I glanced at Penxir Aerant. “Three hundred yards.”

“Three and a half.” The giant twirled an arrow. “Next throw if it comes to the same spot. The one after if it does not.”

“Perfect.”

A loud clacking filled the street below. I smiled. The Derael spikes were working as intended.

No one who had been at Tsatol Deraelkun could forget the giant moles. Count Derael named them danborii after one of the Rat god’s more odious aspects. He’d made ready to give them the welcome they surely merited.

Every nine feet along the entire length of the wall we’d dug postholes another nine feet deep. Each hole had a bamboo shaft in it and an old man or woman holding it. Above the hole we positioned the same sort of pilings we’d used to stop the river, with three yards of hooked-iron spike on the downward end. They’d been hoisted into position with a pulley and angle-frame. When the sentinel felt the bamboo shift, he or she clapped two shorter lengths of bamboo together and a wall warden cut the Derael spike loose.

The piling shot down into the posthole. The iron spike pierced the danbor ’s skull, pinning it in the tunnel. As the beasts thrashed out their deaths, the muffled thumps made us smile. Soldiers sighted back along what they imagined was the tunnel’s line. Archers nocked arrows, ready to feather anyone trying to dig his way free.

The xonarchii returned to hurl more stones. Penxir drew his great recurve bow and held it. Firelight danced over the razored edge of the broadhead. He waited, his muscles never quivering, the arrow rock still.

The tiger-striped xonarch turned.

Penxir released.

The arrow spun out into the night. It was ridiculous to think that so small a missile could hurt such a massive creature. Yes, warriors had suggested that driving an arrow through an eye might get into the creature’s brain, but the head was as wide as most wagons were long. A cloth-yard shaft would completely disappear into the thing’s skull before it had a chance of hitting the brain.

But then, as we’d discovered before, finding the monster’s brain wasn’t the only way to stop it. Penxir’s arrow passed through the rider’s armpit. There was no mistaking the dark spray of arterial blood. The arrow poked out the other side, completely transfixing the kwajiin. He fell back and to the side, to hang by one foot from a stirrup.

The beast yelped and swiped a hand at the control sticks. It missed. The xonarch rolled onto its back, then over, staining itself with the driver’s pulped remains. On its feet again, it tore off across the ground, going low and fast, barking out furious challenges.

I smiled. “Nice shot.”

He shook his head. “Next time I will not kill a driver. I will kill one of the creatures. It will be the perfect shot.”

“You’ll get the chance tonight.”

“I know.” He nodded toward a spot further down the wall. “It will be from there.”

“Go.”

As he departed, Dunos reappeared. “The count thanks you. If you feel plans are in error, he bids you send me to him with new information.”

“There’s no mistake.”

Dunos drew my old sword. “Then I am ready.”

The determination in his voice made me smile. I guided him to a crenel. “Watch what arrogance will make a man do.”

The enemy’s drumming shifted tempo, announcing a new attack. Troops marched forward through the darkness. They had to see the walls and the fires. They doubtless breathed prayers to Wentoki or Kojai or even Grija, hoping the gods would see them through the fight. Officers shouted orders and encouragement, but many wanted to run.

I knew because I could remember that far back.

As the enemy reached the edge of the firelight, their ordered formations melted into screaming masses. Men bearing long ladders, swords, and bows raced forward, yelling fiercely to scare those they faced. Men in their midst bore standards identifying troops from Moryth and the other of the Five Princes or Erumvirine or even western Nalenyr.

Nelesquin, having lost any advantage of surprise, sent our own people against us. “He’ll let us destroy our brothers, Dunos, to learn what we have in store for his kwajiin.”

“Teach him a lesson, then, Master.”

I snapped a fan open and raised it. Trumpets blasted. I brought my hand down sharply and nines of small siege engines launched their missiles. The ballistae lofted clouds of arrows. They cut swaths through the charging soldiers. Some men died pierced by three or four, which then held them upright-bloody, twitching scarecrows guarding fields of carrion.

Catapults hurled earthenware globes. These had not been filled with fire. I would have gladly immolated kwajiin, but men, no. Instead we used other things. These vessels shattered, scattering caltrops. They always landed with a spike pointing upward, and that spike punched through sandals with ease. Soldiers screamed and limped back, or sat and pulled the spikes from their feet.

Elsewhere along the line, tightly wrapped bales of smoldering vaear — root arced through the air. So effective at settling the stomach when brewed as a weak tea, vaear — root burst into flame as it flew. The riverine breeze sent the thick smoke south and east, choking the battlefield. When inhaled it induced vomiting and dizziness in some, blindness in others. The truly unfortunate saw horrible visions. Coughing men staggered and fell, some clawing at their eyes.

Most retched and wept.

Our archers stepped up to display their skills. They shot anyone who came into range-putting arrows through their limbs. That was by Count Derael’s order. A dead man is simply dead. A wounded man has friends who hear his screams. He must be rescued and a wounded man eats as much as a hearty one but doesn’t fight.

Nelesquin’s drums beat a retreat. Men abandoned their ladders. They formed chains, dragging themselves and their compatriots south. Soon enough, all that remained on the battlefield slithered, crawled, or begged to die.

“Have we won?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

The drums changed their beat. “Now he comes in earnest.”

TheNewWorld

25th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Moriande, Nalenyr

Ciras relished the tight press of the battle mask against his face. The mask’s long white fangs jutted down and blood stained the corners of his mouth. He knew well the effect of such a fearsome visage, yet Ciras wished he could go into battle without it.

The mask hid him from the enemy. He wanted them to know whom they faced. He wanted to be feared not for what he wore, but for his skills in combat. He was worthy of their fear.

He sat astride his mount with the other Voraxani. He’d not yet hit the switch that would extend the armor and spikes. While there was no pretending that he was on a real horse, he didn’t want to be part of a war machine. The other champions of the Empress seemed to have no trouble with it, but it still didn’t feel right to him.

At the further end of the plaza, crews operated their ballistae. They drew the arms back and locked the pusher plates in place. Some they loaded with stone or cast-iron balls. Others took sheaves of arrows with broadheads fully a handspan long. At a signal from the wall, lanyards were yanked, missiles flew into the darkness, and the whole process began again.

The ballistae crews fought earnestly and hard but he could not think of them as being his equal. They dealt death, but did so anonymously. They did not see their enemies die.

That made them no more honorable than the gyanrigot soldiers lined up in the plaza. The machines could not care. They could not grieve. They could not consider mercy, nor could they beg for it. They knew no fear. They just killed until destroyed themselves-inexorable, implacable harvesters of souls.