Miro watched as a group of soldiers in the orange of Vezna threw something into a ditch. Suddenly a great vine bloomed out, forming a platform over which the men advanced. Behind them, Miro could see the tops of the Veznan nightshades, scores of them preparing to wreak havoc on the defenders.
And then the Black Army reached the embankment.
The avalanche rolled over the wall, men clambering on top of each other to spill over the raised earthworks. Steel points and flailing limbs were everywhere in a massed confusion as the defenders fought to hold back the tide.
"Send in the reinforcements," Miro said.
"But, sir..."
"Now!"