Gardon turned his head as he ran, glancing back over the moat.
In the mist, enormous wooden shields stood planted in the ground like a wall. The blackened, sodden planks were riddled with arrows, and through every gap protruded arrowheads and the axes the minotaurs had thrown.
Just behind them, slightly offset from where the orc archers had gathered, black-armored figures still stood in place. They were the ones who had fired arrows at Rilbeur.
One of those dark shapes had their bow raised toward the battlements.
The bowstring was drawn to its fullest, quivering with tension.
Beyond the faceplate that covered nearly his entire face, his eyes were locked on Banda, who was fighting orcs atop the ladder.
Gardon's foot landed on the bridge spanning the moat.
As his running weight settled onto the planks, the bridge shuddered beneath him. But Gardon didn't slow. He drove forward two more steps and hauled his right arm far back, gripping the throwing spear.
Keeping his forward momentum, he twisted his upper body. The motion rolled through his shoulder and into his waist.
All that built-up power surged down his arm as the spear locked into throwing position.
—Shwaaaack—
The spear left Gardon's hand, slicing straight through the mist and across the moat.
In the instant the black-armored archer held their breath with the string fully drawn, Gardon's spear punched through the center of his breastplate with a heavy thud.
The archer's body snapped backward. The released string twanged uselessly as the nocked arrow flew wild and buried itself in the dirt. The bow slipped from the archer's fingers.
Gardon was already cocking his left arm back.
Another archer shifted position and leveled a bow at Gardon. The aim was not yet steady.
Gardon threw the second spear.
It slammed into the side of the archer's helmet with a ringing impact.
The helmet flew off sideways. The face beneath was too distant to make out clearly—only a slender, pale outline.
As the archer staggered and crumpled, the bow clattered away. The surrounding black-armored figures caught the archer, hauled the body up, and dragged it back into the thick mist.
Gardon readjusted his grip on his axe and planted himself at the end of the moat bridge. This was the narrowest section, where the bridge met the siege tower. It was barely wide enough for four or five orcs to stand abreast.
Behind him lay the entrance to the siege tower. Ahead, orcs came charging through the mist.
One orc lay dead on the bridge, skewered by Banda's spear.
Gardon kicked the corpse. It rolled off the edge and splashed heavily into the moat below.
"Come, orcs."
His voice was short and resolute. The orcs who had frozen for a moment now heard it. Gardon tightened his hold on the axe and steadied his breathing.
An orc charged him.
Roaring, it raised its axe high over its shoulder and came on.
Gardon stepped forward.
He swung his axe upward from below—just before the orc could bring its own weapon down.
Gardon's blade struck the inside of the orc's arm first.
The joint snapped with a dull crack of breaking bone. The orc's axe flew from its grasp.
In the same motion, Gardon twisted his weapon and buried it in the orc's neck. The creature's knees buckled and it collapsed.
Two more orcs came right behind it.
The left one wielded a spear. The right carried a short, jagged-toothed sword in one hand and a shield in the other. The shielded orc led the charge, rushing forward with its shield raised to close the distance.
From behind the shield, the crudely serrated blade scraped across Gardon's gauntlet.
Gardon kicked the shield sideways. It slammed into the spearman, tangling the two orcs together for a heartbeat.
Gardon stepped into the opening. He seized the spear-wielding orc's arm, wrenching it downward while swinging his axe down onto the shielded orc's helmet.
The blade bit deep into the metal. The shielded orc fell.
The spear-wielding orc's arm broke with an audible snap, and the weapon clattered onto the bridge.
Gardon kicked both fallen orcs backward. They collided with the ones pushing from behind and collapsed in a heap.
More orcs charged, trampling their fallen to get at him.
One orc dropped low and lunged for Gardon's legs. Gardon struck its head with the axe haft. The orc slammed face-first into the planks.
Gardon stepped onto its back and advanced to the next foe.
"OKKA-ULLA!! Shak-Shlos! Daaawi!"
The orcs on the bridge bellowed. Their roars echoed through the mist, overlapping. The same cries repeated again and again. More orcs were pouring in behind them, wave after wave.
Gardon readjusted his axe, angling the blade and holding it low beneath his waist. He set his stance to match the narrow width of the bridge.
The orcs shoved and jostled one another in their rush forward. Shoulders collided; some lost their balance and tumbled into the moat.
Then, from behind the orc mass, a minotaur came thundering through. Each heavy step shook the bridge violently, nails squealing as they worked loose. Finally the minotaur bull-rushed through the orcs and charged straight at Gardon.
In its massive fist was an enormous iron mace. It looked like a thick iron bar with a bluntly swollen head, the hammer marks still visible on its uneven surface. Long, thick iron spikes jutted out in every direction.
The minotaur swung the mace in a wide horizontal arc at Gardon.
Gardon ducked low. The weapon whistled over his head, grazing his helmet.
From his crouched position, he lunged forward and drove his axe deep into the minotaur's leg. He felt the blade sink through thick muscle until it struck bone.
The minotaur roared. Its hand came down to seize Gardon's shoulder. He batted it aside and wrenched his axe free. Blood poured down the blade onto the bridge.
Gardon drew a sharp breath.
"Huuuup—!!"
He dropped his waist low and twisted his torso.
The axe rose from below his waist in a powerful upward arc.
Gardon's blade sheared straight through the minotaur's waist—armor, hide, and all.
The thick body offered almost no resistance as it split in two with a wet, tearing sound.
The minotaur's massive upper torso toppled backward and fell away.
The lower half collapsed a moment later, slumping to the ground.
Gardon lowered his axe without pause.
With the bisected minotaur carcass sprawled across the bridge, he stood ready, facing the next wave of orcs.
Gardon's axe never stopped. He hacked, chopped, and shoved. When one orc fell, he pressed forward without hesitation, splitting the next and flinging those who closed in off the bridge into the moat. On the narrow span he gave no ground. Alone, he held the line against the swarming orcs, refusing to retreat even a single step.
Time passed.
How long, even Gardon could not say.
Then, from far behind him, came a sound.
Footsteps crossing the drawbridge.
Dawi soldiers. They were returning to the wall, escorting the winged soldiers.
The thud of boots on wood reached him, mingled with the metallic scrape of armor.
Gardon heard it.
He took one step back.
The orcs charging across the bridge faltered.
They stared at Gardon standing amid the blood and corpses at the narrow end and could not bring themselves to advance.
Arrows flew in that moment.
Gardon raised his axe and batted one aside with the blade. The broken arrowhead spun away.
Another arrow grazed his helmet and flew wide.
Gardon stood firm at the bridge's end, axe held at an angle.
*****
Beyond the moat.
Where the mist lay especially thick.
At the edge of Tharn Forest.
The trees parted as something massive emerged.
A structure tall enough to rival the forest's greatest trees was moving. It was no tree.
It was a gigantic stone thrower.
Thin branches snapped and broke as it forced its way through. Young trees with shallow roots tilted and were torn up by the roots. Through the crushed undergrowth, enormous wheels fashioned from lashed logs appeared, shoving the forest aside as the machine advanced.
The entire frame was reinforced with black iron.
It dwarfed the ballistae on Damu's walls and the orcs' own catapults.
Just one throwing arm reached half the height of Damu's walls. The two support pillars were built from multiple layers of interlocked iron, rough weld marks visible everywhere.
It was not wooden construction. The evidence of heated and hammered iron joined together remained plain to see. Repeating angular patterns were engraved across its surface.
A heavy counterweight hung from the end of the throwing arm. Each link of its chain was thicker than an orc's wrist.
Whenever the weight shifted, the chains clinked and rattled with dull metallic sounds.
The throwing basket was wide enough to hold several orcs. Iron rims reinforced its inner edges.
There were four wheels, two on each side, each one larger than a minotaur. Iron hooks studded the rims at regular intervals.
A long iron framework extended from the front of the machine, thick chains bound to it.
The chains stretched forward, ending in a massive steel ring.
That ring was gripped by a pair of pincers.
The open claws bit deep into the ring, their inner teeth locking tight as if embedded in the steel.
Two giant scorpions.
One advanced first, fully revealing its form.
Eight legs stamped into the earth with every step, leaving deep impressions. Its thickly segmented legs moved slowly forward. The five-segmented tail curled up over its back, the stinger raised as though ready to strike. An iron sheath capped its tip.
The spread pincers reached forward. Thick armor plates overlaid the exoskeleton, with steel rings set into the tips.
Armor plates also covered the carapace, segmented plates bent to follow its curves. As the joints moved, the plates parted and meshed together again.
Metal had been laid directly over living chitin.
The second scorpion scuttled forward quickly and drew alongside the first. As both lowered their bodies at once, the chains pulled taut. Their legs drove against the ground, and the wheels began to turn.
Soil churned and parted. The chained stone thrower inched forward.
The gigantic machine finally emerged completely from Tharn Forest and halted on the far side of the moat.
Orcs began climbing onto it. They prepared to fire, lowering the throwing basket and hauling on ropes to draw back the counterweight. As the weight descended, the throwing arm was slowly pulled backward.
Gardon saw it.
He kicked aside a fallen orc on the bridge and turned his eyes. The massive silhouette of the stone thrower emerged from the mist. His gaze lingered on it for a moment.
Gardon doubted his eyes. He tried to imagine the size of the stone such a machine would hurl.
'The walls of Damu won't stand.'
He could almost hear the phantom sound of stone shattering. Gardon swallowed dryly and looked away.
But the orcs were still coming for him.
Gardon tore his gaze from the giant machine and drew a short breath.
He raised his axe once more, blade angled and held low at his waist.
Then it came.
A cry from the sky.
"Kaaaaaa!!"
A roar descended from above.
Gardon looked up.
A wyvern.
Its wide-spread wings cast a great shadow as it dove toward him.
A rider sat astride its back.
The wyvern rider's armor caught the light of the fires still burning across the siege tower.
The armor was made of small metal scales layered densely together, dark blue in hue. The shoulder plates extended down past the elbows, shifting against one another as the rider leaned from the wyvern's back. The helmet enclosed the entire face and extended down the back of the neck, with only a long horizontal slit for the eyes.
The rider's gaze swept across the moat below.
Gardon glanced behind him.
The orcs' siege tower. Enough time had passed for the soldiers to get the winged troops safely over the wall.
Just as Gardon took a step back and began to turn—
The wyvern half-folded its wings and plunged straight at him.
Its clawed feet slammed into the end of the bridge.
Thick wooden planks splintered and tore away. Shattered fragments flew upward as the bridge shook violently.
The wyvern spread its wings and surged upward again.
The rider straightened in the saddle and raised one hand toward Gardon.
Above the rider's palm, a black magic circle appeared, its edges tinged with a faint purple glow.
A circular pattern interwoven with strange runes.
"Zkar! Delaat!"
Gardon's eyes flew wide.
'Magic?!'
Power flooded into the hand gripping his axe. His shoulder pulled back as he prepared to hurl the weapon at the rider—
At that moment.
A sound cut through the air.
Gardon's movement hitched. His head snapped reflexively toward the source.
A short, sharp whistle. Then the sound came again, without pause.
"Zwaard Blome!!"
The voice rang down from the wall above, reaching Gardon.
An invisible wind followed, moving so fast it was barely visible. Thin lines appeared as if scratched in the air above the rider.
Then those lines split open.
More lines crossed from the sides and other directions, converging on the rider.
Mist-laden air was blasted aside.
Water in the moat surged outward in heavy ripples. Blood pooled on the bridge was swept away to one side.
The wyvern rider's armor split apart.
Pieces of armor fell away as the breastplate parted, exposing what lay beneath.
The rider's body was cleaved straight through.
The separated parts fell, spilling downward.
The force continued into the wyvern.
Scales along its neck parted, blood spraying. The wing membrane tore.
One wingtip sheared clean off, destroying its balance.
The remaining wing beat once more, but the torn side folded uselessly, and it could no longer climb.
The wyvern plummeted.
It skimmed over the moat before crashing heavily into the water with a tremendous splash.