The top of the wall rang with the clash of iron on iron—sharp metallic shrieks slicing through the air and the heavy, dull thud of armor slamming together in an endless, ear-numbing rhythm.
—BOOM!
Another catapult stone hammered the parapet. Rock shattered, spraying jagged shards in every direction. A few of them grazed Banda's helmet with a razor-sharp scrape.
—Whish! Whish!
Arrows sliced through the smoke, streaking across the wall. The sounds tangled together: shafts thunking into shields, wet punches as they punched through flesh, and short, strangled cries of pain.
"Push! Drive them back!"
"Ladders on the left!"
An orc's roar tore through the din.
"OKKAAAA!"
A Dawi soldier's curt curse cut right over it.
Gardon brought the butt of his axe down on the skull of a Minotaur climbing the nearest ladder, knocking the creature backward into the void. He readjusted his grip, flicked the blood from the blade, and strode toward Banda.
A Dawi shield-bearer was shoved aside right in front of them. Gardon stepped forward and swung his axe in a short, vicious arc. The edge sank into the orc's neck with a crunch of bone he felt all the way up his arm.
He kicked the collapsing body aside to clear a path and shouted, "Warchief Banda!"
His voice vanished under the rising bellows of orcs swarming the wall.
—CRASH!
A boulder from an orc catapult outside smashed the corner of the parapet. Stone dust exploded outward, settling across Gardon's shoulders. He squinted through the grit and called again.
"Banda!"
Banda turned. An orc axe-head was buried deep in the rim of his shield, its edge chipped and the haft snapped off, still dangling. Banda twisted his arm and shook the shield hard. The broken head popped free. He dropped it at his feet and kicked it away. Breathing hard, he strode toward Gardon.
"Speak, Grand Warlord!"
An arrow hissed between them. Behind Banda, a Dawi screamed and fell. Banda glanced that way for half a second, then snapped his eyes back.
Gardon pointed past the wall with the tip of his axe.
Through the smoke, another siege tower was grinding forward. Its drawbridge hadn't yet dropped, but the top level was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with orcs. Below it, ladders already hooked the wall, swarming with orcs and Minotaurs who had crossed the moat.
"The western end on the Moon side—that tower—"
His words were cut off.
—THUD!
A ladder slammed against the stone, scraping loudly as it locked into place.
An orc hauled itself up, one foot planted on the parapet, still gripping the ladder with one hand while swinging its axe upward with the other.
The blade whistled across the front of the Dawi defenders.
Banda hurled his spear. It punched clean through the orc's face just below the eye. The creature toppled backward, dragging the orc below it off the ladder with it.
Gardon shouted louder this time.
"The tower on the Moon-side western end—take it!"
Banda leaned in, straining to hear over the chaos.
"What?!"
"That section of wall is about to break!"
Gardon pointed. Orcs were already pouring over the parapet along that stretch; the Dawi line had been forced back.
"I'll hold here—"
Banda glanced down the wall. His eyes flickered for an instant. Another catapult stone screamed in.
Then it happened.
A short, choked scream from above.
Gardon jerked his head up.
A dark shape tumbled through the black smoke—Rilbeur. Both wings spread, but one refused to open properly. A thin, long shaft protruded from the feathers.
An arrow.
Not one of the orcs' crude, heavy bolts. This one was slender, longer, with short, stiff fletching.
Rilbeur spun, wings beating desperately. The torn one caught no air.
"Warchief Rilbeur!"
The cry rose from the wall.
Rilbeur plummeted toward the thick roots of the great trees exposed outside the wall. A branch whipped across his body. He reached out with the manifested hand linked to his own, but the fall was too fast.
More winged soldiers followed, dropping one after another. The same thin arrows punched through their wings with lethal precision. They lost balance in the air and spiraled down, unable to spread their wings. One caught on a branch, but the limb snapped under his weight.
Gardon's gaze tracked the arrows' origin.
Beyond the moat.
Where low mist clung to the ground.
Behind the mantlets. Nowhere near the orc archers.
In the haze, evenly spaced figures stood revealed.
They were not orcs. Their bodies were lean, almost unnaturally slender, as if every trace of excess had been carved away. Shoulders and waists formed a straight, rigid line. No hint of flesh or muscle—only overlapping plates of metal.
The armor that covered them was nearly black, yet when torchlight struck it, the surface showed a cold, bluish sheen that seemed to drink the light. Breast and shoulder plates were not solid sheets but thousands of thumb-sized metal scales, layered and riveted so they moved like living skin when the wearer shifted.
Their helmets enclosed the entire head and extended backward in a long, tapering tail that covered the nape. The faceplate was seamless, with only a narrow horizontal slit for the eyes.
The bows in their hands were nothing like the orcs' rough weapons. Long, elegant, perfectly straight limbs without a single knot, bending in one smooth curve.
Identical bows rose through the mist, all aimed at Damu's wall.
—Twang.
The sound multiplied.
Another winged soldier dropped from the sky above the wall, wing pierced.
Gardon's face hardened as he stared down at the figures below the wall.
He rose, tightened his grip on the axe—shortening his hold so only the head and a short length of haft remained in his fist—and turned to Banda.
"That's not orcs." Banda said.
"I know." Gardon answered curtly.
"They're the ones who raided the Warchief Salma."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice yet keeping every word clear despite the clamor of breaking shields, scraping ladders, orc howls, and ringing steel.
"Warchief Banda."
The noise around them never let up.
"You take command here."
Banda faltered for a heartbeat. His eyes flicked toward the spot where Rilbeur had fallen.
Gardon added
"'ll bring Rilbeur back."
Another arrow struck the stone beside them, its slender head buried deep.
Banda exhaled sharply and raised his shield again.
"…Understood."
He gave a single, firm nod.
Gardon scanned the nearest fighters and picked out five Dawi soldiers with his eyes.
"You five—with me."
The five Dawi looked up at his voice, readjusted their shields, and drew the axes from the leather loops at their waists. The covers dropped to the stone with soft thuds. They tested the weight of the heavy heads and tightened their grips.
Gardon turned and strode toward the drawbridge still hanging from the siege tower.
It was tilted at a dangerous angle. An orc had just crested it when a Dawi spear took him in the chest. Gardon kicked the body aside and stepped onto the swaying wooden planks.
Below, firelight flickered. The stench of burning oil rose on the wind.
He checked the direction Rilbeur had fallen one last time.
Then he ran forward.
Gardon charged across the drawbridge.
The slanted planks shuddered violently under his boots.
Orcs from the tower's upper level rushed to meet him.
The first swung a thick-bladed spear straight at his chest.
Gardon never slowed. Still running, he flicked his axe upward in a short, brutal arc. The blade rode up the spear shaft, sliced through the orc's wrist, and kept going. Bone snapped. The severed hand and spear spun away into the air.
The orc screamed, staggering backward into the warriors behind it.
Gardon rammed them with his shoulder.
For one frozen instant the two orcs hung in empty space—
"Gwaaaagggh!"
Their screams faded as they plummeted into the darkness below. A distant crash rose faintly against the stone.
Another orc lunged, axe raised.
"Shlos! Dawi!"
As the axe came down, Gardon twisted and parried with the flat of his own weapon. Sparks exploded. Before the orc could recover, Gardon drove the shortened axe straight into the gap between helmet and gorget.
The blade sank deep. He twisted his wrist. Flesh parted with a wet sound. The orc's strength vanished; it dropped to its knees.
The five Dawi followed him across the bridge.
One raised his shield to catch arrows flying up from below. Another kicked a fallen orc aside to clear the way.
Gardon never stopped. He leaped down into the tower's lower level.
Inside, it was dark and narrow. Thick log pillars lined both sides; two Dawi could barely stand shoulder-to-shoulder. A sloped ramp led downward, and orcs were pouring up it.
An orc swung a sword in a wide arc right in front of him.
Gardon raised his left arm. The blade scraped across his plate with a screech. At the same instant, his right hand drove the axe down in a short, powerful chop.
Crunch.
The blade buried itself in the orc's neck. Blood sprayed the wall.
The next orc charged. Gardon drove his knee into its gut, folding it in half, then smashed the flat of the axe against its temple. The creature's head cracked against the timber with a hollow thud.
The Dawi behind him closed in.
One soldier braced his shield against two orcs at once. In the cramped space the shield slammed into the wall, narrowing the passage even further.
"Push!"
Two Dawi locked shoulders. Shield rang on shield. Through the gap, a third Dawi drove his axe into an orc's thigh. The orc clutched the wound; its weight shifted. Its other foot slipped. It toppled.
The ramp continued downward, seemingly endless.
Orcs packed it from below—too many to count.
Gardon hacked downward into the shoulder of the nearest. The blade sheared flesh and caught on bone. The body fell forward and became a stepping stone. More orcs clambered over it.
The Dawi thrust spears past him. Points punched into chests and throats. Pierced orcs tumbled back, tripping those behind them.
The press never stopped. Arms tangled, axes caught on shoulders, feet planted on backs as the mass surged upward.
Gardon never paused.
His axe rose and fell in short, relentless strokes—cutting, chopping, prying free. Every orc that fell became footing for the next. Blood began to flow, whether from above or below, slicking the planks. He crouched lower, swinging faster, never taking a full swing in the tight space.
He hamstrung one, crushed another's throat with the haft, shattered a third's jaw. Shields clanged against timber. Orc screams echoed off the walls.
Dozens of orc bodies jammed together in one writhing mass.
Push. Chop. Stomp. Shove.
At the midway landing more orcs met them head-on.
Dawi shields crashed first. Metal rang. A short spear darted through the gap and found the seam beneath an orc's breastplate. The creature's breath cut off. An axe came down on its shoulder, splitting it open.
The front rank faltered. The shields shoved again. Feet slid off the landing. The orcs pushing from behind could not stop. Bodies piled, tangled, then toppled.
Short screams. Thuds of armor and helmets bouncing down the ramp.
The inside of the siege tower grew darker. The noise of the upper levels faded; the roar and stamp of orcs climbing from below grew louder.
They kept descending.