Eighth, near the main gates. Its impact knocked her legs out from beneath her. She fell, but barely noticed, scrabbling back to her feet once the ground settled. Those around her did the same. Panic followed as heavy-booted soldiers streamed past, racing toward the gates.
Her ears rang and dust rose up around her. The scent of fire wafted to her nose, the shouts of men filling the air with fury and fear. Children loosed their cries as terror settled in. The mournful wails of the dying and bereaved added their voices a moment later, the dirge of war sung loud upon the backs of signal horns and drums.
She could see the flickering shadows of the flames on the walls and realization drew her up cold. She turned to no one, to everyone, and shouted. “To the Eighth. Run to the Eighth.” She grabbed at the tearful orphans about her and shoved them toward the inner gates. “Run, damn you. If the watch closes the level we’ll be left here to burn.”
Stirred by her words, the orphans shook off their lethargy and darted off. Her own fear a spur at her flank, she too ran. Their ragtag group sprinted through the level, gaining in numbers as their frightful passage infected those who stood about frozen, with direction.
The shriek of another incoming missile stole the speed from their steps. Drawn to track its progress, for fear of blindly stumbling under it, Ellora came to halt and set her eyes to the sky once more. Nearly blinded by its brilliance, its screech deafening, she knew it would land close; too close. It was coming down atop them. She could feel the wind of its passage, the air sucked from her lungs, its heat drying the tears she hadn’t known she’d shed.
Her heart thunderous, she looked for the rest of the orphans but they ran on without heed. She shouted but could not be heard above the whining keen of the fireball. They barreled on, too far ahead for her to reach in time. Her stomach lurched as she realized what she must do.
She changed direction and ran for the outer wall with long-legged strides. Her voice cried out in futile warning, but she felt it only right to try. As the fire roared at her back, she darted for the cover of a nearby alley. Seeing a mother stood rigid in her path, the woman staring fearful at the sky as he infant child bawled and clung to her breast, Ellora bulled by, pulling the woman and child along with her.
Just as the fireball struck, Ellora wrapped her arms about the pair and dove for the piled trash that littered the dark alley. They landed on their sides with a huff, Ellora rolling to shield the baby from the impact. The world went silent as a wave of heat lapped at their backs. Detritus was flung about, frenzied lashes on the wind that followed. She ducked her head and clutched tight to the child as she was pelted with stones, and trash, and shards of wood, the thin material of her tunic no protection against their blows. She felt each, the crack of the whip at her back.
When the trash ceased its rain, Ellora got to her feet, helping the woman up. The baby was bright-eyed as it loosed a petulant cry, its reddened face shining with silver and encrusted with phlegm. Grateful the child was unharmed, Ellora ushered the woman from the alley and back onto the street. The alley would be no shelter from what was to come.
She could hear the sizzle of burning wood as they turned the corner, the homes just ten yards from where they stood but moments ago, were engulfed in fire. Flames danced along the roofs. She glanced just beyond the burning homes to see a smoldering crater that sunk a foot into the ground, the hole easily ten feet across. Its bottom was charred, crystal shards scattered about like shattered ice. All around the crater lay sodden chunks of red and black. She thought for a moment she recognized the scraps that wrapped about some of the bloody pieces, but she could not bring herself to examine them closer. Ellora turned away, but the images clung to her eyes.
The red lumps had once been bodies, their pieces now strewn about like the trash that layered the alley behind her. She felt her stomach tighten in revolt, and forced her nausea down. Now was not the time to be sick. She had been little help to the living, but she could do nothing for the dead.
Every breath stung her lungs as Ellora pushed the woman ahead, herding her toward the upper gates as fast as they could travel. As she heard yet another missile scream from the sky to crash into the city, somewhere further up the levels, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was marching toward her death, that it would soon be her broken pieces in the dirt; unattended, unmourned.
Just an orphan, every step she took toward the Eighth took her further from her kind. Though everyone who lived in the city was Lathahn by right of birth, she had seen the kindness of those that lived above her, both in position and status. Should the city fall, Ree forbid, Ellora would never find herself amongst the privileged few to be led into the mountain fortress, given refuge from the flames that would eat at each level in turn, until nothing but blackened ash remained. There would be no safety at the Crown for people like her.
Her thoughts leadened her feet and she stumbled as they neared the Eighth. She urged the woman toward the still open gates, their thick metal warped and singed from yet another fireball that had fallen, and turned to look back at her home. The woman and her child slipped from her mind as quickly as they did from the level.
Fires colored the walls with orange and black. Shadows like ghosts swayed in rhythm to the flicker of the flames. Another fiery sphere arced into the sky and chased the darkness away, replacing it with a sanguine shimmer. She watched as it flew over her, to crash near the Third. The ground shook as she saw licking flames leaping toward the heavens, their tongues well above the towering walls.
Two more spheres plummeted from the sky behind the last, their rumbling impacts scarring the upper levels. Her panicked heart urged Ellora to flee toward the strength of the mountain that stood watch over Lathah, but her mind, strangely sharp amidst the chaos, held her fast.
The enemy that pummeled them with fire seemed to have no care for class and status. Its missiles rained down indiscriminate, their flame and fury dispersed in equal shares. The upper levels burning no less furious than the Ninth, she could die just as easily where she stood as she could anywhere above. It wasn’t a comforting thought.
No certainty of anything, she chose to stay on the Ninth, her home. She prowled near the battered gates of the Eighth, scavenging a small pack, which she filled with the bruised fruits and vegetables from the abandoned and overturned carts of the market. She found a waterskin, half-full, and added it to her bag, packing the pack tight with loose clothing that lay scattered about.
With more spheres screaming toward the city, Ellora knew the walls would crumble soon and there were no soldiers massed upon their tops to hold back an invasion. She no longer saw any in the streets; none living, at least. It was only a matter of time until the city fell. She had no intention of being there when it did.
Her parents gone to dust, the orphanage burning, there was nothing left for Ellora. When the moment appeared, she would flee the city and its cruelties, and make her way in the wilds. Her fate no more certain there, she could at least go to her grave knowing the decision was hers.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Warlord Vorrul watched Lathah burn, his snout turned up in a wicked smile. Though too far away to smell the seared flesh and bubbling fat of his arrogant enemy that now cooked within an oven of their own making, his tongue savored the victory to come. The women of Lathah were succulent, grown thick and meaty upon the back of the hardy mountain, the children even more so. He would feed well.
Vorrul laughed deep in his throat as General Morgron came to stand beside him. “Have you ever seen such beauty, general?”
“Not since Fhenahr.”
The warlord glanced over at the general and laughed even louder. “Too true, but nothing can compare to the humbling of Lathah.” He gestured to the soldiers that wielded the golden staves. “I would enjoy this moment a little longer. Have the pack slow their pace and keep their aim from the outer wall. I want them to stew in their own piss.”
Morgron nodded and went to the staff-bearers to relay the message as Vorrul stared off into the distance, the horizon shaded in crimson. His soldiers cheered around him, flooding his ears with their howls. He could hear the hunger in them, but not for meat…for battle.
Though his forces had run hard since Fhenahr, they had eaten well upon the people of Fhen. His soldiers were ready to fight. The slave train trod slow, well behind the main army, but they would not need its sustenance just yet. Another feast lay before the Grol, and soon they would feed again.
