In the last war, archers had provided Miro with a decisive advantage, but he knew the coming fight would depend on weaponry with much greater destructive power. Miro’s men would be battling revenants, and the only way to defeat those already dead was to crush the brain, remove the head, or literally tear the bodies to pieces. In order to survive, Miro needed bladesingers and elite swordsman, prismatic orbs, black powder, runebombs, and dirigibles. He had too little of everything.
Miro and Beorn walked from one end of the curving wall to the other, examining the ditches at the ends, the towers and cannon, and the strong iron gate in the center. Miro had liberated cities in Halaran, and he himself had been under siege at Wengwai. He knew the weakest points would be the gate and the extremities. He kept the workers building, but he would never have time to encircle Sarostar. High Enchanter Merlon had reinforced the central gate with the little he knew of the lore of the builders. Miro had done all he could, but would it be enough?
Miro praised his men as he passed; they were hard at work digging and lifting, and when a group of bare-chested soldiers saw their high lord and paused to touch their fingers to their foreheads, Miro shook his head.
“Please, don’t stop, keep going. I’m proud of all of you. Many lives will depend on the work you do today.”
Finally, Miro and Beorn stood outside the iron gate and looked at the approach. The road stretching from Sarostar to Castlemere was broad enough for three wagons to pass side by side, and the surrounding forest was thick, close to impenetrable. The vast majority of Altura’s trade passed along either this route or back via Samson’s Bridge to Halaran, in the east.
“We’re lucky,” Beorn said.
Miro smiled without humor. “How so?”
“The forest is our ally. We know they’re going to travel along this road. If the free cities fall, we know this is where we’ll stop them.”
Miro turned back and looked at the city he’d called home his entire life. “I agree with you on one point. This is where we’ll make our final stand.”
“How does this compare with the defenses at Wengwai?”
“In a word? It’s a good effort, but Wengwai’s defenses were well beyond anything we’ve done.”
“That’s more than a word.”
Miro barked a laugh. “So it is.”
“But we’ve got something the Gokani didn’t have,” Beorn said. He peered at the road to Castlemere as if trying to divine the future. “Lore.”
Miro and Beorn were both pensive for a time as they wondered what effect their weapons and defenses would have on the enemy.
Miro spoke into the silence. “And yet Sentar Scythran has lore of his own, and his power is the one thing we don’t have a counter for.”
“Overwhelm him with numbers? Perhaps bladesingers?”
“We can try.” Miro shrugged. “But it isn’t going to work.”
Miro heard someone call out his name and, turning, saw an older woman with flaxen hair approaching. Never one to use his title, Amelia strode forward briskly as Miro briefly raised his eyes to the heavens.
“Miro,” Amelia said again. “You need to rest. I can’t believe you’ve just arrived from Ralanast and didn’t even stop by the palace. You’re no good to anyone exhausted.” She caught Beorn grinning at Miro’s discomfort. “The same applies to you, Beorn.”
Miro and Beorn exchanged rueful glances.
“How is my husband?” Amelia said.
“Rogan is well,” Miro said. “He misses you and Tapel both. Here,”—he handed Amelia a letter—“this is for you.”
Amelia snatched the letter, clutching it to her chest. “He’s getting too old for this. And the Halrana? What did Tiesto say?”
“High Lord Tiesto is three days behind us. He’s brought everything he could: colossi, ironmen, woodmen and golems . . . as well as regular infantry, pikemen, and their animators of course. Amelia, could you . . . ?”
Amelia let out a breath. “Quarter-master to the army . . .” She shook her head. “Who would’ve thought?” Her expression softened. “Of course, Miro. Beorn can help me. We’ll see they’re fed and housed.”
“Thank you,” Miro said.
“Speaking of being fed . . .” Amelia said.
“We’ll finish up here in a few hours, and then I promise you, we’ll go back to the Crystal Palace for a meal.”
“I’ll expect you there,” Amelia said. “No excuses.”
Evening found Miro at the Crystal Palace, sitting with his Council of Lords, trying to find gilden for the Louans. They examined every aspect of Altura’s finances, from the storehouses of grain to the stocks of enchanted weapons and armor. They were revisiting old ground; there simply wasn’t any money left.
Miro dismissed his lords and rubbed at his temples. His next task would be to go to the coast to inspect the defenses at Castlemere, a journey of several days. He was relieved to be back in Altura; if Sentar came now, at least Miro was close. But being back simply reminded him how much there was to do.
And it wouldn’t end. Even if they waited month after month, Miro would have to keep building, training, feeding, housing, trading, governing . . . It wouldn’t end, not until they came.
And then the end might be all too near.
“You look exhausted,” a voice said.