Heralds sounded the advance, and the huge army moved relentlessly forward, tired men pushing down their fear and instead summoning their reserves of strength to make this last surge for Seranthia.
Tiesto led from the center while the other high lords and marshals each commanded a formation of warriors: Tingaran legionnaires, Louan grenadiers, Halrana pikemen, and Alturan heavy infantry. Beside Tiesto, the Dain took the huge two-headed hammer from his belt, an almost eager look on his face, and two nearby Halrana muttered prayers as they advanced.
The thud of marching footsteps turned to thunder as the allied army picked up momentum. Tiesto felt both the thrill of the charge and the fear of death overwhelm him in equal parts, but soon even those feelings were replaced by something more primal, the raw emotion of a man charging into battle.
The space between the two formations grew smaller, and now both forces were running at each other, revenants charging the soldiers of the Empire, the men of Tiesto’s army charging back.
The two forces hit.
Everything fell into chaos.
55
“This is mad,” Bartolo muttered.
“If it has a chance of success, we have to try. Quickly, they have yet to see us,” Miro said. “I need you.”
“I’m here. Don’t worry. I’ll keep them from you.”
“This is going to draw them like moths to a flame,” Miro muttered. “Here goes.”
Miro held his zenblade in two hands and looked at the solid gray stone of the Wall. He’d seen his zenblade cut through men without pausing. The zenblade could cut through steel, even through enchanted blades.
Miro’s zenblade could also cut through stone. And if he drew on all of its power, as he planned to now, it would melt a fissure twelve inches high.
Miro drew in a slow, deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest, threatening to leap out of his mouth. He spoke an activation sequence and immediately followed with another, and then a third, until he was chanting.
Fire sparked from one rune to the next, traveling along the length of the blade, sending a rainbow of colors along the glistening steel. Miro’s voice rose as the light grew in intensity, and now he was singing, his voice rising, drowning out all other sound, until all he could hear was the sound of his own voice. He resisted the urge to focus on the activation sequences; to lose his song would be to fail.
The light grew brighter until the zenblade was a solid bar of fire.
Still Miro called on more power, bringing forth the incredible new abilities his sister had imparted to his zenblade, heedless of how much he drained his weapon’s energy.
Miro now held a rod of intense blue flame. His hands shook; the width of the blue light was wider and longer than the steel, the runes projecting the energy outward but protecting Miro’s hands. He could no longer look at his zenblade. To gaze at the blade would blind him.
Miro’s song came strong and even. He leaned forward and pushed.
Miro thrust his zenblade into the gray stone of the Wall.
Sparks fountained in all directions as the stone melted from the pressure of Miro’s thrust and the incredibly fierce heat. Bits of fiery rock splattered onto Miro’s armorsilk and burned his hands, but he pushed away his fear, ignoring the pain on his skin. He couldn’t call forth his armorsilk to protect him, and he instead concentrated on his weapon. He felt the zenblade push in, meeting resistance, but then molten red poured from the Wall.
Still Miro pushed. He cut a gouge into the Wall, and finally his arms were outstretched and he was reaching into his own newly created hole.
Fighting down the pain of his burns and his own fear, Miro let his song run free. He began to walk along the length of the Wall.
Miro took three steps, and then a dozen more, all the time cutting into the stone, nimbly dancing out of the way of the bright yellow molten rock. He was unable to think of anything else, his task completely consuming him, and he continued to walk, faster now.
He had quizzed Killian about the thickness of the Wall. It was a mad plan, but in theory it should work.
Miro’s plan was to bring the Wall down on top of the revenant horde.
He remembered his earlier words: a tree should fall in the direction of the cut. Lord of the Sky, if the Wall fell the wrong way, disaster would follow. Miro hoped Killian had cleared the ramparts as agreed.
As he traveled along its length, Miro was distantly aware of Bartolo protecting him from the relentless attack of the revenants. Blood and hot sparks splattered onto his back in equal measure. He was now in the midst of the enemy warriors fighting each other to climb ladders and throwing themselves against Bartolo, the only man standing between Miro and certain death at their hands.
He was now at the gates.
Miro continued his song, cutting through the wood and iron, until he reached the other side of the gates.
He pushed on.