There were over fifty towers.
Miro and the other soldiers fought over each trench, bloody hand-to-hand combat with explosions raining down from above. One by one the Alturans and Halrana took them, incurring heavy losses and then dispiritedly watching the enemy withdraw to the next trench, with the walls yet to be breached.
And yet despite it all the men in green and brown were actually gaining ground.
The soldiers in the Ring Forts constantly swooped down to harass the imperials and their allies. Unlike the Azure Plains, so far below, the Halrana lands held in enemy hands were easily accessible from Sark and the four other strongholds.
Pressed by the Ring Forts on one side and the Alturan army on the other, the combined forces of Raj Tingara, Raj Torakon and Raj Loua Louna were gradually being pushed back.
Nevertheless, Miro thought, with Petrya in the south and Vezna in the north undeclared, the war could still go in any direction. He hoped that High Lord Tessolar, back in Sarostar, was hard at work securing the support they needed.
The boom of the explosion almost knocked Miro off his feet. It was so loud that he clapped both of his hands to his ears while he ran. The runebomb he and his men had laid been crude — the enchanters didn’t have anything like the skills of the artificers — but it had been large. Very large.
The scene behind him was lit briefly, but the shooting gout of smoke and flame obscured the great enemy encampment. The huge fortress Sark stood mighty above all, glaring down as if angry at the trespassers in Halrana territory. Miro could see the four other peaks of Manrith, Penton, Ramrar and Charing. Under their protection was the border town of Mornhaven.
"Bladesinger, it worked!" a messenger, running alongside him panted. "Should I tell Lord Marshall Leopold?"
Miro nodded, and then realised the messenger couldn’t see him in the darkness. "Yes, tell him there is a breach in the north-western quarter of the wall. Hopefully he’ll send in the ironmen."
~
IT was only recently that a division of Halrana animators had joined them. They made terribly slow progress, weighed down by their equipment and constructs. The train of carts took an age to make the small distance from their fortified camp to the front line. Miro had thought it a terrible disadvantage — their weapons required so much essence that the animators feared activating them until truly necessary.
Then Miro saw them in battle.
It had been a battle of their own choosing, a hard probe at the enemy’s defences, an attack at all sides of the fortified encampment. The army had formed up, a massive force of common Alturan soldiers wielding swords, Alturan veterans with heavy enchanted armour, Halrana pikemen, bladesingers, dirigibles, mortar teams and a motley collection of Halrana partisans armed with whatever weapons they could lay their hands on.
The Halrana animators erected tall steel towers, and then each ascended a tower and took a seat atop its summit. A metal table rested on each animator’s knees, and strange spectacles framed their eyes.
Most of the men had never seen the animators in action before and they stood mesmerised.
Miro carefully watched the animator closest to him. As a bladesinger he was free to move through the lined-up men. From square to square he travelled, weaving through the columns, passing men lined up in perfect symmetry. Finally he stood close, overcome with curiosity.
Behind each tower was one of the great boxed carts. As Miro watched, his head tilted back, the animator spoke an activation sequence. A rune on the animator’s bench flared.
There was a thunderous crash. Many of the men around Miro jumped, exchanging sheepish glances. The doors of the carts had fallen down, exposing the cavernous interiors. Miro looked into the closest cart.
It was filled with row upon row of metal men. The animator spoke again. The ironmen’s eyes lit up — yellow, like the sun. The runes drawn on their bodies glowed. They walked forward, maintaining perfect symmetry.
The closest group passed Miro only paces away. They were as black as night, somehow grotesque, a parody of the human form made of burnished metal. They looked unstoppable. And they nearly were.
Miro still couldn’t believe that day. The animators sat high on their towers, guiding their creations. At a command, the soldiers drew apart, allowing the animators to push hundreds of ironmen forward, leading the army like the crest of a breaking wave.
On that day, hope came back.
~
THE messenger left to pass Miro’s message along. Miro realised he’d lost track of Tuok and the men he’d chosen to fight with.
Tall standards sprouted like trees from the army, identifying units grouped into squares. Between the squares were empty passages to allow the flow of supplies, messengers, reinforcements, and the wounded.