“I will not be able to save them all, Captain,” he admitted, hopeful to level the impossible expectations before they were heaped upon his shoulders. The captain closed his eyes for a moment, nodding his head subtly in reply.
“Have they made attempts at the wall?” Ryl asked, thankful to change the subject.
He’d seen nothing but scattered hints of the shadowed signatures of the Horde with his mindsight to this point. Though a few strayed close, they generally avoided the palisade. He moved to the stone railing, taking position beside the captain, casting his vision out over the city.
“No,” he responded. “They gather along the Kingsway and avenues, yet few have moved closer to the gate.”
Ryl’s stomach churned as he announced the likely answer.
“We are prey to them,” Ryl offered. “For the moment, they have us cornered. There is no retreat from this position. Once they’ve finished with the city, they’ll turn their attention to these walls.”
The shatter of glass preceded a gut-wrenching scream. A solitary female voice wailed with agony. It carried on, echoing over the city, ending in a feeble whimper. The yips and howls of the Horde thankfully drowned out the sounds of the slaughter that likely commenced.
Ryl closed his eyes, squeezing his fingers into the cold stone of the wall. The anger poured through him. He fought the urge to leap from the walls, to rush headlong into the streets. He felt the need to use his powers, to command his skills to cut down all in his path. The Kingsway churned with motion, though the forms were nondescript. Occasional shadowed figures sprinted from the pack, disappearing into the shadows of the alleys. The mass seemed to stop at the intersection of the road and avenue leading to the Pining Gates.
“It’s a feeling we all share, Ryl.” Cipri spoke quietly. “We could use more arms. More soldiers to man the wall. More archers to pick apart their ranks.”
Ryl shared the sentiment with the captain. They stood at a precarious disadvantage. The wall would hold, as would the gate, yet for how long?
He sighed as he looked outward, running his vision over the ill-fated city. To his right, fires ravaged the run-down East Ward. The gritty, hardworking underbelly of the city crumbled as its foundations were turned to ash. To the west, a writhing sea of death choked the streets, filling every inch with their hatred. The screams of those who chose to remain in their homes had grown disturbingly irregular. There were likely few left.
Further toward the Outlands, far beyond the garrison, the dry storm still raged. Bolts of lightning flashed, each illuminating, if only for a brief instant, the predicament they were in. More blades and bows would help, though they’d likely be for naught. They’d need an army of phrenics, which at the moment didn’t exist. The tributes, though they’d likely woken from the ravages of the poison-induced sickness, would be of little aid in the face of the coming darkness.
Better that they weather this storm in the safety of the Erlyn Woods. There they’d be safe.
Ryl looked at the captain, confessing what he’d spoken to Fay.
“Captain, there is an army, nearly ten thousand men strong, approaching from the rear,” Ryl offered. “The might of the Cadsae Proper guard is trapped inside The Stocks. If it’s men you want, they are there.”
“Will they fight for us or against us?” Cipri quizzed.
Ryl thought for a moment before responding.
“Given the options, their choice will be an easy one,” Ryl answered plainly. “Many who served here likely had family within the city. Many who will not be counted among the survivors here. You will not be an invading army to them, but a savior of what few people you could. They’ll fight, with the vengeance of a demon.”
“I’ll send riders now,” he added as he turned to issue the command.
Ryl placed a hand on his shoulder, halting his retreat.
“Save the horses, my friend,” Ryl said, pointing to the guard tower silhouetted against the orange glow of the burning city to their east.
“Light the signal fires.”
Chapter 45
Ryl watched from his position atop the palisade as the first of the signal fires burst to light. The dry tinder there had been soaked with a heavy dose of oil. He knew it would take but a single spark to ignite the blaze. The flames erupted skyward. The tower was soon glowing like a beacon in the fading night.
Ryl watched impatiently, scanning the darkness for signs of a response. What felt like an eternity was likely only a matter of minutes. A flame from the next tower in the row answered the call. Across The Stocks, fires burst to light one after the other. The army, wherever they were encamped, would see them. He hoped the fractured leadership of the group would respond with haste.
Time was running short.
He turned his attention back to the city outside the palisade. His brief respite from battle was likely to collapse at any moment. No mindsight was needed to note the sluggish approach of the Horde. They choked the streets, overflowed from the alleys, spreading ever closer to the Pining Gate. From above the sky rained paper-thin fragments of ash and glowing embers. It blanketed the city in an unneeded, ominous layer of foreboding.
The patience of their approach was alarming. Their numbers were already far greater than any army man could hope to deploy. Ryl looked down the line of archers spread to each side of his position. Arrows bristled from hundreds of bows, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Even with several quivers full of arrows at their disposal, they would be tragically short. Even if every arrow felled a single demon, they would need millions more.
Like the battle at the Prophet’s Tree, something felt amiss. The demons of legend were nothing more than mindless killing machines, built for the sole purpose of death. Their advance now was
