Thoriol felt his muscles tremble as the tension bit. He’d become far more proficient than he had been, but the effort of using the longbow was considerable and he was less comfortable with it than his companions. They could work a longbow for an hour and register little fatigue, whereas he was struggling after several flights.
He gritted his teeth, desperate not to lose face. Loeth stood beside him, calm as ever.
‘Release!’
The order was a relief – Thoriol loosed his arrow with the others, watching as the dense hail of darts soared up into the sky and arced down to the plain beyond.
The sight was a stirring one. Their wall-section was nearly fifty feet above the level of the plain, facing due east. The arrows clustered together in a thick cloud, whistling through the air before jabbing down into the sodden earth far below. The range was impressive – over a hundred and fifty yards, with each dart falling within a wide band. Thousands of arrows already stood at angles in the mud, the results of many previous volleys.
‘Draw!’
If Thoriol had counted correctly, this should be the last one. He’d already reached for his arrow in the rack before him and had it ready. He grasped the string with three fingers, feeling the single-feather fletch brush against his knuckle. The nock slid up against the silken string, and he pulled it tight using his bodyweight as a counterbalance.
At such ranges the aim was not as important as the timing. The task was to fill the air with a thick cloud of arrows, all hammering earthwards in a single block. The defenders of Tor Alessi knew from experience that dwarf armour was extremely tough and so single shots were rarely effective. The only thing that troubled units clad in steel plate was a veritable flood of darts, clogging the air and rattling down against them in a dense cloud. At such concentrations there was every chance of hitting an exposed joint or sliding through a narrow eye-slit, and, even if the majority of arrows wouldn’t register a kill, the flight as a whole would badly hamper any advancing formation.
‘Release!’
Thoriol let fly, watching with satisfaction as his arrow soared upwards with the others. The air thickened with shafts again before they swooped down in unison, tracing a steep arch towards the plain below.
It was a sight to gladden the heart of any true son of Ulthuan. When the final assault came it would be even grander – thousands of archers arranged across the entire stretch of parapets, raining steel-tipped ruin on the advancing host. To that would be added the shuddering flights of ballista bolts and the arcane snarl of magecraft.
Thoriol smiled. For the attackers, it would be like walking into a hurricane. He found himself almost desperate for them to arrive, just so he could witness it.
‘Stand down!’
The order rang out from the tower at the far end of the parapet. All along the battlements archer companies leaned heavily against the stone, shaking down aching arms and counting their remaining arrows. A trumpet sounded as dozens of basket-carrying menials hurried out of the gates below, ready for the laborious process of retrieving the arrows and carting them back up to the armoury for re-use.
Loeth smiled at him amiably. ‘You’re keeping up, Silent.’
Thoriol nodded. ‘Seems that way.’
Baelian pushed his way towards them, moving carefully along the crowded parapet.
‘It’ll be harder when we’re doing it for real,’ he warned, looking with guarded approval at Thoriol and the others. ‘Think your arms are aching now? They’ll be shredded by the end, and that’s before you see what the bastards will be hurling up at us the whole time.’
Rovil laughed. ‘From fifty feet down?’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ snapped Baelian. ‘Last time they breached the walls in nine places before we drove them out.’ He swept his scarred gaze across them, wagging a calloused finger in their direction like an old loremaster with his pupils. ‘Be careful. Remember your training. If they break through anywhere close to you, reach for your knives and fall back in good order. It’s not your task to stop them up close – that’s what the knights are there for.’
Thoriol looked away then, his mind already wandering – Baelian had given them the same speech many times.
As he did so, he caught a familiar whiff on the air, like burning embers. He craned his head, shading his eyes with one hand against the glare of the sun. He’d known ever since arriving that dragon riders were among Tor Alessi’s defenders but he’d made no effort to find out anything about them – the memory of the Dragonspine was still too raw for that and he’d had plenty to occupy him with the archery work.
But as he looked up then, though, he saw it – the massive sapphire drake, the one he’d seen over Tor Vael and Tor Caled a hundred times. It was dropping fast, descending into the forest of spires behind them with an echoing clap of huge wings. A moment later and it was gone, lost in the vastness of the upper city.
He felt his stomach twist.
‘That is Imladrik’s dragon,’ he said, blurting it out even as Baelian was still speaking.
‘So it is,’ smiled Loeth. ‘What did you expect? I’ve seen him aloft twice since we dropped anchor.’
Florean nodded enthusiastically. ‘A monster. A true monster.’
Thoriol turned to Baelian. ‘Then… he’s here?’
‘Of course he is.’ Baelian looked at him steadily. ‘He commands the army.’
Thoriol almost felt like laughing, but not from mirth. Even the simple task of escaping his father seemed to be beyond him. A familiar sinking sensation fell over him: the embrace of failure.
He started to say something, but Baelian’s look silenced him. The archery captain
