When the first of them went into the water, the sharks came. After the first man was hit, and shredded, into a rotted brown cloud of gore, the sharks fled in search of a more wholesome meal. The scavengers came though. A whole flotilla of crabs and sucker fish arrived and most of the undead men were skeletons, before their still animated bodies had hit the sandy ocean floor. Now, only a few of King Glendar’s men remained on the ship. None were really alive.
The sun overhead was fleecing them of their flesh, almost as fast as the denizens of the sea were consuming the fetid meat of their sinking comrades. For a half mile behind the drifting craft, a wake full of tattered clothes, and churning waters alive with fat, dinner-plate sized pink crabs, followed them. Further down, in the depths, a small group of bewildered skeletal soldiers roamed the seabed, searching for a place where they might climb back into the light of day. They were caught in a state of perpetual animation, doomed to wander the depths.
They won’t go wandering aimlessly for long, Glendar or Inkling thought, with a smile full of contempt. He would be forced to join them soon, and maybe, someday, he could lead them up out of the sea, and exact his revenge on Pael. Maybe, someday.
“Dragon guns?” King Jarrek asked, with equal shares of amazement and doubt in his voice.
He was looking at one of the huge crossbow-like mechanisms mounted along the top of Xwarda’s outer wall. Men were greasing its spindle with lard, and working over its other moving parts with intense scrutiny. The sun was about to set, and there was a great sense of urgency about. The morrow Pael had given them was almost over, and time for preparation was running out as swiftly as the daylight.
“They’re rigged to shoot flaming spears from up here,” General Spyra said with confidence.“And they’re rigged in pairs to loose simultaneously from thirty feet apart, down in the avenues. They launch with a taut wire strung between them.”
“A taut wire?” Jarrek asked.
This time there was nothing but doubt in his tone. Who do these people think they are up against? Hadn’t he made it perfectly clear what Pael alone was capable of. Had they even been listening?
“Look sir,” the General stopped their casual tour of the defenses, with an irritated scowl. “It comes off, like a thirty foot wide razor blade, flying at waist height. If those things get through the outer walls, they,” he indicated a group of his Blacksword soldiers, “need time to work their way back behind the secondary wall. There are whole sections of the city set to go up in flames, and most of the major avenues are rigged to cut the enemy, literally in two. We’ve got three Master Wizards, five magi, and three times as many apprentices, running around setting pitfalls and fire bombardments all over the place. Those things will wish that they never came here, if they win their way past this wall!”
To emphasize which wall he spoke of, General Spyra stomped his boot down heavily, and crossed his arms across his wide barrel-keg chest.
King Jarrek nodded away his doubt of General Spyra’s preparations. He hadn’t meant to rile the man. He still couldn’t help but feel that it was all for naught. Pael would level this wall, and then the next all by himself, just like he had leveled Castlemont. Xwarda’s palace might be spared that fate, but only if Pael chose to spare it. If it were only these undead soldiers that they were facing, Jarrek told himself, then no doubt they could find a way to prevail. There was no accounting for Pael though; at least no way that Jarrek knew of.
They resumed their stroll along with top of the wall. Jarrek scrutinized a catapult, rigged to sling barrels of oil and pitch into the formations outside the wall. Then he watched as a procession of chanting apprentices, led by one of Targon’s underlings, went by. They were sifting chalky, white substances through their fingers, and sprinkling what might have been goose feathers, as they went. The pungent smell of the powder wasn’t much better than the reek of the undead wafting up from below.
The long day of sunshine had ripened the air with the smell of them, to the point where a brigade of bucketeers had been put into service, so that the men on the wall might have a place to vomit. Now the evening breeze was helping to dissipate the smell, but earlier in the afternoon, the air had been thick with it.
“General,” King Jarrek called out to the busy man, who was now lecturing an archer on the placement of his loose quivers of arrows.
“I would like to prepare, if you’ll excuse me. My armor is back at the castle, and I would prefer to be here on the wall when it begins.”
“I’ll have a man show you the quick way back,” Spyra said, with a politic bow.
He pushed his hand back over his balding pate, as if there were still hair there, and let out a sigh of frustration. He then turned to a man, who was stacking javelins near one of the dragon guns.
“Gratton, finish this later. For now, King Jarrek has need of a swift return back to the castle.”
Turning back to King Jarrek, he added, “I’m amazed that we got the outer portion of the city cleared at all. Gratton here will get you past the choked up secondary gates, by way of an underground passage.”
Grattan led him down one of the long ramps that lined the inside face of the outer wall. Jarrek noticed a large wooden section of it that was rigged to collapse, if certain pins were knocked out. A few well placed hammer blows would leave any attackers who had gained the top of the wall with no way to use the inclines. There were switchback stairways, and narrow passages going all over the place inside the wall, though. They led to several levels of arrow slits and murder holes that opened up on the outside.
Bratton led them to a stairway, which went down several flights, before it opened onto a wide and busy tunnel. Crates of spears and arrows, along with barrels and boxes, lined the walls, and there were rooms full of other stored wartime goods, opening up off the main artery.
Inside one room, Jarrek saw men suiting up in their armor, like he was about to do. The long, slow process of strapping plate and chained steel to one’s body was ritualistic by nature, and none of the men in the rooms were trying to hurry. Further along, a knot of already armored Blacksword soldiers joked over a cup of ale by a barrel-keg. One of them recognized King Jarrek, and elbowed his fellows into a slight bow of respect.
Xwarda is ready for war, thought Jarrek, but are they ready for Pael?
All in all, the city would be well defended, if they were facing any normal foe. Come to think of it, no normal foe really stood a chance of getting past the outer wall, and with all of the city’s tunnels, and secret passages, a siege would be pointless.
The enemy that was outside the gates was anything but normal though. And the demon-wizard was worse than all those undead men put together. Jarrek hoped they would find a way to best Pael and his death brigade, but honestly, he reserved little hope of any of them making it through this night alive.
It was well past sunset, when Vaegon and Dugak came up through a trapdoor in the floor of a wine cellar, which was located in the lower part of the palace. The dwarf quickly emptied the water from the skin he had carried, and refilled it from a tapped keg of stout. He offered Vaegon a sip, but the elf declined, with a grin. He waited patiently, while Dugak gathered his wind and recovered himself, then asked him to lead the way to where Mikahl was housed.
Vaegon had a general idea of where the healers’ wing was located, but the castle was huge, and crowded with soldiers and refugees alike, and he didn’t want chance getting lost. Dugak drained off his skin in three big gulps, filled it again, and then started off into the castle.
The rooms and corridors were as crowded as the streets had been that first day when Vaegon and Hyden had come through with the ranger, Drick. These people weren’t filthy and poor though. These were the families wealthy enough to buy their way into the castle – the Dukes and Lords, the landowners, and the Mayor’s other favorites, so Dugak told Vaegon.
The rumor that the enemy was going to attack at midnight was being passed amongst them all. Both Dugak and Vaegon could tell that it was no mere gossip, so the dwarf quickened his pace.
The wing, where Mikahl lay, was far less crowded than the rest of the palace, but it was busier than it had been the last time Vaegon had looked in on his friend.
Mikahl lay just as he had before, seemingly peaceful, and still, save for his labored breathing. Only the rise and fall of his chest, and the slight rasping of his breath, indicated that he was still alive at all.
Fighting back a tear, a rare thing for an elf to be doing, Vaegon placed Ironspike atop Mikahl, just like it would be placed if he truly were dead.
The sheathed tip of the blade rested between Mikahl’s shins, and the cross-guard sat on his chest, near his heart. Vaegon gently took his friend’s hands, and grasped them to the leather wrapped hilt. They closed around it reflexively, and a moment of hope flared in the elf, but it was only a fleeting feeling. There was no strength in the
