It was too loud to be believed, screams splitting the air, making any kind of communication nearly impossible. Arrows flew thicker than raindrops in a storm, their dark heads gleaming in the furylight, shattering where they struck stone or good Aleran steel—but Amara watched as one grizzled old veteran pitched back from the wall, the dark shaft of an arrow piercing his throat, and another man dropped motionless in his tracks, six inches of haft and fletching showing from the burst socket of his eye.
“Hold!” Pirellus bellowed. “Hold!”
The legionares fought with ruthless efficiency. Regardless of the incredible grace of the Marat rushing up the scaling poles, they thrust home spears with deadly accuracy into Marat flesh. Pale barbarians fell from the walls, back into the savage throng beneath, drawing further cries from those below. Again and again, Legion spearmen repelled the Marat assaults, shoving the scaling poles back down, driving the warriors clambering up them back with cold steel. The legionares fought together, each man with his shield partner, so that while one would engage the enemy’s weapon, the other would drive a spear home with a short, hard thrust at the vitals or a leg, toppling the attacker from their precarious position atop the walls. Blood stained the Aleran spears, the legionares’ shields and armor, and spattered thick on the battlements, mute testimony to the courage of the Marat attackers.
Below Amara’s feet, she could hear the steady thud and thump of the ram being driven at the gates — but suddenly found herself whirling to the walls as a savage-eyed Marat swung himself up between two merlons from a scaling pole and swept a heavy wooden club at her head.
Amara ducked the blow, dodged a second swipe that came straight down at her shoulder and whirled to whip her blade across the Marat’s heavy thighs, opening the pale flesh in a sudden river of blood. The Marat screamed and toppled toward her, club flailing. Amara moved lightly to one side, thrusting her short blade at the Marat’s ribs as he fell past, feeling the weapon sink home, the quivering, twisting jerk of the Marat’s scream something that coursed through the metal and into her hands. Half revolted, exultant at having survived the exchange, she let out a scream and jerked the sword back, leaping back from the Marat warrior as he tumbled limply down to the courtyard beneath the wall.
She looked up, panting, to find Pirellus staring at her. He nodded, once, and then called, “Try to throw them back down the wall on the outside. We don’t want clutter where our own troops are moving around.” Then he turned back to his study of the ground below, almost absently frowning when a stone arrow-tip shattered against the crest of his helmet.
Amara chanced a look over the wall, out at the chaos below, and arrows whistled through the air toward her as soon as she did. She jerked her head back and down, to find Bernard crouched next to her. The Steadholder, too, took a glance over the wall, before half rising to a crouch, to lift his bow, drawing the arrow back to his cheek. He aimed for a breath, then loosed the arrow, which threaded its way between a pair of legionares to sink into the ribs of a Marat with a steel axe who had gained the wall over a stunned legionare with a dent in his helmet. The force of the arrow’s impact drove the Marat back over the wall, and he vanished as he fell.
“Spotted their general yet?” Bernard called to her.
“I can’t see anything!” Amara shouted. “They shoot whenever I look!”
“No helmet,” Bernard said. “I’d shoot at you, too.”
“That’s a comfort, thanks,” Amara said, wry, and the Steadholder grinned at her, before standing up to loose another arrow into the crowd below and drop back down behind the wall again.
Amara stood up to take another look — but Bernard caught her wrist. “Don’t,” he said. “They’re getting packed in down there. Keep your head down.”
“What?”
In answer, he nodded toward Pirellus. Amara turned her head to look at the man and saw him point a finger off to one side at a pair of men, standing behind heavy ceramic pots, and three armored Knights who stood behind them, with no weapons in their hands.
“Firepots?” Amara asked, and Bernard nodded. She watched, as Pirellus lifted his sword and then dropped it, a swift signal.
The two men with the firepots—earthcrafters, surely, for only they could lift the man-sized pots of coals so easily— heaved them up and over the wall, to crash down into the Marat on either side of the gate.
Pirellus signaled the three men behind them, and the Knights, as one, lifted their arms and faces to the sky, crying out over the screams and din of battle.
The fire answered them in a roar that deafened Amara and rattled her teeth against one another. Heat swept up, and sudden, brilliant light, scarlet and murderous in contrast to the cool blue furylights, a wind that roared upward, lifting Amara’s hair up off her neck. A column of fire shaped like some huge winged serpent rose above the battlements, curled back down, and crashed to the earth below.
The battlements mercifully shielded her from seeing what happened to the Marat caught in the sudden storm of living flame, but in the wake of that fire, as its roar died away to echoes, she heard them screaming, men and wolves alike, screaming in terror and in pain, high and breathless. There was madness in those screams, frustration, futility, terror beyond anything that she had heard before — and there was something else: the sure and certain knowledge of death, death as a release from an agony as pure and hot as the flames that had caused it.
A smell rose from the ground before the battlements in those silent moments after, the scent of charred meat. Amara shuddered, sickened.
A silence fell, broken only by screams and moans, coming from the ground below. She rose and looked down, over the ground before the walls. The fire serpent had broken the Marat, sent them and their wolves howling away from the walls of Garrison. At a command from Pirellus, the archers stepped forward and sent arrows arching into the retreating barbarians with deadly accuracy, dropping more to the earth, clutching at the barbs piercing their flesh.
She couldn’t see much of the ground immediately beneath the walls, for which she felt silently grateful. The smell of burned hair and worse nearly overwhelmed her, until she bade Cirrus to keep it from her nostrils and mouth. She leaned a hand against the battlements and stared out at the blood-soaked, scorched earth, littered with a carpet of pale-haired bodies.
“Furies,” she breathed. “They’re not much more than children.”
Bernard stepped up beside her, his face pale, grim, eyes hidden in shadows beneath his helmet. “Young warriors,” Bernard said. “Their first chance to prove themselves in battle. That was Wolf Clan. One more to go.”
Amara glanced at him. “They send their youngest to fight?”
“To fight first. Then, if they survive, they can join the adult warriors in the main battle.”
She looked back at the field and swallowed. “This is only a preliminary to them. It isn’t over.”