Book 8: Chapter 83: The battle for archen
The shambling army of undead might have no thoughts left in their empty skulls, but the will behind them had plenty. While half remained in front of the eastern gate, the rest had completed their march around the city with sufficient distance to be safe from spells and other attacks, and now they stood ready to threaten the western gate. Once in position, they waited; the sun was still high in the sky, weakening them.
The living watched, knowing that the undead scourge was the lesser of two ills. The greater danger came from the fiends. Each unique in shape and powers, they were hard to describe or grasp. They spread out to surround the city; although only nine besides Moloch, their presence was menacing, all of them equivalent to an army in strength.
On the walls, the defenders steeled themselves. The Tyrians armed with clubs and axes held the southeast under Embla, while on every turret, one or two of their archers took position with a small supply of gold-tipped arrows. The few elemental mages spread out to man the corner towers with a handful of militia soldiers nearby, and the mageknights defended a long section of the wall except for the east. Valerius with what remained of the militia stood on the western gatehouse. Nebo had found a place for himself, Padmani another.
As for the remaining civilians who had not fled, primarily Sparrow and her fellow urchins, they had holed up in the infirmary. It was built near the underground complex, reopened temporarily to act as a last refuge.
As ready as they could hope to be, the defenders waited.
The fiends each moved their own way according to their chosen physiology. With eight legs, one skittered up the fortifications. Another took a great leap across the moat to land against the side of the tower, using that as a stepping stone for another jump to reach the wall. A giant, whose body seemed like boulders made alive, grabbed another fiend and simply threw them through the air until they could grab onto the crenelations with one claw and pull themselves up.
As for the other half, they flew, rising into the air, shimmering with a blur and appearing like ghosts. Well-coordinated, they all attacked at the same time.
Having leapt up the wall, the fiend landed amidst the defenders. Its arms became blades, and it sliced several of them to pieces without hesitation. Their bodies fell to the ground below while their comrades screamed in terror.
A flaming sword and its wielder appeared, engaging the enemy. Defensive spells held, protecting Eleanor, though even her enchanted blade caused little hurt when striking the enemy. From behind, a militiaman smashed his gold-capped club into what appeared to be the fiend’s head. It sank in, looking like a caved skull; as he pulled the club back, the head returned to shape, and the fiend slashed its attacker’s throat with a swift movement.
Skittering on eight limbs, the arachnid used the tip of its legs as spearpoints, impaling three defenders before flinging them over the side. Shards of ice came flying from the nearest tower, dispatched by Cornelia to strike its carapace. From the other side, water bolts struck as well. Still an apprentice, Padmani did his best, though he only accomplished attracting the fiend’s attention. The creature hovered in the air, its blurred form constantly reshaping itself. It stared without a face at the aged wizard who manned the walls entirely on his own.
“Melkarth? Is that you?” Nebo reached out his hands and released tentacles of lightning to wind themselves around the fiend. “I never told you, but when I said your mother was a nice woman, I lied!”
Landing on the wall, the attacker looked at the defenders. The first and bravest of them ran forward, clubs raised. In response, the fiend became a whirlwind, and their weapons passed through harmlessly. Spinning faster, the living tempest picked up a warrior caught in the force of its rotations, and she was flung away, screaming all the way down until she hit a rooftop below.
Raising his hammer, Maximilian exhaled. “Come at me, then!” The fiend obliged, flinging defenders out of the way as they spun forward, approaching the mageknight.
The western bridge across the moat had been destroyed same as its eastern twin, but this proved no hindrance for the gargantuan fiend that looked like great boulders stacked on top of each other. When it waded into the river, the water only reached to half its height. With limbs like tree trunks, it began striking the gate using fists.
Behind the creature, the undead followed. The sun had begun to wane, and perhaps their leader had grown sufficiently impatient to begin the assault. The moat caused them more trouble; pushing forward, the corpses fell in, and unlike their stony captain, they were too short to climb out. This resolved itself by the undead in the river becoming a bridge of their own, as they eventually crowded the small gap sufficiently that those coming after could step on top of them.
On the other side of the gate, Valerius stood with fifty soldiers of the militia he had trained for so many months; all the numbers that could be spared. “Hold fast,” he commanded. “We are the last line. Whatever you do, stand your ground!”
With an enormous crash, the gate broke and burst open. Led by the fiend, a thousand undead pushed forward.
Standing on the gatehouse, Martel could hear the sounds of battle. Above all, the screams of those dying. But he did not move, not even to turn his head. He stared ahead, no more restless than a statue, holding his black staff. His eyes were locked on the woman outside the city, a host of undead behind her.
Time was against him. The defenders could not be expected to endure, and once the sun set, Martel would have no opportunity left to turn the battle in their favour. Yet if he let doubt and fear rush him to action while she remained calm, it proved his will inferior to hers. He had to hold fast. So he clenched his staff, ignoring the sounds of his people dying.