Run? That's it? 'Let's move, then.'
Outside the city's west wall, close to the shoreline's broken, jagged edge, a lazy swirl of dust rose from the ground, took form.
Tool slowly settled the flint sword into its shoulder-hook, his depthless gaze ignoring the abandoned shacks to either side and fixing on the massive stone barrier before him.
Dust on the wind could rise and sweep high over this wall. Dust could run in streams through the rubble fill beneath the foundation stones. The T'lan Imass could make his arrival unknown.
But the Pannion Seer had taken Aral Fayle. Toc the Younger. A mortal man … who had called Tool friend.
He strode forward, hide-wrapped feet kicking through scattered bones.
The time had come for the First Sword of the T'lan Imass to announce himself.
The second wave, bearing another thousand soldiers, plunged down to fill the streets directly behind Dujek's position, even as explosions lit the skyline to the south — along the keep's roof-line, then directly beneath it, the latter a deeper sound, rumbling through the ground to rattle the cobbles — a sound the High Fist recognized. The breach had been made.
'Time to push forward,' he barked to his officers. 'Take your commands — we drive for the keep.'
Dujek raised his visor. The air above was filled with the whispering flutter of quorl wings. The second wave of carriers were climbing back into the night sky, even as a third approached from the north — moments from delivering another thousand marines.
Sharpers echoed from the city to the east. Dujek paused to wonder at that — then the sky ignited, a grey, rolling wave, sweeping towards the third flight.
The High Fist watched, silent, as between two beats of his cold heart a thousand Black Moranth, their quorls, and five companies of Onearm's Host disintegrated in grey flames.
Behind the wave, sailing black and deadly, flew three condors.
The Moranth of the second wave, who had climbed high before intending to turn about and race north, reappeared, above the three condors, diving en masse towards the creatures.
A fourth flight of carriers approaching from the northwest had captured the birds' attention.
Rider and quorl descended on the unsuspecting condors, in successive, suicidal attacks. Black-armoured warriors drove lances deep into feathered bodies. Quorls twisted their triangular heads, chitinous jaws tearing strips of flesh, even as the collisions shattered their frail bodies and frailer wings.
Hundreds of quorls died, their riders falling with them to strike roofs and streets, lying broken and unmoving.
The three condors followed, dying as they fell.
Dujek had no time to think of the horrific price his Moranth had paid for that momentary victory. The fourth wing dropped down into the streets, soldiers flinging themselves from the saddles and scrambling for cover.
The High Fist beckoned for a messenger.
'New orders to the officers — the companies are to take buildings — defensible ones. The keep will have to wait — I want roofs over us-'
Another message-bearer appeared. 'High Fist!'
'What?'
'The Pannion legions are assembling, sir — every street in a line from the north gate right up to the keep.'
'And we hold the west third of the city. They're coming to drive us out. All right.' He faced the first messenger and said, 'Let the officers know so they can adjust their defence-'
But the second message-bearer wasn't finished. 'High Fist, sir — sorry. There's K'Chain Che'Malle with those legions.'
Then where is Silverfox and her damned T'lan Imass? 'They could be dragons for all it matters,' he growled after a moment. 'Go,' he said to the first messenger. The soldier saluted and left. The High Fist glared at the other message-bearer, then said, 'Find Twist and inform him we'll need a pass of his heavies — east of our position — just one, though. Tell him that they probably won't make it back, so he'd better hold a wing in reserve.' Dujek raised his visor and studied the sky overhead. Dawn was arriving — the fifth and sixth wings had delivered their troops and were distant specks racing back towards the mountain. That's it, then, we're all in Coral. And if we don't get help soon we'll never leave. 'That's all.' He nodded to the soldier.
The condors circled above the rooftop, crying out to each other, dipping and diving then, wings thudding the air, lifting back towards the paling sky.
Paran stared up, disbelieving. 'They must be able to see us!' he hissed.
They crouched against a low wall beyond which was a parapet overlooking the harbour and Coral Bay, and the darkness that had swallowed them was fast fading.