Thyran screamed in rage then and raised one hand. The construct’s fist fell hard on the doors, cracking them and shaking the walls themselves.
Arrows started flying again, but not as many. Most of the men on the walls were getting themselves down the ladders, dropping bows and pulling spears, swords, or axes in preparation for a fighting retreat on the ground. Darya reached for another arrow, felt the sigil on her forehead, and targeted one of the crawling-faces—not the riders, for they’d be protected, but one of those on the ground.
Her forehead and her hands both burned, but didn’t hurt; it was like sitting a shade too close to a fire for comfort. The arrow stayed in one piece, flew straight, and took the monster right below its ear. It fell, shaking, and its companions turned in what Darya thought was shock.
“Not so safe now, are you?” she called down, laughing giddily as she strung another arrow.
The dozen others on the wall followed her lead. Some arrows still crumpled midair, or missed, and those aimed at the giant still bounced away, but more of the crawling-faces fell, dying or voicing high, burbling screams.
Thyran didn’t turn his head. At his command, the construct hit the gate again, and the wood that had previously held shattered under its strength. One more blow and the doors buckled, then fell.
Darya didn’t bother with the ladder. She dropped her bow, grabbed the wall, and half slid, half climbed, using the footholds she’d carved earlier. As soon as she hit the ground, she drew her sword and ran toward her section of the town, a cluster of buildings where a tenth of the soldiers were trying to imitate a third.
“Hey.” Emeth grinned at her from behind the ranks. “Let’s have some fun before we die.”
“It’s always fun with you,” Darya volleyed back.
Then the charge reached their position.
* * *
All but the best of the archers had retreated already to the comparative safety and high ground of the manor walls before Thyran’s second blow against the gates. The archers themselves had only waited a little longer before swarming down the ladders and joining their fellows, while slightly over a score rushed out to replace them, carrying pikes or swords and wearing the grim expression that said they had no expectation of coming back.
Amris took his place in front of the inner wall, sword drawn and helm back on. Thyran would recognize him now, even with his face hidden. Olvir took his right side, and Branwyn his left. Behind him, Hallis ordered the rest of the soldiers into formation, setting up a shield-wall bristling with weapons. It would hold, Amris hoped, as long as it needed to.
The mages were in the manor. The priests and the wounded were with them. The other Sentinels—Darya among them—were in their places, a good idea whose merit Amris could never have let his heart challenge. He commended his soul to the gods, set his feet, and watched the twistedmen pour through the outer gates and into the town.
Amris marked the charging hordes and saw, too, the movement to left and right. The soldiers in the town, he knew, were fighting a retreat before Thyran’s forces, fleeing into empty buildings halfway between his position and the outer gates and throwing spears from that cover. He saw the twistedmen follow, a few of them falling but the rest pursuing undaunted.
Soldiers ran out the back of the building that Darya would, if all went to plan, have entered. There were fewer, Amris thought, than had gone in, but he couldn’t be sure. He knew that Darya wasn’t among them; he could feel that she was alive, and more or less unhurt. Knowing what came next, that was little comfort.
Slavering, the first ranks of the twistedmen began to close in. Amris braced himself.
The building Darya was in exploded into flame.
Violet fire flared into the sky, and Amris could smell the acrid smoke—only unpleasant for him and those with him, but deadly at close quarters. Gleda and the herbalists had mixed the powder, and Darya had just set it off. Her reforging would protect her, as it did against all poisons, and the twistedmen should die, but that was less certain. The spell told Amris that she was all right, but not whether she’d remain so.
As he brought his sword around to cut the legs out from under the first twistedman, Amris, for the first time in his life, rejoiced in the fight. Beyond satisfaction at his skill or the hope of victory, he felt, bone-deep, the relief at not thinking for a while, and the glee of avenging himself on those who’d made that comfort necessary.
* * *
Poison didn’t bother Darya, but fire hurt like a bugger, even through Gerant’s protection and her battle lust. She dove out a window and left the dozen twistedmen behind her to their fate, hit the ground, and rolled, both to stifle the flames and so she could come up swinging. She gutted a beaked thing and took the hand off the twistedman behind it as she found her feet. To be fair, they were a bit distracted.
From the alchemical explosion and Emeth’s more normal fires, the buildings collapsed, roaring. Flaming debris hit roofs and walls nearby, not to mention the hay that the defenders had scattered around. As the mages had intended, walls and roofs caught fire far more readily than they normally would have, burned with more force, and sent more bits of themselves flying around.
Thyran’s army screamed as it burned.
The ones on the other side of the fire ran. Many within the walls tried, and some made it out, scaling the walls or even dashing through the flames, probably hoping to lick their wounds on the other side. Those remaining quickly realized who was to blame.
Darya glanced behind her, saw a clear path to where Amris was fighting with the main force, and eyed the score or so of twistedmen advancing on her. “You bastards don’t smell any better cooked,” she told them, made an obscene gesture, and then turned to run.
They chased, as she knew they would. Darya darted sideways, dodging the swipe of a claw, feeling breath hot on her neck, and trusting Sitha’s gift to let her find the safe places, as her memory wouldn’t serve. She rushed across ground strewn with hay and dirt, leapt as the weight of her pursuers caused the false land to give way, and landed on the other side of what had suddenly become a pit. The noises from below said that the sharpened sticks, coated with poison, had found their marks.
She spotted a building ahead that hadn’t caught fire yet, leapt to a windowsill and then to the roof. From there she saw Emeth, naked and wreathed in flame, laughing as she spun and sliced through her enemies, and Katrine on the other side of the town, glowing with blue light and always moving toward the ground that gave her the best advantage, even as she, like the other two Sentinels, moved generally backward to the rest of the army.
Darya saw the fight by the manor walls, claws scraping ineffectually off Branwyn’s skin, swords shining beneath black blood, spears run through twistedmen and soldiers falling at their comrades’ feet. She saw Amris, standing as a bulwark in the center, armor still shining.
And she saw Thyran, high on his construct, his face inhuman with fury.
