Chapter 499: The Siege Begins (1)
The mountain loomed like an ancient god above the Varzadian capital, its shoulders lost in slow–moving cloud. Wind whipped across the ridge, bringing the city’s smells all the way up to Lyan’s perch: coal-smoke, river mud, and the sharper tang of tanneries that clung to stone even in winter. He crouched behind a slab of wet basalt, elbows resting on his knees, spyglass pressed to one eye.
"Torch count on the north curtain just jumped," he muttered. "Either they rotated a fresh watch or they want us to think they did."
Wilhelmina knelt beside him, slate balanced on a leather-clad thigh. She scratched a mark. "Seventy-three visible flames. That’s short a squad if their roster is honest." A curl of pink hair broke free of her knot and blew across her cheek. She didn’t bother tucking it back.
Lyan kept the glass steady, mind racing. Beneath the outer slum wall he could see crooked alleys packed tight with shanties—roofs of mottled tin and rag banners flapping like surrender flags. Farther in rose the merchant arcades, lanterns glittering over arched gates. Then the noble wall: dark granite, higher than the others, studded with green-enameled towers shaped like rising serpents. Finally, the citadel clawed at the sky, all black basalt and pale pennants snapping in icy wind.
"Twelve thousand shields," Wilhelmina said, almost reading his thoughts. "And most of them rested behind stone."
"They’ve got numbers," Lyan answered, lowering the glass. "We’ve got imagination." He flashed a quick grin; she answered with a grunt that held the ghost of a smile.
Boots crunched on gravel behind them. Belle jogged up, cloak billowing, cheeks flushed pink. "Mirrors set. Three along the gully, two on that broken aqueduct. We pointed them so their watchfires bounce back at odd angles." She wiggled gloved fingers, showing a smear of silvery powder. "Light-dust for sparkle. Should make thirty men look like a brigade."
Wilhelmina tilted her slate for Belle to see. "Mark each mirror’s arc here. If their signal tower blinks, we have to shift." Belle’s eyes sparkled—she did love her craft—and bent to scribble.
Down-slope, Alicia knelt in a circle of white chalk etched into frozen earth. Her breath fogged the runes each time she exhaled. Tiny threads of light glimmered along the lines—ley energy coaxed to the surface. Lyan’s gaze lingered; damp strands of her platinum hair stuck to her temple, and her thin shoulders shook with each soft chant. A sting of worry hit him. She’d been pushing too hard since Eboncliff.
A sudden shout carried up from the squat towers near the eastern sluice gate. Lyan whipped the spyglass back. A Varzadian archer pointed, jabbing his finger in frustration at a banner that fluttered in the wrong wind—one of Belle’s glorified bedsheets on a stick.
"Glamour slip," Wilhelmina hissed.