Chapter Six

Hal stared down from the battlement as scouts and dragoons of the oncoming Roche army sacked the outskirts of Paestum.

Overhead, two dragons soared, banking back and forth in the stormy winds coming onshore. Hal supposed they were observing for the Roche commanders, comfortably behind the lines, planning the assault.

Centuries ago, when Deraine had seized by force of arms the seaside city on the border of Sagene and Roche that became Paestum, they'd made it impregnable with high stone walls, sixteen feet thick, covering the peninsula the town occupied from both sea and land assault. Time passed, and Paestum, the most prosperous trading port along the Chicor Straits, had built up to those walls and beyond. After all, it was unlikely there'd be war again, certainly not between the three most powerful countries in the known world.

These suburbs had given fine cover for the Roche army as it entered the city. Cavalry, dragoons and lancers, had been the first to attack the Deraine lines on the outskirts, under the cover of a sorcerous fog. The untrained Deraine, in a moil of confusion, hesitated, and Roche smashed two waves of experienced assault troops into them.

The Deraine fell back, not quite breaking, through the outskirts of Paestum into the ancient fortress.

Hal had been very grateful that he'd been guarding the wall with his newly-issued unsharpened sword, dented shield, and leather armor. That had been—what, he thought dully -three, no four days ago. Or maybe more.

Hal had been assigned to a cavalry formation that lacked only one thing—their horses. He was supposed to be on guard half the day, the rest on other duties including eating and sleeping time. But there'd been continual panics, cries to man the parapets and such, so he didn't remember the last time he'd had two hours of quiet, let alone sleep.

Now Roche was bringing up its main force—Hal had seen, before the storm roared in on them, caterpillar-like columns in their brightly-colored, if campaign-stained, uniforms moving steadily toward the city.

Two soldiers manned a dart thrower in the nearby tower, a pedestal-mounted bow, arms of rigid iron bars. Tension came from hair skeins. The soldiers wound it back to full cock, aimed, and sent a long bolt flashing high at one dragon. The bolt missed by a dozen feet, and the dragon's rider pulled it higher. The next dart fell well below the beast, and the two continued circling.

Roche, fearless and confident, had sent four dragons against the men on the walls after the city was invested. They'd torn several men off the parapets to their deaths, then the dart throwers had been brought up under cover of night.

The bolts, a yard long, iron-headed, tore into the dragon formation when they attacked the next day. Two dragons had been hit hard, and, screaming, snapping at the huge arrows stuck in their bodies, had pinwheeled to the ground. Crossbowmen finished off the one that still floundered in the muck, its rider already sprawled in death beside it. The other dove into a burning building, and both animal and rider had howled down into death.

After that, the dragon fliers were more cautious, flying at greater altitude, doing no more than observing.

Hal looked up at them, wishing he were up there, even in this building storm, a storm that everyone said had been brought by magic, the magic of Roche, so that Deraine wouldn't be able to reinforce Paestum from across the Straits.

Hal didn't know, didn't care about that. But he figured the Roche couldn't try to climb the walls while this wind blew, and squally rain sheeted down.

He scanned his sector again. No movement, save the occasional scuttle of looters. Then he smelt smoke, and saw flames rising from one house, then another.

The Roche had fired the abandoned homes and businesses of the suburbs. Whether deliberately or by accident Hal didn't know. Probably looters had done it, in drunken accident, for nothing happened for an hour or so.

He heard shouts from behind him, looked across, saw a procession coming up the ramp to the next parapet. He was grateful they weren't coming to him—he'd already learned one of a soldier's greatest lessons: that anyone of higher rank showing up can only mean trouble.

The group consisted of four men, wearing the gaudy green and yellow uniform of the King's Protectors of Paestum, the supposedly elite regiment that guarded Paestum's governor, high-ranking officials, nobility and interesting things like the treasury.

Behind them were two young men, heavy-laden with boxes and cases, wearing expensive civilian garb.

Following was the reason for this procession: an impressively-bearded man, wearing dark robes and tall red cap, stalking along with dignity, followed by four more guards.

Hal decided this might be interesting. Interesting things attracted attention, so the first thing he did was plan his retreat—half a dozen steps to the nearest tower and its stairs, then inside against any danger.

That settled, he watched the show, about a hundred feet away, as the magician's acolytes opened box after box, spread out rugs and set up braziers. Incense went into the braziers, and the magician touched each brazier, lips moving.

In spite of the wind and occasional rain, the incense smoked into life. A crosswind took the smoke under Hal's nose, and he coughed. It was a smell not to his liking, of spices far too strong and unknown.

One of the acolytes and a guard turned and scowled in his direction.

Hal put on an innocent air, and walked his rounds until they lost interest.

Evidently, magicians needed silence to work their crafts.

Ribbons were laid out in intricate patterns atop the carpets, and the two acolytes took up stations, each holding a long taper.

Two gestures by the wizard, and the tapers smoked into flame.

The sorcerer picked up a huge book, very ancient and decrepit, opened it, and began chanting.

Hal shivered, for the chanting came very clear to him, in spite of the wind, and grew louder. He didn't know the words as the chant grew louder and louder, the voice deeper in pitch, almost sounding as if no human throat could produce these sounds.

The magician gestured three times toward the Roche lines, and each time thunder slammed against Hal, though he saw no lightning.

The wind backed, then cut, and a flash of sunlight came through the clouds.

The wizard must be casting a counterspell against the storm conjuration.

The dark clouds that had raced overhead broke for certain, a sunny rift growing like a huge arrow over Paestum.

Then the wizard screamed. Hal jolted, saw the man stagger, hurl his grimoire high in the air in a spasm, tear at his robes.

Fire gouted from the tapers, took the two acolytes, curled like a living thing, and reached a red and black hand for the sorcerer.

He was shrieking, possibly a spell, but the fire-magic was stronger, taking him, and his body roared into flames. He pirouetted, fell, clawing at his body as it burnt.

Hal dove for his cover, out of sight, heard more screams, chanced peering out, saw all of the men on the parapet, soldiers and acolytes, writhe and die in agony.

Then the storm wind began once more.

The next day, at dawn, the Roche attacked.

They struck three times that day, with long ladders covered by archers sheltering in the ruins. Each time they were driven back, the last with cauldrons of boiling pitch.

All was quiet for two days, then Roche soldiers built a heavy wooden passageway to the walls. Flaming pitch was poured down to fire it, but the passage's roof was covered with animal hides, constantly soaked with water.

It crept toward the part of the wall Hal was guarding, butted against it.

Dull thudding began, and word came—Roche was digging a mine under the wall to collapse it.

"Arright, you stumblebums, pay attention," Sancreed Broda grated.

The fifty soldiers were instantly silent.

Broda was a puzzlement, and a terror, to them all, officer to recruit. He was old, hard, with a scarred face and ropy-muscled body. He wasn't a member of Hal's cavalry unit, nor was he in uniform. He wore leather breeches so stiff with dirt they could have stood of their own accord, a yellow shirt that might have been white once, some time before the war started, and a leather jerkin even dirtier than his pants. On his feet were some sort of slippers, and a silk scarf was knotted around his long gray hair. He was armed with a hammer, and Hal had seen him use it twice on Roche who'd gotten to the top of "his" wall, grinning madly through yellow, rotting teeth.

No one knew why he was in charge, only that he was, and the gods help anyone who questioned that, although no one had seen him do anything worse than growl at the men under his command.

"This 'ere's a real official docyment from our rulers, gods bless 'em and give 'em royal assaches," Sancreed went on. "It's got all kindsa praise for you lummocks, on account of you're standin' in the most dangerous spot in Paestum, the thin whatever-color-you-yoinks-are line between barb'rism an' civilization, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit… I'm givin' you the short version, 'cause we've got to figger out what to do next, ignorin' these eejiots, 'less you feel like dyin'.

"Anyway, everybody's real proud of you, for holdin' firm, even with those friggin' Roche diggin' away under our feet."

He stopped and, without realizing it, everyone listened. All heard the sound from below them of the Roche diggers.

"Now, what you're's'posed to do, an' every body'll think worlds of you, accordin' to these royal farts back in th' palace," Broda said, his voice withering in scorn, "is go walkin' back and forth atop th' wall 'til the mine's fired, then die real noble in the wreckage, keepin' the Roche back

'til other troops drive 'em back.

"Heroes to a friggin' man," he sneered. "They'd prob'ly name boulevards after your dead young asses if we go an' win this stupid damn war.

"Now, that ain't gonna happen. There'll be four volunteers up on the walls, making sure none of the bassids come up at us. That's you, you, you and you. Get up those ramps.

"The rest of you are gonna pull back, into that old warehouse there. Out of th' weather an' all.

"When they put fire to their mine, you won't be doin' anything like gettin' dead, but comin' out after 'em. Maybe a bit of a su'prise for the bassids.

"'At's fine. You officers can take charge of your troops, an' get 'em under cover now. Half sleep. Get rested, get fed, 'cause I think it'll get shitty in not too long.

"Yeah. One other thing. Four volunteers to listen for when th' diggin'

stops. You, you, you and you. Follow me."

Hal was one of the four. He obediently followed Broda into the base of the tower. The old man picked up a bundle of torches, used flint and steel to fire one, went down narrow, spider-webbed steps. There was dank stone all around Hal, and above him.

The sound of digging got louder.

"You wants to keep it quiet when you're down here," Broda said.

"Mebbe th' fools think they're doin' all this shit in silence, an' we don't know squat about what's goin' on."

He snorted.

The steps ended in a small cellar. The thudding sounded like it was not quite below them, but very close.

"Right," Broda said. "Here's your posts. Two on, two off. You're listenin'

for the diggin' to stop. Like I told you afore, which you likely forgot, when they stop diggin' is when they'll be gettin' ready, pullin' back an' firin' their pit props an' whatever other flam'bles packed in to collapse th' tunnel an'

let th' wall cave in atop.

"You're to wait for that silence, an' when it comes, haul ass outa here and find me. Don't hang about, bein' cute and waitin' for th' smell of smoke or like that.

" 'Nobody gets to play a godsdamned hero," he grated, and Hal thought his eyes glowed in the darkness. "If you go and do something dumb like get killed, you'll answer to me. Understand?"

For some reason, none of the four soldiers thought what Broda had said either absurd or stupid.

They waited for another day and a half. Hal swore that if he made it through this, he'd live in a tree or under a bush, and never go under a roof again, let alone this far underground, with the rats and people who wanted to kill him, deadly moles, digging ever closer.

He could have stayed in his village, become a miner, and died when a shaft collapsed around him if he wanted a fate like this, he thought.

He wasn't meant for this. He was… well, he would be, a dragon flier. Let him live through this, let him at least die in the light of day. He thought of praying, couldn't think of any particular god he believed in.

But his fellow listener evidently did, mumbling supplications to many gods, more than Hal thought a priest could honor.

Irritated, driven out of his own funk by the other, he kicked him and told him to shut up.

The other soldier, even younger than Hal, obeyed.

Hal was wondering how long it was until the end of their shift, when they could go up those stairs for a bowl of what everyone had started calling siege stew.

Some said it was made of rats, that all the real meat in Paestum was being hoarded by the rich. Hal didn't believe that, although he'd noticed very few dogs about the last few days.

Quite suddenly, there was silence.

The two soldiers looked at each other, eyes wide against their smoke-darkened faces. His partner started for the stairs.

"Wait," Hal hissed. "Maybe they're only changing diggers."

But the sound of picks and shovels didn't come.

"The hells with you," the other soldier snarled, and was gone.

Hal thought the other right, and went up the stairs behind him, into the spitting rain and dawn light, exulting that he had lived, would live, as long as he made it through the attack that would come.

They found Broda, who grunted, told them to wait, and went down the steps they'd boiled up.

A long time passed, and Broda came back into sight, trying to look as if he wasn't in a hurry.

"'At's right," he said. "They're comin'. You, boy. Go wake up th' other so'jers and tell 'em to get ready."

Two hours later, Hal was smelling smoke as the underground fire built, and then he heard a grinding sound, stones moving against each other.

The drawn-up soldiers moaned, without realizing it.

But Hal saw no sign of movement.

The smell grew stronger and the grinding came now and again.

"Look," someone shouted, and everyone stared up, seeing the wall sway slightly.

"Awright," Broda shouted. "It'll be comin' in a tit. Get y'selfs ready!"

The wall moved more, teetering inward, then with a grinding roar, toppled outward in a boil of dust and ricocheting stones. The wall was down, stones taller than a man bouncing away, sliding.

"Here they come!" someone shouted unnecessarily, and, stumbling over the high-piled rubble, coming toward them, was a wave of Roche infantrymen.

First were spearmen, archers behind.

Deraine bows twanged, and the archers dropped, fell back, but there were grim rows of men with swords behind them.

"Now!" Broda shouted, and Hal was moving forward, when his brain told him to run, that the points of those spears was death. One lunged at him, and he took the strike on his shield, pushed it out of the way as he numbly remembered someone telling him to do, and drove his sword into the Roche's chest.

Then there was another man with a sword, and he parried, ducked, and kicked the man in the kneecap. The man screeched, bent, and Hal booted him out of the way, into another man's spear.

There was a man pushing against him, chest against Hal's shield, and he smelt foul breath, drove his knee up into the man's crotch, killed him as he fell back.

Hal had his back against a high stone, and two men were coming at him, and then they were both down with arrows in their chests.

Hal didn't know who to thank, saw Broda standing in a circle of bodies, hammer dripping blood.

Chanting came, high-pitched, and something grew out of nothing, a green-skinned demon, dripping slime, crouching, claws scraping the ground.

Someone screamed in terror, and Hal realized he was the one screaming. The demon looked about, pupilless eyes finding a victim, and it leapt toward Sancreed Broda.

The old man moved surprisingly fast, rolled aside, and struck up at the nightmare. It brushed his hammer aside, and claws ripped.

Broda howled in pain, chest torn open, tried for another smash, fell back, dead.

Hal Kailas felt that hard, cold rage build within him.

The demon looked for another target, saw Hal, just as Hal saw, beyond the fiend, a very young man with very long, very blond hair. He had no weapon but a wand, and his lips were moving as the wand moved, pointing at Kailas.

Just before the demon leapt, Hal, having all the time in the world, scooped up a fist-sized rock, and threw it at the magician's head.

The man howled, clawed at the ruins of his face, wand flying away as the demon disappeared.

Hal jumped over a waist-high boulder, and drove his sword into the young wizard's body.

A Roche warrior with a long, two-handed sword was rushing him, and Hal braced. Before the man reached him an eerie wail began, and other apparitions, taller than a man, completely red, body a terrible parody of humanity, with scythe-like claws at the ends of their arms and legs appeared, leaping on to Roche soldiers and tearing at them.

The Roche soldiers paused, confused, terrified, and things that looked like hawks but weren't dove out of nowhere, claws ripping.

The Roche soldiery broke, turned and ran, even as their wizards'

counterspell disappeared the red demons and hawks.

But panic had full hold on the Roche, and they didn't stop or look back.

Charging past Hal came wave after wave of Derainian infantry, counterattacking, and he was pulled along with their attack, beyond the shattered walls, and cavalry galloped out of a city gate after the enemy.

Roche magic couldn't recover the advantage, and the attackers were in full flight, through the ruined suburbs back toward their camps, and the siege was broken.

Hal stopped, letting the others run on, killing, pillaging the corpses.

It was not for him.

He turned back, to find Sancreed Broda's body, and get someone to make a pyre. Somehow he knew there'd be no family, no friends to provide the last rites for the terrible old man who'd saved his and many other lives.

Above him, above Paestum's shattered wall, a dragon screamed once, circling in the clean morning sky.