“We stop them.”
Haern looked to her, and she saw he agreed.
“I don’t know what hope we have,” she told them. “But do what you can.”
They readied their weapons, donned their cloaks, hid their faces, and then vanished into the streets of Angelport, where the sun was beginning to set.
22
Gregory stood at the wall surrounding the mansion, his hand on his sword hilt. It remained in the scabbard, but he liked the assurance of knowing it was there. At some point that night, he’d get to use it.
“Think they’ll be foolish enough to attack?” asked the man next to him, a large but gruff guard named Turk. Refusing the standard issue sword, he kept a large axe on his back, which he claimed was a family heirloom.
“I hope not,” Gregory said. “Don’t make much sense otherwise, though. They sailed off and burned those ships. They got to know we won’t go easy on them when they land, no matter what they say.”
Turk scratched at his beard.
“Maybe. But we’re ready. Why would they attack when we’re ready?”
Gregory shrugged. Everyone had been assigned a squadmate to fight with, and protect each other’s back. Turk was Gregory’s. He’d been happy about the situation, given how solid a fighter Turk was. But he wasn’t much for thinking, nor stimulating conversation.
“Maybe because they think they’ll win no matter what?”
Turk laughed.
“Well, they’re stupid, then. Look how many we got.”
Indeed, thought Gregory. He glanced about the exterior of the mansion. The outer city walls were left with just a skeleton crew, and nearly every guard who had ever lifted a sword had been called in to protect Ingram and his home. A thousand men in various amounts of armor crowded the grounds, with at least a hundred patrolling the outer walls. Another hundred, well-armed men sworn to Lord Egar, guarded the front gate.
From their position, the wall blocked their sight of the harbor. Still, they’d hastily constructed ladders over the course of the day, and one of them had been given to the pair. Climbing up the three steps, Gregory peered over the wall to the distant harbor.
“Still not moving,” he said. The boats were large shadows on the moonlit water. As he watched, he heard cries of alarm west, and he glanced in that direction. Far off, near the main entrance to the city, a building had somehow caught fire.
“What’s going on?” Turk asked from below.
“There’s a fire.”
“Well shit. We going to put it out?”
Gregory shrugged, but he doubted it. Within a minute, orders came hollering out from the mansion, and various captains repeated them. No one was to leave. It’d be up to the peasants to put it out themselves. Gregory was hardly surprised. From what little he knew of Ingram, the man would be content to let the city burn, so long as he survived. Of course, there was the question of who had started the fire…
Smoke blotted out the stars as another fire began, this one closer to the center of the city.
“Shit,” Gregory muttered.
“What now?” asked Turk. Gregory stepped down so the man could look himself. Seeing the fire, he swore long and loud.
“You live near there?” Gregory asked.
“No. Worried that’s the Nag’s Head they burned down. Fuckers. That’s my favorite pub. The folks rioting again?”
As smoke drifted higher, this from a third location, Gregory began to wonder, as did many of the men circling the mansion.
“The boats still out there?” he asked. Turk looked that way, then nodded.
“Sure are.”
“Then what in blazes is going…”
He stopped as cries of alarm sounded from the opposite end of the compound. His hand instinctively reached for his sword, and he tensed, looking for enemies.
“What’d they say?” asked Turk, twisting on the ladder.
“Quiet,” Gregory said, having not heard either. More shouts, plus a shriek of pain. They were under attack.
“How’d they get back?” Turk wondered. “The boats are still out there.”
He suddenly jerked backward, losing his footing on the steps. Down he fell, landing hard on his back. Gregory was at his side in a heartbeat, wincing at the thick arrow shaft embedded in the guard’s chest.
“Bloody cunts,” Turk said, glaring down at the arrow. “They shot me.”
Outside the wall, chaos erupted. The men on patrol screamed in pain, and the sound of steel on steel rang loud. The men gathered at the gates drew their blades, and cries of warning came from all directions.
“We need to get you inside,” Gregory said, reaching to remove Turk’s armor so he could better see the wound.
“To the Abyss with that,” Turk said, slapping his hand away. “I ain’t dying to no
Gregory stepped back, and when Turk snapped the arrow shaft in half, he realized its peculiar make, and how much longer it was than their own. Almost in denial, he hurried up the steps and peered over the wall.
Over thirty bodies lay scattered across the ground, nearly all of them city guard. Twenty more guards remained standing, but they were surrounded and with their backs to the wall. Fighting them was a squad of fifteen elves, their faces and hands painted in camouflage, their long, curved blades slashing through armor as if it were cloth. One in the back noticed him watching, and he pulled a bow off his back. Gregory ducked, and as the arrow flew over his head, he could hardly believe the sheer speed of it.
Suddenly their walls and numbers seemed so insignificant.
“Can you stand?” he asked, offering his hand to Turk. The man took it, and he grunted loudly as he got to his feet.
“Hurts,” was all he’d say when Gregory enquired.
Orders came shouting in, demanding they form up. Gregory understood the necessity. Weight of numbers was their only advantage against such an enemy. From that brief glimpse, he knew they would not win skill versus skill. Turk was unable to run, so they hurried toward the front gate as all around them city guard did the same.
Halfway there, he heard the clatter of metal. Glancing back, he saw a rope hurled over the wall, a heavy grappling hook attached to the end. In seconds elves were vaulting over the wall.
“Move!” Gregory shouted, pushing Turk along. They joined a formation of about fifty, all men who had fled the walls. Gregory drew his sword, and Turk readied his axe. A captain cried out for them to hold, to stand firm, and Gregory did his best as ten elves raced toward them. They were in no lines, no formations, just a brazen, lightning fast attack in hopes of catching them unprepared. Bracing himself, Gregory swore not to run. Not to panic. High above, bolts rained down upon the battleground from crossbowmen at the windows. As if the elves could read their thoughts, they weaved side to side, avoiding nearly every one.
“Stand tall!” shouted their captain. “Fight like men, you bastards, and cut them all down!”
The numbers were in their favor, and against any other opponent, the fight would have ended in moments. The elves, though, twisted and pushed through their formation in a blur of steel and blood. As one neared, Gregory held back and let Turk slash with his axe. The elf ducked below, and as he twisted to stab Turk in the side, Gregory lunged. His blade hit flesh, and he let out a whoop. The elf turned on instinct, tearing open the hole in his side further. Roaring, Turk swung his axe, and the injured elf could not dodge in time. The heavy blade tore through his shoulder, splitting him like a log.
“Back!” Gregory cried. Turk heard and obeyed without thought, flinging himself toward the side of the mansion. An elf’s blade missed, and the attacker pivoted to charge again. Turk got his axe in the way to block the
