Now the Sacrifices were openly murmuring, some clenching and unclenching their fists. Viyeki was astounded—the discipline of the fighting order was legendary, and General Suno’ku had broken it in moments. For the first time in his life, Viyeki wondered if his people’s eagerness to be ruled by a greater power than themselves might in truth be a sort of weakness, in the same way that over-hardened witchwood lacked flexibility and thus was more easily broken.

“Make no mistake,” Suno’ku continued, her noble face as grim as her words. “The mortals will rage through our city like a giant in the Field of Stone Flowers, smashing everything. They will destroy every monument to the Lost Garden, every precious memorial to our sacred martyrs. But what they do to the living will be worse. Your families and clans will fall before them like sheep caught by a pack of raving wolves. Your daughters and wives will be raped and then murdered. No one will be spared. When they have finished, Nakkiga will be a fit place only for bats, beetles, and helpless ghosts.” She spoke slowly, each word a painful spite. “They will pull the queen herself from the keta-yi’indra, where she lies helpless after the last battle in the south, and they will take her and burn her. The mother of us all will die in agony, and the last living memory of the Garden will disappear from the earth. Because we cannot hold this wall. We are not strong enough. The fortifications are not strong enough. And there is no help coming from Nakkiga. We are alone.” And slowly, deliberately, Suno’ku turned her back on the warriors and hung her head as if in final defeat.

The murmuring died away, but for a few noises that might have been strangled sobs. Then, out of the silence, a single voice spoke. It was Hayyano, and the rage and pain in his words made even Viyeki, who thought little of the commander, ache inside. “Is there nothing we can do, then?” Hayyano demanded. “Nothing at all? Why do you tell us this, General? Why do you set our hearts afire and then leave them to burn?”

A moment—a long moment—and then Suno’ku made the gesture for attention. It was only for effect, Viyeki knew: all eyes were already on her. “Yes, there is one chance. One unlikely chance.”

“Tell us!” cried Hayyano, and although no one echoed him, it was clear from the shuffling and hand-signs of agreement that he spoke for all the Sacrifices gathered. Viyeki could feel their desperate fury—a rage that now made the very air tremble as if a storm was imminent.

“We cannot in any case hold this wall or this tower for long,” she said. “But if enough of us can make it back to Nakkiga, especially the Builders here, it is possible we can shore up the mountain’s defenses sufficiently to keep the mortals from victory. The great gates of Nakkiga have never been breached by mortal or immortal—even the queen herself could not take it by force when she first came there, but had to be welcomed in by its citizens. The gates of Nakkiga are strong and we can make them stronger still. But we need time. Can you do that?”

“For our queen, for the Garden, we can do anything!” Hayyano shouted, and at last a chorus of agreement broke from the ranks. “Tell us, General! Tell us what we must do!”

She stared at the eager throng for a moment as if considering. Moved despite his moments of doubt, Viyeki found himself leaning forward, half-hoping she would ask him to join the warriors in sacrificing themselves to save their queen and city. “High Magister Yaarike,” the general said at last. “Will you choose a dozen of your engineers to remain behind and help with the defense? They will not return to Nakkiga, but they will be promised a place of glory in the tales of this time—and I promise this time will be remembered as long as the Garden itself is remembered.”

Yaarike wore his most solemn face. “I will ask for volunteers, General Suno’ku, but one way or another, you will have your dozen.”

“Thank you, High Magister.” Suno’ku looked to the assembled Sacrifices, who had grown almost downcast when she turned away, but who were now all attention once more. “And what of you, my warriors? Which of you will offer your lives here and now for the chance that Nakkiga may live? I need a hundred volunteers to stay, and each must give me his or her sworn vow to send at least ten mortals into the darkness before the end comes. How many will do this? Which of your names will be told and retold until the sun itself is consumed by the black emptiness at the end of time and the great song finally ends? Show me your swords!”

More than two hundred blades leaped from their scabbards as one, a chiming scrape of witchwood and bronze so harsh and loud that Viyeki nearly put his fingers in his ears. Every Sacrifice had lifted his sword.

“I expected no less,” Suno’ku said, nodding. “The queen, were she here, would smile to see her brave children.” She turned to Hayyano. “League Commander, you will take charge of the garrison. Choose one hundred Sacrifices, favoring those who are older or without families. And do not insult those now standing guard upon the walls by excluding them from the chance to fight this glorious fight.”

“I hear you, General,” said Hayyano, his narrow face flushed at cheekbones and temples as if he had run a long distance through the cold. “We will hold this wall to our last beating heart. We will make you proud.”

“You already have,” she said. “Your death-songs were sung long ago. The Celebrants have already written down all your names. Now you can give those deaths in perfect glory, for our queen and our race. And I promise you in return that those of us who must go to defend Nakkiga will give every last breath we have to honor your sacrifice and save our people. For the Garden!”

“For the Garden!” echoed hundreds of voices, including Viyeki’s own. He was surprised to discover that his eyes were brimming. He did not even know when the tears had begun.

Frost made the roof sag, and the wind kept the sides of the big tent rippling. The cold seemed to creep in and bite Isgrimnur with sharp little teeth that pierced even his clothing. The duke thought he had never, not even through the worst of the fighting at the Hayholt or even in the foul, brackish Wran, longed so deeply for a chair before a warm fire in a warm room in a stern, safe castle.

Elysia, Mother of Mercy, I am weary of cold, he thought, then dragged his attention back to the matter at hand.

“So what you are saying, man, is that we are winning,” growled Brindur. “That in a matter of a day or two we will have the wall down and our hands on the throats of those corpse-skinned creatures.” But as he talked, Brindur did not even look up from the sharpening of his sword. Since his son’s terrible death it seemed the only thing he did. Isgrimnur knew that look of disinterest and feared it, for he had seen it on other men and they had never lived long. “Already looking to the next world,” his father had said of another battle-mad warrior. What they had lost here in the Norn lands already was bad enough. Brindur was a man Isgrimnur relied on, had always been one of the most dependable of his thanes: but he did not know this Brindur at all.

“No, that is not what I’m saying!” Sludig’s voice was tight-strung with anger, but after receiving a pointed look from the duke, he took a breath and tried again, this time speaking directly to Isgrimnur as though Brindur and the others were not inside the tent with them. “What I am trying to say, my lord, is that we should not be winning this way. Yes, the Bear has all but knocked down the wall. Yes, the Norn archers in the tower have killed or wounded only a few of the men wielding the ram. But there were several hundred Norn fighters in the group that escaped from us at the ruins. Why do they not fight back as we knock down their wall? Such mildness does not signify. Nothing lies beyond these walls but their stronghold in Stormspike itself!”