Jostharl peered out into the darkness, listening to the chanting coming across the chasm. It had an eerie quality that caused him to shiver. No tricks this time, he thought. They’ve learned that lesson the hard way. They’re coming straight at us. He had a fleeting thought of home, of Yrsa returning from the brook with the water, her perfect, pale face glowing in the morning sun. No, he dragged himself back to the present; the Gate, the chanting from across Tarkalor’s bridge and the smell of distant burning.
“When your spear breaks, human, just scream like a child and I’ll bail you out.” The rough voice of the dark troll to his left, directed at the hauntingly onyx-eyed warrior that stood alongside him.
“It is a comfort to me, my friend, should this spear snap in two, that your breath will surely drive the enemy from the walls. It is all I can do not to hurl myself over even now.” The words were spoken quietly and earnestly, but Jostharl heard a quiet rumble of laughter from the troll echoed by the same from the other.
Looking to his left, Jostharl stared at the warrior from Dara Happa, seeming so out of place amongst these Orlanthi patriots. He had heard the whispers of the men, and knew that many were deeply unhappy about the role that this Cleombrotus had been afforded in the defence. Many feared some Lunar treachery and no few Orlanthi heroes had asserted vocally in the mead halls that they would be the first to put a blade in this upstart’s back should they sniff the most minute odour of betrayal. But the King’s word stood. Cleombrotus would stand at the forefront of the night defence of Tarkalor’s Gate for the assault. And Broyan’s word was final. The Outsider turned and called to the defenders in a clear and true voice, sounding metallic inside the confines of his helm.
“The ritual is nearly complete. The magic they weave is that of the Stone Phalanxes, ancient and martial. But these Tarshites that muster across the chasm have not the iron in their will to draw its true strength. Their soldiers will bind themselves magically into the phalanx, for the bridge is too narrow for them to cross without magical aid. Loath they will be to gift this power to such lesser warriors. They do not do this lightly and they do not do this often. Mark me here brothers and sisters for you all know from where I have come – they do this when they fear their enemy. They fear us, they fear this city and they fear each and every one of you. The masque of the helm is terrible to behold when it comes at you, bronze and faceless, but it merely hides the face of a man or a woman, and behind the masque they are wild eyed and weak of bladder. They will scream at you, but it is a scream of terror.”
“Hold these walls this night and their terror will grow. Like a spirit of fear going from one to the next it will spread and infect the army. “Why do the walls not fall?” they will ask. They will see the same faces waiting for them at the top. They will give us nicknames and place bounties on our heads, and they will talk of us around their campfires. “Our leaders have betrayed us,” they will murmur, “for they promised us a swift victory and all we get is blood.”
“Why do the walls not fall? Because we will not let them fall. I tell you now, and swear to you by the Gods who watch our fight; my blood is your blood, and I will let it spill for any one of you. Feel this proud stone beneath our feet – look to the eyes of your kin who stand beside you ready to die for you. This night we are all one, bound together by the Runes themselves and bound together by the Storm. Mark me well: They will fear us and they will die by the hundred under our blades.”
“First will come the magic. It will fail. The strength of the enchantments on these walls will hold them. The will of our battle-priests will counter the will of their effete magicians. Even as Humakt’s magic defeated the cowardly Shargashi animals who, for all their boasting and bold postures, did not dare to storm the walls and meet us face to face. They now scream their fear and sorrow at us from Hell. These others will be thwarted here this night also, and by we who stand together on this gate, for their mark tonight is not women and children, much as they would wish it were.”
“Then will come the ladders. Do not waste your strength on them. They will be enchanted and will bind themselves to the walls. Kill those that climb them. They are not a faceless horde of chaos. They are comrades and lovers and brothers and sisters and each death will be felt as a spear-thrust to the soul. They will mourn their fallen and they will long for home, such a great, great distance away. O’ my Brothers and Sisters, We ARE home. Let us fight for it together: As One.”
These last words were spoken quietly but firmly, and several murmuring voices around him echoed a response, “As One.” Then one of the weaponthanes turned to the others, raising his great axe over his head and bellowed, “As One!” The other defenders took up the cry in the manner that Orlanthi do, those on the towers either side of the gate taking up the yell which echoed between the walls and the mountains and rose into the starry, night sky. The dark warrior from the north remained silent, the only sign of life the deep and slow rise and fall of his chest as he began to infuse his very blood with the energy of the air around him, staring through and beyond the obscuring darkness toward the gathering enemy. Jostharl suppressed another shiver, wondering exactly what was it that he could see...