Furies of Calderon

Amara swept her gaze out over the ground before the walls, stark and white and cold in the blue-white furylights, and then looked back at Bernard. "Are you all right?"

The big Steadholder held up a hand to her, his breathing still heavy, and addressed Giraldi and Pirellus. "I couldn't get close enough to tell much. Light troops, moving fast. A lot of them had bows, and I thought I saw some scaling poles."

Giraldi grimaced and nodded once. "Which clans?"

"Wolf, Herdbane," Bernard said. He leaned a shoulder against one of the battlements. Amara turned to a bucket of water hanging on a hook nearby and scooped out a drinking ladle, passing it to Bernard. He nodded to her and drank the ladle away. "Giraldi, I'll need a sword, mail, arrows if you've any to spare."

"No," Pirellus said, stepping forward. "Giraldi, you shouldn't have given this civilian a horse, much less let him be on the walls when we're expecting an attack."

Bernard squinted at the Knight Commander. "Young man, how long have you been in the Legions?"

Pirellus faced Bernard squarely. "What matters is that I am in them now, sir. You are not. It is the purpose of the Legions to protect the people of the Realm. Now get off the wall and let us do our job."

"He stays," Amara said, firmly. "Centurion, if there's any mail that might fit me, have it brought as well."

Giraldi turned and pointed a finger at one of the legionares on the wall. The man immediately leapt down a ladder and dashed into one of the guardhouses. Both Bernard and Pirellus turned to blink at Amara.

"No," Bernard said.

"I think not."

Both men frowned at one another.

Amara let out an impatient breath "Commander, you have sent your Knights Aeris to bring reinforcements, and those that remain are flying patrol overhead They're under strength and may need whatever help they can get. The Steadholder is a furycrafter of considerable strength and has military experience He is within his rights as a Citizen to stand in defense of his steadholt"

Bernard scowled at Amara and said, "I don't like it "

Pirellus nodded "I must agree, Countess You presumably do not have military experience beyond personal defense I don't like it either "

"Fortunately, I do not need either of you to like it" Amara arched an eyebrow at Bernard as the legionare came running back up, both shoulders draped with coats of mail, one arm loaded down with weaponry She took the mail he offered her, a long vest of interlocking rings, and took off her cloak to shove her arms into its padded undervest, and then into the mail itself She started fumbling with the buckles, only to have Bernard push her fingers away and start cinching the buckles tight with practiced speed

"You shouldn't be up here," he said

"Because I'm a woman'" Amara pulled a cloak on over her shoulders again and buckled on a belt with a clip for her sword's scabbard

"Because you're green Unblooded It's got nothing to do with you being a woman "

She glanced at him, arching an eyebrow

Bernard shrugged, tugging another buckle closed "Almost nothing Here, move your arms a bit, so that this will settle "

By the time she'd finished, Bernard had dumped his cloak in exchange for a mail shirt of his own and a steel cap whose flanges spread down over the back of his neck, while the metal guard pressed down over his nose He strapped on the sword belt, while his eyes swept the ground outside the walls, then took up his bow

"Quiet," said the big-eared legionare again, from down the wall He tilted his head for a moment, then swallowed The man looked down the wall at Pirellus and nodded "Sir? Here they come "

Pirellus gave the man a nod, then said to Bernard and Amara, "Help if you wish, then It's your blood But stay out of my way" He looked up and down the wall and said, "Archers "

Amara watched as centurions repeated the command down the length of the wall on either side of her and men stepped up to the battlements,

bows in hand, arrows resting on quivers beside them. They set arrows to the strings, eyes focused intently at the edge of the area lit by Garrison's fury-lights, and held their bows half-raised. Tension made their forms gaunt, the harsh lights behind them casting their eyes into shadow, making them faceless. Amara heard a soldier not far away take in a deep breath and blow it out, as though impatient for it all to be finished.

Her heart pounded faster, and she had to work to keep her breath from racing out of control. The mail on her shoulders had a solid, comforting weight to it, but something about the smell of the metal set her on edge and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She put a hand on the hilt of the sword at her belt and felt her fingers shake. She wrapped them hard around the weapon's hilt to stop anyone from noticing.

Bernard stared thoughtfully out at the darkness, having not yet drawn an arrow to his bow. He shrugged one shoulder, as though trying to settle the mail on it more comfortably. He took a step closer to her and said, quietly, "Afraid?"

She frowned at him and shook her head. Even that gesture was too jerky. "Where are they?"

"Out there. Outside the light. They'll come into it as soon as they've massed for their charge."

"Ten thousand." She pressed her lips together. "Ten thousand."

"Don't focus on the numbers," he said, in that same low tone. "This is a simple, solid defense. We have the wall, the light, the ground in front of us. They built Garrison here because it's the best point of defense anywhere in the Valley. It gives us an enormous advantage."

Amara looked up at him again, then up and down the length of the wall. She couldn't stop her voice from shaking. "But there are so few legionares."

"Easy," Bernard rumbled. "That's all right. Pirellus has his most experienced troops on the walls. Career fighting men, most of them with families behind them. The compulsory terms are down in the courtyard as reserves. These troops can fight ten times their number from this position with a good chance of victory, even without the Knights here. Pirellus and his men are the ones who are really going to win this battle. The legionares just have to hold the horde off of them until the Knights can bring their furies to bear on the Marat. We'll bloody their noses, and as soon as we can determine who is leading them, the Knights will take him down."

"They'll kill their hordemaster," Amara said.

"It discourages new hordemasters," Bernard said. "Or that's the idea. Once enough Marat are dead and their leader is gone, and they've not managed to break our defense, they won't have the stomach for any more fighting.''

She nodded, pressing her lips together. "All right. What can I do to help?"

"Look for their leader. They don't wear anything much beyond what a normal warrior does, so you just have to look for someone shouting orders near the center."

"And when I've found him?"

Bernard drew an arrow and set it to the string of his bow, finally. "Point me at him. They should come in any moment now. Good fortune, Cursor."

"And you, Steadholder."

On her other side, Pirellus leaned a hand against a merlon and leaned a bit forward. "Ready," he whispered. "Come on. We're ready."

They came without warning. The Marat surged forward, thousands of screaming throats with one voice, plunging into the cold furylight like a sudden, living tide of muscle and bone. Their battle roar washed over Amara, deafening, terrifying, more sound than she would have believed could happen. Before she realized what she was doing, she was screaming, too, shouting out her fear and defiance, her sword in her hand, though she didn't remember drawing it-and beside her, Pirellus, sword held high, did the same.

"Archers!" he thundered, voice stentorian on the wall. "Loose!"

And with the thrum of a hundred heavy bows, death went flying into the ranks of the charging Marat.

Amara watched as the first rank of the enemy bucked and went down, only to be crushed by those coming behind them. Twice more, Pirellus cried to the archers, and twice more arrows flickered into their ranks, sending Marat sprawling and screaming, but doing nothing to stop the tide of bodies flooding toward Garrison's walls.

"Spears!" Pirellus barked, and along the walls the archers stepped back, while legionares bearing heavy shields and long, wickedly pointed spears stepped forward.

Arrows driven by short, heavy Marat bows began to flicker over the tops of the walls, and Amara had to jerk her head to one side while a stone-tipped shaft flew past her face. Her heart surged with terror, and she crouched down enough to take her head from view as a prime target, while Pirellus, in

his helmet, stood staring down at the oncoming Marat, ignoring the arrows that buzzed past him.

The ground shook as the Marat reached the wall, a physical trembling that traveled up through the stones to Amara's feet. She could see them, a sea of wild, inhuman eyes, teeth that stretched into animal's fangs, and wolves ran beside them, among them, like great, gaunt shadows. The Marat reached the wall, where the gate suddenly shook with the blow of a tree trunk being held by a dozen hands, used as a ram. Several long, slender poles arched up into the air, studded along their lengths with short spikes, and once they came to rest against the walls, Marat began to climb the poles, nimble and swift, their weapons held in their hands, while companions beneath them fired arrows up at the defenders on the walls.

It was too loud to be believed, screams splitting the air, making any kind of communication nearly impossible. Arrows flew thicker than raindrops in a storm, their dark heads gleaming in the furylight, shattering where they struck stone or good Aleran steel-but Amara watched as one grizzled old veteran pitched back from the wall, the dark shaft of an arrow piercing his throat, and another man dropped motionless in his tracks, six inches of haft and fletching showing from the burst socket of his eye.

"Hold!" Pirellus bellowed. "Hold!"

The legionares fought with ruthless efficiency. Regardless of the incredible grace of the Marat rushing up the scaling poles, they thrust home spears with deadly accuracy into Marat flesh. Pale barbarians fell from the walls, back into the savage throng beneath, drawing further cries from those below. Again and again, Legion spearmen repelled the Marat assaults, shoving the scaling poles back down, driving the warriors clambering up them back with cold steel. The legionares fought together, each man with his shield partner, so that while one would engage the enemy's weapon, the other would drive a spear home with a short, hard thrust at the vitals or a leg, toppling the attacker from their precarious position atop the walls. Blood stained the Aleran spears, the legionares' shields and armor, and spattered thick on the battlements, mute testimony to the courage of the Marat attackers.

Below Amara's feet, she could hear the steady thud and thump of the ram being driven at the gates-but suddenly found herself whirling to the walls as a savage-eyed Marat swung himself up between two merlons from a scaling pole and swept a heavy wooden club at her head.

Amara ducked the blow, dodged a second swipe that came straight

down at her shoulder and whirled to whip her blade across the Marat's heavy thighs, opening the pale flesh in a sudden river of blood. The Marat screamed and toppled toward her, club flailing. Amara moved lightly to one side, thrusting her short blade at the Marat's ribs as he fell past, feeling the weapon sink home, the quivering, twisting jerk of the Marat's scream something that coursed through the metal and into her hands. Half-revolted, exultant at having survived the exchange, she let out a scream and jerked the sword back, leaping back from the Marat warrior as he tumbled limply down to the courtyard beneath the wall.

She looked up, panting, to find Pirellus staring at her. He nodded, once, and then called, "Try to throw them back down the wall on the outside. We don't want clutter where our own troops are moving around." Then he turned back to his study of the ground below, almost absently frowning when a stone arrow-tip shattered against the crest of his helmet.

Amara chanced a look over the wall, out at the chaos below, and arrows whistled through the air toward her as soon as she did. She jerked her head back and down, to find Bernard crouched next to her. The Steadholder, too, took a glance over the wall, before half-rising to a crouch, to lift his bow, drawing the arrow back to his cheek. He aimed for a breath, then loosed the arrow, which threaded its way between a pair of legionares to sink into the ribs of a Marat with a steel axe who had gained the wall over a stunned legionare with a dent in his helmet. The force of the arrow's impact drove the Marat back over the wall, and he vanished as he fell.

"Spotted their general yet?" Bernard called to her.

"I can't see anything!" Amara shouted. "They shoot whenever I look!"

"No helmet," Bernard said. "I'd shoot at you, too."

"That's a comfort, thanks," Amara said, wry, and the Steadholder grinned at her, before standing up to loose another arrow into the crowd below and drop back down behind the wall again.

Amara stood up to take another look-but Bernard caught her wrist. "Don't," he said. "They're getting packed in down there. Keep your head down."

"What?"

In answer, he nodded toward Pirellus. Amara turned her head to look at the man and saw him point a finger off to one side at a pair of men, standing behind heavy ceramic pots, and three armored Knights who stood behind them, with no weapons in their hands.

"Firepots?" Amara asked, and Bernard nodded. She watched, as Pirellus lifted his sword and then dropped it, a swift signal.

The two men with the firepots-earthcrafters, surely, for only they could lift the man-sized pots of coals so easily-heaved them up and over the wall, to crash down into the Marat on either side of the gate.

Pirellus signaled the three men behind them, and the Knights, as one, lifted their arms and faces to the sky, crying out over the screams and din of battle.

The fire answered them in a roar that deafened Amara and rattled her teeth against one another. Heat swept up, and sudden, brilliant light, scarlet and murderous in contrast to the cool blue furylights, a wind that roared upward, lifting Amara's hair up off her neck. A column of fire shaped like some huge winged serpent rose above the battlements, curled back down, and crashed to the earth below.

The battlements mercifully shielded her from seeing what happened to the Marat caught in the sudden storm of living flame, but in the wake of that fire, as its roar died away to echoes, she heard them screaming, men and wolves alike, screaming in terror and in pain, high and breathless. There was madness in those screams, frustration, futility, terror beyond anything that she had heard before-and there was something else: the sure and certain knowledge of death, death as a release from an agony as pure and hot as the flames that had caused it.

A smell rose from the ground before the battlements in those silent moments after, the scent of charred meat. Amara shuddered, sickened.

A silence fell, broken only by screams and moans, coming from the ground below. She rose and looked down, over the ground before the walls. The fire serpent had broken the Marat, sent them and their wolves howling away from the walls of Garrison. At a command from Pirellus, the archers stepped forward and sent arrows arching into the retreating barbarians with deadly accuracy, dropping more to the earth, clutching at the barbs piercing their flesh.

She couldn't see much of the ground immediately beneath the walls, for which she felt silently grateful. The smell of burned hair and worse nearly overwhelmed her, until she bade Cirrus to keep it from her nostrils and mouth. She leaned a hand against the battlements and stared out at the blood-soaked, scorched earth, littered with a carpet of pale-haired bodies.

"Furies," she breathed. "They're not much more than children."

Bernard stepped up beside her, his face pale, grim, eyes hidden in shadows beneath his helmet. "Young warriors," Bernard said. "Their first chance to prove themselves in battle. That was Wolf Clan. One more to go."

Amara glanced at him. "They send their youngest to fight?"

"To fight first. Then, if they survive, they can join the adult warriors in the main battle."

She looked back at the field and swallowed. "This is only a preliminary to them. It isn't over."

"Not without getting the leader," Bernard said. "Get some water in you. You don't know how much you need it. Next one won't be so easy."

And indeed, a legionare came around carrying a bucket, and a thong threaded through the handles of tin cups, passing water to each man on the walls. More legionares, younger troops from the reserves in the courtyard below, came onto the walls to help carry down the wounded and bear them back to the watercrafters working at the tubs in the courtyard. As usual, those with functional and light injuries were treated first, a round of swift crafting that bound closed bleeding wounds, mended over simple broken bones, and restored a whole, if weary, fighting man to the defense of the garrison. The more seriously injured were remanded to the care of surgeons, men and women skilled in more pedantic medicinal practices, who labored to keep them alive and stable until one of the watercrafters had the time to attend to their injuries.

"Pretty much like we expected," Pirellus was saying, on the wall somewhere nearby. She focused on the conversation, listening. "Though the ram was a new technique for them. They learn fast."

Giraldi grunted. "Children. Crows, but I don't like this kind of bloodletting."

"How are the men?"

"Well enough, for not having slept a full night. Light casualties on the northern side of the wall. Only injuries on the south."

"Good," Pirellus said. "Get water to everyone and arrows to the archers. Make sure those new firepots get up here in one piece, and get some food to my firecrafters. They don't do as well on an empty belly."

"You want something for that?" Giraldi asked.

"For what?"

"You're bleeding."

"Edge of my helmet," Pirellus said. "Arrow drove it into my skin. Looks worse than it is."

"You don't want it bleeding in your eye at the wrong time. Let me get a surgeon up here."

"Let the surgeons see to the men that are hurt," Pirellus said, his tone firm. "Get yourself some water, too, centurion."

"Aye, sir."

Amara frowned, pensive, and stood up, walking a bit farther down the wall. Bernard sat there, his back against the battlements, frowning down at his hands.

"Something's occurred to me," Amara said. "This doesn't make any sense."

Bernard squinted up at her. "It's like that, your first battle."

She shook her head impatiently. "No, not like that. It doesn't make sense for the Marat to do this. To send a fraction of their force against us- and the one least experienced and capable at that. Why should they fight us piecemeal when they could bring everyone against us at once?"

"Marat don't think like we do," Bernard said. "You always get their raw recruits out in front. Sometimes they're out like velites, skirmishing in front of the larger masses of troops, and sometimes they're raiding parties that go out the night before, but they're always in front. This is just another example."

"They aren't stupid," Amara said stubbornly. "How many of their young men died just now? Hundreds? A thousand? For what? They killed half a dozen legionares and wounded more that will be back up on the walls in an hour at most."

Pirellus stepped down the wall, abruptly standing before Amara, arms akimbo. "You would have preferred it if they had killed more, perhaps?"

"Don't be stupid," Amara snapped. "I just think that there must be something else to what they're doing." She looked at Bernard. "Where are the Knights we saw before?"

The Steadholder frowned at her, but Pirellus spoke before he could say anything. "Indeed, Countess, where are they? I acknowledge that the Marat are on the move, but we have seen only one warband, thus far, with no hordemaster in evidence. You will be quite the laughingstock if Riva brings both his Legions here only to find no Marat to face."

Amara's temper flashed, and she faced Pirellus, ready to bring the man to task Bernard stood up, as though to get between them

Down the wall, one of the brass horns sounded a call to arms, a clarion note that clove through the cold furyht air and brought the veteran troops on the wall to their feet, shields and weapons ready, before its notes had died away

"Sir," snapped Giraldi, from the wall over the gates "They're coming again "

Pirellus turned his back on Amara and leapt up to his position over the gate

Out at the edge of the light, the Marat appeared again, rushing forward m a howling mob-but this time, their screams were punctuated not by the howling of the great, dark wolves, but by the metallic, whistling shrieks of the giant predator birds that raced beside them as the pale tide charged toward the walls

"Archers," Pirellus called again, and once more, in three humming, whistling waves, Marat dropped to the ground, the life driven from them by Aleran shafts "Spears'' Pirellus called, and once again, the Legions squared up to face the Marat

But that was where the similarity to the charge of Clan Wolf ended

There were no scaling poles this time, no ram to assault the gates Instead, the first rank of the Marat, howling their defiance, simply hurled itself at the walls and, running at a furious pace, leapt up to the top

If Amara had not seen it happen, she would never have believed it possible-but the Marat, without aid of any kind, simply hurtled into the air, grasped at the top of the fifteen-foot wall with one hand, and hauled themselves up to fight The great birds stalking beside them leapt up, too, even higher, furiously beating at the air with their stubby wings and holding themselves aloft just long enough to rake at the defenders atop the walls with their vicious talons, driving Aleran men back long enough for the young Herdbane warriors to haul themselves onto the battlements and throw themselves forward into battle with a fearless, even mindless abandon

Amara stared in startled horror as a Marat hauled himself onto the wall not ten feet from her, and his great bird landed beside him with a scream, its beak slashing wildly at an upraised shield The Marat lifted his knife and leapt at her, shrieking, while behind him another scrambled atop the wall in his place

Amara tried to dodge to one side, only to realize that there was nothing but the empty air of the courtyard beneath her. She sent out a frantic call to Cirrus, and, as the Marat rushed her, took two steps out onto the empty air, then sprang back to the stones of the wall behind him. He stared at her, stunned for a moment, even as he spun to pursue her. She thrust with the guardsman's blade, flat of the weapon parallel to the ground, and it sank home at one side of his chest, sliding between ribs and coming out again smoothly.

Something shrieked behind her, and hot pain flashed across her back. She threw herself forward and down, over the fallen Marat, and turned her head to see the great herdbane lunge toward her, dark eyes glassy and empty of anything like fear, its beak flashing toward her eyes.

She threw up her hands, willing Cirrus out before her, and the fury rushed out, sweeping up the great bird and hurling it into a merlon. It stumbled and spun to reorient on her, but even as it did, a heavyset legionare swept his sword at it in a powerful stroke and, with earth-born strength, swept the herdbane's head from its neck. The legionare flashed her a smile, then turned and hurled himself toward the newest arrival at the top of the walls.

Amara struggled to her feet again. Fighting raged all along the wall and had spilled over into the courtyard behind. The reserve troops, after a startled moment, had been ordered forward by their young officers and engaged those Marat who either leapt from the wall or followed the bounds of their warbirds down into the courtyard.

More screams, frantic and terrified and wild with battle-rage, whirled around her, disorienting, terrifying. On the other side of the gate, the Marat had taken a section of the wall and held it tenaciously, more of their number pouring in at every moment, until Pirellus himself entered the fray.

The golden-skinned Parcian drew his dark sword and started what could only be described as a deliberate stalk down the length of the wall, calling legionares out of his way as he went. He met the first Marat with a blow so swift that Amara never saw it begin. She only saw blood flicker out in an arc, while the Marat tumbled down to the earth below, lifeless. One of the great birds lost its talon when it raked at Pirellus, and its head followed it to the stones a breath later.

More Marat threw themselves at the master metalcrafter, both man and beast in a furious wave, but the swordsman was their match. Every motion

avoided a blow or enabled him to deal out a stroke of his own-and none failed to be lethal With a calculated precision, Pirellus swept down the occupied section of the wall, brushing away the enemy like cobwebs, and the Legions flooded back into the space, kicking bodies clear of the battlements, fighting savagely to hold the regained section of the walls

Pirellus shook the blood from his sword, expression neutral, remote, and pointed a finger again at the men with the firepots The earthcrafters removed the lids and prepared to hurl the pots over the battlements to the ground below The firecrafters behind them stood with their expressions distant, mouths moving silently, calling to their furies in preparation of the hellish storm they prepared to unleash on the enemy

And that was when Amara felt it When she felt the currents of air thrumming with tension, heard with some part of her that she could not fully describe the rising tide of wind moving in the darkness above

She turned her face up, only to be blinded by the furylights mounted above the battlements, veiling the skies above-but all along the wall, the winds rose, whipping wildly back and forth Amara thought she could hear cries above, where Garrison's few Knights Aeris should have been patrolling Something sprinkled down from above, and for a moment she thought that more rain had begun to fall But the sensation was hot, not cold, and when Amara wiped at her cheek, she saw blood smeared upon her fingers

"Bernard'" she shouted "They're here'" She didn't have time to make sure she had been heard Instead, she called to Cirrus and leapt into the air, felt the roar of wind enfold her as she hurtled up, above the battlements and into the darkened sky over the besieged fortress

The air teemed with Knights Aeris-duelling, whirling pairs of men who swept through the skies in deadly combat, as much between furies as men, each trying to cut off the other's flow of air or to wound their opponents badly enough with their blades to shatter their concentration and send them falling Even as she watched, one of the men in Rivan colors whirled away from a flickering blade, only to let out a sudden, terrified scream and begin to plummet from the sky like a stone He fell past Amara and onto the ground before the walls of Garrison, the thud of impact swallowed by the tumult beneath them

Amara swept her gaze around the sky, picking out the shapes of airborne Knights as much with Cirrus's senses as her own, and found thirty at least, three times the number of the fortress's defenders More graceful battles

played out above and around her, but their outcome was a foregone conclusion: Garrison's Knights Aeris would be driven from the skies or killed, and the enemy would control all movement above the fortress.

Amara spotted, high and at the rear of the enemy positions, what she had dreaded-several litters, borne by more Knights, litters that would carry more of the powerful furycrafters they had faced before. Even as she watched, several Knights formed an escort around three of the litters, and the whole of the group dove toward the embattled fortress.

Specifically, toward the gates where Pirellus and his Knights directed the Aleran defenses.

Amara did not take time to consider her plan. Instead, she gathered Cirrus beneath her and sent herself hurtling up toward the oncoming litters. A startled Knight turned to face her in the air, but with an almost casual gesture, she flashed past him, dealing him a blow that began a cut low on one of his legs and ran all the way up his back to his shoulder, sheering through the leather leggings he wore and even biting through some of the mail upon his back. He let out a cry and fell, his focus fluttering with his pain, dropping toward the earth like a leaf cut from a tree.

Amara hurled herself forward and used a terrific rush of air to catapult her up. Then, while her momentum still carried her toward the foe, she gathered Cirrus's presence up before her and sent the fury lashing out at those supporting one of the litters.

She wasn't strong enough to cut all four of the Knights bearing the litters from their furies, and she hadn't even tried. Instead, she had focused on the two forward Knights, intending only to cut off their wind for a few crucial seconds. She succeeded. The men let out startled cries and fell, straight down, taking the poles whose weight they supported with them.

And dumping a half-dozen screaming men inside the litter into the open air. Two of the men still wore their restraining straps and dangled precariously on the litter as the Knights bearing it struggled to right it again, but the others, evidently anticipating a quick dismount upon the walls, had already unstrapped. Those six plummeted toward the ground, and though a few of the escorting Knights plunged after them, Amara knew that they would never be able to save the men from a fall so close to the earth.

She felt dozens of eyes focus on her at once, as her momentum carried her to the peak of its energy, then let her begin to fall again. She spun in the air, faced down, and kept her limbs in close to her body, to keep from being

slowed as she reached out to gather Cirrus back to her, and to reestablish her own windstream before one of the other Knights of the air cut her off.

Half a dozen windstreams converged on her at once, and she clawed for air in frustrated terror, even as the furylights of the fortress below loomed closer. She got lucky: So many of the enemy had moved to cut her off that she was able to use their own efforts against one another, writhing the wind-streams into a tangle and then altering the direction of her fall with her arms and legs. Cirrus gathered beneath her in a rush, and she gained control of her fall, just as another Knight, less reticent than the others, swept toward her, light gleaming on his drawn sword.

Amara twisted to one side, but he matched her fall, and the sword swept at her. She caught it on her own blade and pressed in close, sword-to-sword, struggling to gain control of the wind around them and turn it to her advantage. Her foe gripped her wrist, and they began to spin wildly, still falling.

Amara shot a glance down at the courtyard welling up before her eyes and looked up to her foe's face just as he did the same. There was a mute moment of concord and then both pushed away from one another, furies gathering beneath them in a roar, attempting to slow their fall.

Amara got one frantic look at Garrison beneath her and guided her fall into a stack of hay bales beside the stables. The bales, solidly packed, would have done little to break her fall without Cirrus rushing currents, both slowing the impact and scattering the bales into loose strands. Amara crashed through the topmost stack of bales and out onto the ground on the far side.

Her foe, more able than she, or less tired, landed neatly on the ground beside her and pivoted to drive his blade at her throat. She caught the thrust on her own sword, barely, parrying the blade into the bale of hay beside her, while her other hand dragged the short knife she'd stolen from Fidelias from her belt and drove it back into the windcrafter's boot.

He fell back with a yelp, then gestured with his hand, expression murderous. The wind roared, and Amara felt pressure pin her hard to the ground. She struggled to move, or to lift her sword, but the man's fury kept her from doing it. She reached for Cirrus, but she knew she had been too slow, and she could only watch as he lifted his blade again.

There was a buzzing hiss, and an arrow drove through the Knight's mail shirt where it crossed just beneath his throat. The arrow drove him back a pair of jerking steps, before he fell dead to the stones.

The pressure on Amara abruptly eased, and she could breathe again, move again. She started struggling to her feet, but, still dizzy from the fall and her efforts to control it, had only got partway there when Bernard reached her, his bow still in hand, and said, "Crows and furies, are you all right? Where are they coming in?"

"The gate," Amara gasped. "The firepots. Get them off the gate. Hurry."

Bernard's face went pale, and he pelted off across the courtyard, back toward the walls. A Marat, dazed from a fall from the battlements above, lifted a stone-headed hatchet, but Bernard flicked a hand and the hatchet's wooden haft abruptly spun in its owner's grip, the back of the stone whipping into the Marat's temple, and sending him in a loose tumble to the ground.

Amara felt a dull pain in her shoulder and back, and it was too much effort to stand, but she watched as Bernard bounded up one of the ladders and onto the wall. He took his bow in a two-handed grip and clubbed his way past a Marat fighting a pair of legionares and ducked past the flashing claws of a wounded herdbane that lay on its side, raking wildly with its remaining leg, to reach Pirellus's side. He gripped the Knight Commander's shoulder and shouted to him over the din.

Pirellus's face blanked with incredulity, but Bernard pointed up, and Pirellus turned in time to see the first of the other pair of litters sweeping down, mailed Knights Aeris all around it. His eyes widened, and he shouted to his men on the walls, even as a roar of wind sent men flat to the battlements and drove leaping Marat back and away from the walls.

Bernard lost his bow but stayed on his feet, drawing on the strength of his fury, Amara knew. He grabbed Pirellus and another man beside him and dragged them forward and off the wall, to fall into the courtyard beyond.

Amara's eyes swept back up to the litters, to see Fidelias in one, pointing down and calling something to one of the men in the other, a tall, thin man with pinched features. The man stood up, eyes closed, and reached out his hand.

In answer, the firepots, waiting on the walls beside the firecrafters now pinned down by the gale winds above them, exploded into blinding flame.

The firestorm swept over the walls above the gates, where Garrison's Knights were pinned down. Scattered and whipped to a dangerous fury by the wind, more of the flame nonetheless rushed out along the walls, playing havoc with legionares, Marat, and predator birds alike. The fire went over

the walls like a scythe, sending men screaming to the ground, running from the flames, rolling frantically to put out their own burning bodies. Some even leapt off the battlements and into the savage Marat horde waiting below.

Amara watched in stunned horror as the litters swept down to the courtyard, where a half a dozen disorganized legionares attacked the invaders. Aldrick ex Gladius dismounted from the litter and, with the Knights Aeris with him, met them and drove them back.

Fidelias stepped from the litter and walked to the gates. As Amara watched, he glanced around him, eyes quick and hard, and then laid his bare palms against the heavy wood. For perhaps half a minute, he stood there, eyes closed. Then he withdrew, barked an order to his men, and limped back to the litter. Aldrick and the others withdrew to the litter, and the whole of the group swept up into the air again and out of sight.

Amara regained her feet, finally, and recovered her sword. She lifted her head to see what Fidelias had done to the gates.

She saw them shudder. Then she saw dust fly from one of them. And then the cruel, rending talon of one of the herdbane ripped through the heavy beams of wood as though they were paper, and tore its way back out again.

She could only watch in numbed horror as the Marat, howling like madmen, hauled the gates of Garrison to kindling before her eyes, and began to pour into the fortress.

She swallowed, her head still whirling, her hand trembling as she gripped her sword, and stepped forward to meet them.