played an octave lower.
With the last of its strength, the wind she’d made caught the malodorous vapor seething around her and blasted it into the faces of her foes. Those who had somehow remained on their feet doubled over or collapsed, and then they all started puking their guts out.
The sickness wouldn’t kill them. The diluted poison was too weak. But they were likely to wish it would.
She tried to enjoy their misery, but she couldn’t. Except for their retching, the street suddenly seemed too quiet and too empty. At first glance, she didn’t see any watchers peeking down at her from the windows or the rooftops, but she felt the pressure of their stares.
Her instincts told her what was coming, and she retreated toward the wizards’ precinct. She’d only gone a few yards when, as though evoked by a spell potent as any at her command, the first shadowy figures swarmed out of the doorways. Her heart thumping, she whispered a message for the wind to carry to her comrades.
Working as fast as they could, Khouryn and his spearmen hauled furniture out of the houses-or just tossed it out the windows-then piled it across the street to make a barricade. The householders with their tattooed palms stood watching in distress, either because they disliked seeing their meager belongings so mistreated or because they understood the reason for it.
If it was the latter, then that made them shrewder than some of the sellswords. “I don’t think anything is going to happen,” grumbled Numer, a beak-nosed fellow with a limp, a missing finger, dozens of scars, and a clinking collection of “lucky” amulets that never left his grubby neck. “We’re doing all this work for nothing.”
“If Jhesrhi says it’s going to happen,” Khouryn answered, “then it will. Didn’t you see the crowds gathering as we rushed over here?”
“I’ve seen plenty of crowds since we came to this stinking town. Marching around with their dragon banners or whatever. Doesn’t mean they’re going to do anything.”
Khouryn scowled. “Just keep stacking.”
They had time to make the barricade a little stronger. Then a mob surged into the mouth of the street. Forged by All-Father Moradin for life underground, dwarves saw well in the dark, and Khouryn had no difficulty making out the faces of the newcomers. He almost wished it were otherwise. He didn’t like the wildness, the edge of hysteria, that he found there.
“Present!” he snapped, and, acting as one, his men leveled their spears over the top of the makeshift fortification. Khouryn hoped the martial precision of the action-and the rows of rocksteady, razor-edged points reflecting Selune’s light-would give the insurgents pause.
He climbed up on top of the barricade. “You see how it is,” he called. “We’re trained men-at-arms, and we’re ready for you. Go home, or you’ll wish you had.”
“Give us the wizards!” someone shouted back.
“Go home,” Khouryn repeated.
“The spears don’t matter!” cried another voice. “There are only a few of them, compared to all of us! Just get them!”
The mob didn’t respond with an eager shout. Instead, it gave an odd collective sigh, as though accepting a wearisome chore. But then it charged.
“Clubs!” Khouryn bellowed, because the spears had been a bluff. Aoth said they had to protect the wizards’ precinct without killing too many of those who hoped to butcher the residents. Khouryn understood the reason, but even given the Brotherhood’s advantages of training, discipline, and armor, it was going to make the job a lot harder than it should have been.
He jumped back down behind the barricade, unsheathed his truncheon, and settled his shield more comfortably on his arm. Then the first howling rioters tried to scramble over the barricade. It was tricky for a dwarf to fight behind an obstruction as tall as he was, but he stabbed up with the end of his club and caught an attacker in the mouth. Broken teeth pattered down on his hand.
To his irritation, Gaedynn’s archers were still climbing onto the rooftops when the mob-or mobs, really, since they didn’t seem to be acting in a coordinated fashion-converged on the wizards’ precinct from three directions. The bowmen could have formed up on the street, but then it would have been difficult to obtain a clear shot at the rioters.
A pair of hands reached up from below the eaves to grip the edge of the roof, and then, as the sellsword started to clamber up, the left one slipped. Gaedynn dived down the pitch and grabbed the loose, flailing arm, risking a fall himself to keep his man from plummeting.
Well… boy, actually, for when he pulled the lummox up, it turned out to be Yuirmidd, a half-grown, pimply youth who’d joined the Brotherhood during their brief time in Aglarond. As usual, Yuirmidd wore a tawdry assortment of trinkets in seeming imitation of his superior’s fondness for adornment.
“How difficult is it to climb onto a roof?” Gaedynn asked.
“I’m a bowman, not a mountain goat,” Yuirmidd replied.
Gaedynn suspected he might be the model for the lad’s impudence as well, and he had yet to make up his mind on how he felt about it. “You’re not much of anything yet. Perhaps after a few more years’ campaigning, in the unlikely event you live that long.”
“It’s starting!” someone shouted.
Gaedynn scrambled up and looked to see for himself. Sure enough, rioters were rushing the barricades Khouryn’s spearmen had erected across the streets and alleys leading into the precinct. It was an idiotic, suicidal thing to do-but then, this was the City of Madness, wasn’t it?
Aimed in a sensible way, a few volleys of arrows would do wonders to blunt the mob’s enthusiasm. Such a tactic would also slaughter them by the dozen.
“If it looks like they’re breaking through anywhere,” Gaedynn shouted, “kill them! If you see someone who looks like a ringleader, kill him! Otherwise, discourage them! Put your shafts into the ground in front of their feet or the walls above their heads!”
“You’re joking,” growled Orrag, a half-orc with the hulking frame and jutting lower canines characteristic of his kind.
“Just do it.” Gaedynn nocked an arrow, pulled the fletching back to his ear, and let it fly. It punched deep into a rioter’s torso, and he dropped.
“You shot that one,” Orrag said, his tone accusatory.
“He had a torch.” Gaedynn laid another shaft on his bow. “If we let them set fire to the wizards’ precinct, they win. Now, are you going to start fighting, or are you waiting for the captain himself to pay you a call and humbly beseech your assistance?”
Straddling Scar’s back, Jhesrhi wheeled above the wizards’ precinct. Other griffon riders soared to either side.
Most of the rioters probably hadn’t even noticed the sellswords swooping and gliding through the darkness overhead, and the vast majority had no bows or crossbows anyway. The aerial cavalry were relatively safe.
Jhesrhi couldn’t say the same for her comrades on the ground, repelling wave after wave of attackers. Is this my fault? she wondered. If I’d known the right words to say to calm those idiots in the street, could all this have been avoided?
But it was useless to speculate, especially when she had work to do. She hurled spells into the masses of rioters, forcing them to keel over fast asleep or snaring them in gigantic spiderwebs.
