bodies in various stages of decay nearby. The smell should have been horrible; save for buzzards and insects, there were no beasts that found the stench of rotten flesh appealing. Yet, Vulpine had been in the presence of so many corpses over the years, he was surprised to find that he barely noticed the odor. It was like the restorative tea he drank each morning; he'd grown so accustomed to the scent he sometimes forgot that others might find it unpleasant.
Beside the corpse pile was a larger heap of rusted scrap metal, salvaged from the gleaner mounds. Vulpine went to this mound and picked up a short shaft of iron about an inch in diameter. He couldn't begin to guess its former purpose. No matter. It was shrapnel now.
'Have you ever thought much about the year?' asked Vulpine. Sagen looked bewildered by the question. 'Why do we number the years as we do? The earth is incomprehensibly older than eleven centuries. Do you ever contemplate the empires that rose and fell and vanished with barely a trace?'
'Occasionally, sir.'
Vulpine dropped the scrap of iron and picked up a much bigger, heavier piece. It was an open box with rounded corners, mostly white, about two feet wide and a foot deep; the steel at its core was coated by a thin glaze of ceramic to protect it from rust. The glaze had failed. There was a hole in the bottom he could have stuck his snout through, and bubbles along the rim showed that the iron beneath the glaze had succumbed to rust in numerous spots. Still, it was a hefty object, mostly intact despite having been buried in the ground for centuries.
'The archeologists at the College of Spires would weep if they saw what we were about to do to these treasures,' he said.
Sagen shrugged. 'They strike me more as trash than treasure.'
'They read trash as if it were a book.' He rotated the white box in his hands. It weighed at least twenty pounds. The glaze on the interior had been crafted with greater care than the glaze on the outside. 'No doubt, they would unravel the function this object served, long ago.'
'I heard two of the guards debating this very artifact, sir,' said Sagen. 'They concluded it was a sink.'
'Hmm,' said Sagen, tossing the object back onto the pile. 'That seems plausible. All that matters, I suppose, is that it will leave a nice dent in the skull of anyone it hits.'
'I think a human would need an especially thick skull to only suffer a dent,' said Sagen.
Vulpine looked across the rolling hills, over the jagged ravines carved into the red clay by erosion, to the fort beyond. 'I want every scrap to land in the square. They're packed in so thick we'll kill half of them with our initial salvo. Sawface and his Wasters are ready to lead the charge. Let's finish this. We had breakfast in our tents. We'll cook our lunch in the furnaces of the foundry.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE:
FREEFALL
Before Burke could say another word, Ragnar gripped the cross of swords with both hands and swung it with an angry grunt. Stonewall lifted his heavy steel shield to catch the blow with a loud CLANG.
Stonewall looked anguished as he gazed into the prophet's eyes. 'Sir, I don't want to hurt you,' the giant man said.
The wild-haired prophet released an incoherent cry of rage, spinning around, clearing a broad circle as men jumped back to avoid the arc traced by the sharp-edged cross.
The giant raised his mace and blocked the weapon again.
Anza glanced at Burke. Burke nodded. She leapt from the wall, raising her sword overhead as she dove at Ragnar's back.
A fraction of a second before she reached him, a large rusty cylinder that Burke recognized as the piston of an ancient engine flashed down from the sky and caught Anza on her left shoulder. The blow spun her in the air. Her sword flew from her grasp as she crashed into the center of Ragnar's back.
The broad-shouldered prophet barely flinched from the impact.
An instant later, the entire crowd began to scream. Countless bits of random metal, ranging in size from fingers to fists, rained down on them. Burke's heart froze as a hundred men dropped, victims of the falling debris.
'Don't panic!' he shouted, praying he could be heard above the din. 'Don't panic! Grab the injured and carry them! Everyone into the foundry!'
With its sturdy brick walls, the foundry could withstand anything the dragons cared to throw at them.
Ragnar looked down at Anza, sprawled at his feet. 'See the evil you have brought upon us with your blasphemy! The Lord strikes down all unbelievers!'
At that moment, a big white square of ceramic-glazed steel slammed into the back of the prophet's shaggy skull, bouncing off. The prophet's eyes narrowed as he remained on his feet. The sink clanged on the hard-packed earth behind him.
The look of perpetual rage on the prophet's face vanished as his brow and jaw went slack. His eyes rolled up into his head and he dropped to his knees, falling forward over Anza's legs. Anza kicked herself free and sprang to her feet, clutching her limp left arm with her right hand.
Panic spread through the crowd like a wave, even though the initial volley from the catapult was spent. The skies were empty for the moment.
Burke fired his shotgun into the air. 'Listen to me!' he screamed so loudly he was certain he tore something in his throat.
Stonewall leapt over Ragnar to stand on the lip of the well. He shouted with a voice that rivaled the fallen prophet in both volume and authority: 'Pay attention!' To Burke's great relief, it worked. The crowd turned their eyes toward Stonewall.
'You heard the man,' said the giant. 'Everyone into the foundry. Carry the wounded. No one gets left behind.'
Anza looked up. 'Fadder!' she shouted.
More shrapnel was darkening the sky.
'Take cover!' Burke barked out, though there was precious little cover to be had in the middle of the town square. The men nearest the foundry peeled off, vanishing into its shadowy reaches. Jeremiah flew toward the foundry and Poocher darted after him. Vance shot skyward, and Thorny hopped down and pressed himself against the wall of the well. Stonewall held up his shield like a giant umbrella.
Anza grabbed her fallen sword with her good arm and leapt into the air, her wings unfolding, as the second volley smashed into the crowd. Sparks flew as a large rusty bolt ricocheted from Anza's wings. She flashed toward Stonewall and pressed herself against him, pushing him over a few inches. Stonewall let out a loud grunt as a fist- sized chunk of scrap banged off his shield.
Men dove into any doorway available. Anguished howls of pain rose from those struck by the falling metal.
Luck alone spared Burke. 'The foundry! The foundry! You'll be safe in the foundry!'
More men began to run for its darkened interior.
Stonewall looked up as the rain of metal died off. 'What about the defenders on the walls?' Almost simultaneously, Vance, fifty yards above, shouted, 'The earth-dragons are charging the gates!'
'Get the men off the walls,' said Burke. 'Let the dragons in.'
'Come down from the walls!' Stonewall shouted. 'Everyone into the foundry!'
'You too, Vance,' said Burke. 'Get down here.'
'Someone has to go stop those catapults,' said Vance.
'You won't stop them with a bow and arrows,' said Burke. He glanced at Anza. 'Despite what you're thinking, you won't stop them with a sword.'
She grimaced.
Joab leaned over Ragnar's form. 'He's still breathing!'
'Get him into the foundry. We only have a minute before the next volley.'
'Seconds,' Vance shouted down. 'Here it comes!'
Burke didn't look at the sky. Instead, he shouted, 'Take cover!' aand he, too, darted for the foundry. As he
