The defenders of Etirran were faltering, but still bold in fighting back the onslaught. Many of the villagers on the country's outskirts, those who braved the landscapes outside the main wall, were rushing away from the field of battle. Most of them were captured prisoners from the township at Aurin Peak. The others lived in the villages in the plains to the south of the fortress. There were some who had not been captured, and the enemy's supporting forces were not close, but there was another menace to deal with: a giant, one of the native men who'd joined the King's Guard long ago.
The terrible soldier was directing the first segment of the enemy forces in the region. He used the villagers not as a deterrent against arrows, but for his own amusement. There were many more villages along the road, emptied of people. The herald was angry - a courier had gotten away on his horse, and was rallying others to fight. It was not as though the villagers had a decent chance to stop their enemy – but it still hindered them; his superiors were getting irritated with him, and the brat who had told him to attack early was hovering around him like an annoying fly.
“This accursed vambrace gives me control over the very earth beneath my feet, but I do not know its full power – it sickens me, as though it is literally draining the life from my body. Was this a trap, I wonder?”
The brat had returned. Ceras smirked, but he was behind the giant, waiting for something only he knew. Ceras sat near upon his horse. “Such fear in your tone. What now, massive brute? Shall we loiter here for months until we are outnumbered? The Master wants the city in three days! Send everyone else ahead, will you?”
The giant snarled. He raised a hand before thinking better of it. He wouldn't risk the punishment for striking the son of his master. “I know, you insolent pup. The citadel will be ours before the night is out. Your kind put your trust too carelessly in alleged 'prophets'.”
“You doubt them?”
Ceras rode up to the giant. “I would be careful – I've heard the rumors of how you gained your position.”
“Where! Where did they come from, these heathens? Why should my people call your masters our own lords, you degenerate child? The forgotten countries in the ash lands – the last isles – tunnels below the desert cities? You cannot even answer, can you?”
Ceras said nothing, but endured the ranting – he had to. His contact had not sent him another page of the lore book.
“Do your kinsmen even know? Your father is a fool, you know it as well as I do. Are your kinsmen themselves not enthralled by this 'Master' you speak of? How would one know it? Get away from my command post! If we are attacked, I will not protect you. I tire of heeding the delusions of some game playing fool. I do not fear your phantoms.”
The giant stalked off a moment, and approached a heavy cart. There was something under the sheet on it. Ceras was curious about the cart. It was covered, and there were chains keeping the large sheets from being looked under. He had not been in the north when the township was first attacked, but he was drawn to the siege for some odd reason.
“Move the launchers into position again,” cried the giant. “Bring them up. They are still preparing their cannons, or we would already be dead.”
Three of the herald's new siege machines were put into place, dragged by runners, teams of five on either side hauling heavy ropes. Ceras was afraid, and not entirely willing to see another civilization fall. He had no choice, and watched as their thin sheets were ripped away from the launchers one after another.
The wheels squealed and creaked as the carts were dragged along. As they went, streams of earth rose up from beneath them, disappearing as they made contact with each barrel piece, and a yellowish glow came upon the launchers. Ceras glanced over at the giant. There were three emeralds set on the herald's vambrace. He wondered if it gave him control over the launchers.
They were made in the factories of the Shroud far to the west, following many years of experimentation and exploitation. A far better siege weapon than catapults, they had not been used in centuries. The launchers kept taking in more earth, leaving deep ruts as they were dragged closer to the front piece by piece, and put together on heavy wooden platforms by large and imposing warriors who were probably of the native race of Niriu. Ceras watched as the grass beneath the launchers died. The glow of the launchers soon made them too hot, and nearly too bright to look upon. The terrain was devastated.
'No weapon aside from anti-personnel equipment may use spellcraft to augment itself, in order to prevent the gaining of an undue advantage – no heavy equipment may be made to cause irreparable damage to its surroundings.'
Ceras watched his ally issue more orders, recalling the Raiiya Codex, full of laws most countries of Niriu abided by. Many runners shuffled off – Ceras saw the runners were no longer rushing off as the horde normally did. He knew the giant could not command runners – his father had not permitted him to do so. The boy rode off on his horse into the night – towards the citadel. His clothing would disguise him again.
The enemy herald saw the boy leave, and shook his head in disgust. He raised his right arm. A forged vambrace, wrought of silver, and platinum, was strapped to the muscular arm. It was adorned with many thin silver and golden lines along the length of a white, ceramic outer shell. The lines gleamed brightly when the harbinger muttered in a strange tongue. To the captured villagers nearby, it was almost as though he was singing it. They worked the mechanisms of the launchers, despite their lack of training. None of them could resist the hoarse and terrible, but compelling, voice in their heads.
The launchers shot their payloads one at a time, to devastating effect. Each one soared through the sky silently, and burst as they made contact with the citadel walls afar off. The walls did not break all at once, but the effects of the projectiles was severe, leaving deep cracks in them. The herald waited for the next shots. The defenders realized quickly where the Shroud had gotten the ideas for them – the enemy had learned about the great quarry hammers, and applied the work to their own machines of war.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
It took hours to move their front line up, but access was eventually won. Runners were used in the initial assault. Many fell dead when the wall gave way. It did not matter, as more runners swarmed up the ramp before the citadel's outer yard. The defenders had their tricks; their enemies were caught unaware. The ramp burst from the charges hidden beneath it, and the controlled explosion removed the main way from the Runners. The outer gates came down then, trapping many of the runners there. A wide and deep pit opened up, and vessels full of a substance like black tar came crashing down from above – it boiled from its own, otherworldly nature, and the substance's terrible fume choked the runners who had managed to get ahead. The remnant was crawling and tripping over their dead allies. A bowman at the top of the wall gave his order, and volleys came over the wall raining down over the horde. None of the last rank of enemies survived, and the defense lasted long into the night.
More of the earthen vessels were rolled over the walls to the ground below to delay the opposing advance. While there were few cavalrymen in Etirran who still had their horses, some remained in wait for a signal. Most of the beasts of burden and many destriers were used with carriages and wagons to carry the residents away from the city weeks earlier, and only a few hundred kept returning, used again and again to move supplies and men to and fro. Yet, a contingent force was still there, waiting by a hidden outpost in the base of the vast hill of the citadel. At last, their commander gave a great bellowing yell, and came charging out to battle when the smoke and fumes cleared. He charged headlong into the fray, and his forces followed thundering after him. The battle was not long, despite their bravery, as these men-at-arms fell in combat swiftly, but then, they hadn't expected a giant to be in their fair city.
The herald had come, and he tore through them easily with his war scythe, cutting down even their quickest animals. Broken rock rose up from the earth, floating up as easily as if it were made of vapor. Domes formed about some of the mounted enemies, domes of earth. The domes crushed many of the soldiers engaging the herald. Their effort was valiant, and Rieth, leader of all the guild masters, watched from the upper wall. Heavy piles of rock were lifted up in the same way as the domes. From the lower wall, it looked like – and as each of these things happened, it appeared as though the herald's arm was brightly glowing.
The commandant glowered down at the carnage from his high perch. His ears rang each time the enemy used his evil spells. There was some evil at work, some musical sounding tone; it was irritating and caused Rieth severe pain. He retreated back to the keep. The enemy would focus most of its attack on the citadel – and he knew the city was nearly empty, but those inside it had to do their best, because there was no help coming. The herald was not yet willing to come up towards the citadel. He still had to breach the main gates to let his forces in, and Rieth would not let them go easily. Fortunately, the main gate was far away.
The herald was called Shien-khail – he knew, and despised it; the term meant 'dominion's puppet', and was given by the race of men his arrogant superior had come from. The herald was furious. Etirii defenders were not supposed to have ways of defending against his onslaught; but there were several other options. He raised his arm again and panicked as he looked at his gear. One of the emeralds on his vambrace had cracked and was emitting something like sparks of green electrical energy; there were still two more, but it affected the balance of the energy flowing through his body now, and his connection to the launchers.
The herald turned around as a horrible clicking sound came upon his hearing, bombarding his ears. One of the launchers, the farthest from him, was smoking. His eyes went wide, as without his vambrace's full power to balance the release of energy, the launcher's stone barrel cracked, and glowed bright orange. It exploded and left behind a massive crater. When the smoke cleared, he saw his own slaves gasping and twitching and dropping to the ground one after another. They perished in pain and despair, but they were at last freed from his leader's control.
The herald whistled, and raised his right arm, the one with no pathetic spellcasting toy – two native men came and bowed before him. Shien-khail – he accepted the words as his name, feeling like a fool, for putting his trust in the devils who commanded him; he deserved it – the herald took what was in their grasp. It was a helm, like a bull's head; it was actually the preserved head of a beast he'd killed personally in his first solo hunt. Two more approached with his heavy coat of hide, and he replaced his harness with it. Shien-khail would not need the sheath he used to hold the scythe upon his back ever since it was stolen for him.
“It is time, brethren. They tell me I will fall in this siege – so be it. Go home! Fight for the Overlord, and bring honor to our kind. Forget this terrible faction and its pathetic goals. We abandoned the Raiiya for our own ways – it was the right thing to do.”
The herald turned his back on his allies, his own countrymen. He raised his arm and clenched his fist. One by one, each of the remaining launchers shot its payload at the keep far above, missing it but causing a wave of pressure which broke the hill beneath it. The remaining launchers imploded after this, for the herald ripped the vambrace off of his forearm and crushed it with his other, large, bloody hand. Many of his forces died as the following explosions of energy obliterated their surroundings. The broken launchers left terrible, shimmering vapors and a faint light where they'd been. More slaves choked on the dangerous remnant of the spell power keeping the launchers functional.
“So that is what the brat was referring to – maybe the northmen were right to ban these!”
As though it were a consequence of his action, the ground rumbled and cracked beneath him. A long fissure formed, and ran along the ground away from his position, shaking the earth like a natural quake. It was felt even in the city – there were none alive who did not sense it. Shien-khail fell to the ground gasping for breath. His heart pounded in his chest; his left forearm seemed to age far beyond the rest of his body – he watched it in horror. Many cuts appeared on it, and blood drenched the ground, pouring from the wounds on him. His arm restored itself quickly, as quickly as the damage had appeared; there were more wounds forming on him however, and he felt the shock of many phantom impacts. Many of his own forces surrounded him. There were no cavalrymen left, but they felt their leader's fear, and his instincts drove them to close ranks. The herald was confused, but said nothing. He rose up when the pain ceased, his face bleeding from cuts; there was even a deep slash wound on his torso.
The wounds healed themselves as he stood, causing him pain again – Shien-khail withstood the pain, and did not complain about the sudden healing and new scars, despite his fears.
From the city came more reinforcements. The battle was carrying on, fighters from both sides feeling as if their luck had run out, for not all of the attacking force was of one mind, and all were not acting against their will. Conscripts fought against them – it was odd, some thought to themselves; they were fighting in the mock-up town they had been trained in long before, and the arena was secured swiftly thereafter. There were many rallying to the defense of the citadel; many fell, but others were able to destroy a portion of the runners. In the weeks to follow, they'd recall the guild masters who led them from the hills along the lakeshore; and they'd tell tales about the odd and cheerless – but very knowledgable – spellcasters who organized the charge against the beasts which hunted them throughout the city.
Nearly a hundred citizens ran south across the flat top of the hill toward the citadel's keep, traversing across the city's greatest fortifications; but it was not quick enough. The enemy herald stormed through the gates on the south side of the hill. He burst through portcullis after portcullis. Rain fell, then. A torrent came down, and the wind picked up.
