Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 57–IGNEUM GLOBUM

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Banoch raised a gauntleted hand and swept it forward. The signal rippled through his forces—archers crouched like predators, muscles tensed, behind men bracing tall wooden mantlets. The towering shields scraped against the frost-hardened ground as they inched toward the North Gate.

From the battlements, a sentry’s horn blared three desperate notes. A heartbeat later, the night sky darkened further as defenders’ arrows arced downward. The air filled with their deadly whistle, like the breath of vengeful spirits. Most thudded harmlessly into the mantlets, quivering with spent fury. But where gaps showed between shields, arrows found flesh. A young archer to Banoch’s left crumpled with a strangled cry, an arrow piercing his unprotected neck. Another fell silently, the shaft protruding from his eye. The survivors pressed on, faces grim beneath their helms.

The attackers reached their positions, the acrid smell of torch smoke mixing with the metallic scent of blood. Leaning cautiously from behind their wooden havens, archers nocked arrows and drew bowstrings to cheeks. Their first volley soared upward in a deadly constellation. Above, defenders cursed and ducked behind stone merlons as arrows clattered against the fortifications.

“Forward with the ram,” Banoch shouted through the cacophony.

A mass of soldiers—fifty strong at least—surged from the shadows. Their shoulders strained beneath a massive log of ancient ironbark; its head capped with a snarling wolf cast in bronze. The weight of it forced them to lumber awkwardly across the bridge spanning the river. Their boots created a thunderous drumbeat on the wooden planks.

From the walls came the grinding of pulleys. Defenders heaved on ropes, tipping great cauldrons. Stones tumbled down, bouncing off shields and crushing limbs. In their wake came a glistening cascade of boiling oil, its steam rising in the cold night air. The liquid death splashed across the front ranks. Men collapsed shrieking, their skin blistering and peeling before they could tear off their armor. The stench of burning flesh rose, thick and choking.

“Hold steady,” roared a captain at the ram’s center. “Replace the fallen.”

Those behind rushed to fill the gaps, seized the ram handles, and continued their grim march. The remaining defenders above loosed arrows in desperate volleys, but too few remained to halt the advance.

The ram reached the gate. Men grunted as they swung it backward, muscles straining, feet planted firmly.

“Together,” bellowed the captain. “NOW.”

The ram swung forward. The bronze wolf’s head connected with ancient oak in a thunderous collision that sent vibrations through the stones. Dust sifted down from the archway. The boom echoed across the battlefield like the voice of some wrathful god. In the silence that followed, men on both sides held their breath. The gate held, but a hairline crack had appeared in the center.

* * *

From atop a distant knoll, Faline watched the assault unfold. The Shatain—her elite shadow warriors—formed a protective circle around her. Tugging at her dark cloak, the wind carried with it the distant screams of dying men. She clutched the fabric tighter around her shoulders, fighting another wave of violent tremors that threatened to bring her to her knees.

Creating the river fog to mask the Nagun’s approach had drained her more thoroughly than anticipated. Her limbs felt leaden, her thoughts sluggish. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the biting cold.

Curse the limitations of Druid magic.

The thought burned like bile in her mind. Once, she had commanded powers that could have reduced those gates to splinters with a gesture. Now, she was reduced to watching men die for what she might once have accomplished alone.

Parthos shifted closer, his hooded face enveloped in shadow. “You should rest, mistress,” he whispered, voice like stone grinding against stone. “You’ve done enough.”

Faline’s pride flared even as another tremor wracked her body. “I’ll rest when the city falls.” She straightened, refusing to show weakness in front of her followers. Through narrowed eyes, she watched as the ram connected with the gate again, the sound rolling across the landscape.

The third blow splintered something—she could hear it even from this distance. Soon, the gate would be breached.

“Britta thinks herself safe behind those walls,” she murmured, more to herself than to her silent guardians. “She believes herself beyond my reach.”

Her thoughts drifted to the Eye of the Mordwahl, the mystical boundary hidden away in the mountains to the east. There, she could reclaim what she had lost, reconnect with the dark energies that had once flowed through her veins like quicksilver. The power that the Grail had severed from her.

But first, the city must fall.

Another crash of the ram. Another chorus of screams.

Faline’s lips curved into a cold smile as she watched the gate begin to buckle. Her fingers idly traced the hilt of the dagger at her belt—Gall would recognize it when she plunged it into his heart.

“Ready yourselves,” she commanded the Shatain, their armor seeming to drink in the moonlight. “When the gate falls, we move. No survivors. No mercy for those who stand in our path.”

The tallest of the Shatain fingered his Mordblade. “And the civilians, mistress?”

Faline’s eyes never left the distant gate as it shuddered under another blow.

“Consider the streets your canvas,” she whispered. “Paint them red.”

* * *

Along the city’s battered western walls, shadows moved with unnatural speed. Nagun warriors’ scale armor gleamed dully in the torchlight as they scurried up the rough-hewn stones. Their clawed hands found purchase where human fingers couldn’t, their lithe bodies twisting and contorting as they scaled the stone. The creatures’ wolf-like eyes reflected the fires burning throughout the city, giving them an eerie, demonic appearance as they swarmed upward in the dozens.

The wall defenders, already spread thin by the assault on the North Gate, shouted hoarse warnings to each other. Steel rang against the Naguns’ makeshift armor as the creatures pushed between the human soldiers, using their smaller frames to slip past defenses. Many fell, pierced by spears or slashed by swords, their dark ichor spattering the ancient stonework. But for each that fell, three more reached the top, snarling in their strange, harsh tongue.

With inhuman shrieks that raised the hair on men’s necks, the first wave of Nagun leapt from the battlements into the cobblestone streets below. Their powerful legs absorbed the impact that would have shattered human bones. They immediately scattered into the warren of buildings, their curved daggers catching the light as they vanished into alleyways and side streets.

Gall thrust his bloodied sword through a Nagun’s throat, the creature’s black blood dripping off his blade. He kicked the dying creature from the wall, watching it tumble down to join the broken bodies of its kin. His clothing, and the modest chainmail beneath it, was now ripped and torn, splattered with dark stains. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, and his breath came in ragged gasps.

The sounds of battle intensified as the city guard poured out from the Inner Keep. Torches bobbed through the streets as squads of soldiers rushed to contain the breach. Screams—both human and Nagun—echoed between buildings as the melee spread through the western quarter. The clash of weapons mingled with the shattering of glass and splintering of wood as the fighting spilled into homes and shops.

“Sire!”

Gall turned to see Mikial bounding up the stone steps of the wall. The Preytar’s catlike grace belied his tall frame, his clothing also matted with blood—some his own, most not.

“The North Gate,” Mikial growled. “It won’t hold much longer.”

Gall clasped the Preytar’s muscled shoulder. The boy was young, but Nikolas had trusted him, and the man’s instincts had never been wrong. “Show me.”

They raced along the wall, passing wounded defenders and makeshift barricades. Below, in the city proper, civilians hurried toward the Inner Keep, carrying what few possessions they could manage. Children wailed, clutching their mothers’ skirts. The elderly stumbled forward, supported by younger relatives. The sounds of advancing combat nipped at their heels like hungry wolves.

As they approached the North Gate, a tremendous boom shook the very foundations of the wall. Gall stumbled, catching himself against a merlon. Dust and small stones rained down from the archway above the gate.

From their vantage point, he could see the massive oak doors bending inward. The ancient wood groaned in protest, centuries-old timbers splitting apart. The iron bands reinforcing the structure bowed but held firm, though for how much longer, Gall couldn’t say. Beyond the gate, through gaps in the splintering wood, he glimpsed the enemy force regrouping, preparing for another assault with their battering ram.

“It’ll be breached within minutes,” Mikial said, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the damage.

Gall wiped his forehead, the cool night air a momentary blessing against his sweat-soaked hair. He decided quickly, as he’d been trained to do since boyhood.

“Pass the word to the Queen,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos surrounding them. “Tell her to get everyone back to the Inner Keep. I’ll buy them time.”

Mikial cast him a concerned look—a rare display of emotion from the stoic Preytar. “And you, sire?”

“I’ll hold here as long as I can.” Gall managed a grim smile. “Go. Protect Her Majesty.”

Mikial clasped a fist to his chest in salute, then disappeared down the stairs, moving with fluid speed.

Another boom rattled the gate. Splinters as long as daggers exploded inward. The iron bands groaned under the tension.

Gall raced up the ramparts to the outer wall section directly above the gate. Below him, enemy soldiers continued their relentless assault. He could hear their captain shouting encouragement, promising rewards to the first men through. The battering ram swung back, preparing for what might be its final blow.

Gall closed his eyes briefly, centering himself as Septimus had taught him. He felt the magic stirring in his blood, responding to his rough-edged call, not the elegant, disciplined force that Faline and her ilk wielded, but the raw power of trial and error.

He extended his arm over the wall, palm facing downward. The ancient words came to him as naturally as breathing, though they burned his throat.

“Igneum globum [fireball].”

A spark flickered to life in the center of his palm, no larger than a firefly. For a heartbeat, nothing else happened. Then the spark began to rotate, to expand, drawing energy from the air itself. Flames coalesced around it, spinning faster as they grew, forming a perfect sphere of red and yellow flames that cast Gall’s face in stark relief. The heat was intense, threatening to singe his eyebrows, yet the fire obeyed his will, contained by his magic.

Just one more ingredient.

“Flammae daemonum [demon flames],” he whispered. The roiling mass of fire thrummed and pulsed, green flames flickering into existence with a heat and malevolence all its own.

The sphere swelled to the size of a melon, then larger, forcing Gall to widen his stance to maintain balance. Sweat evaporated instantly from his skin. The strain of holding such power made his arm tremble and his vision blur at the edges.

Below, the enemy soldiers had frozen, their upturned faces illuminated by the growing fireball. Some began backing away, while others stood transfixed, weapons forgotten.

With a guttural cry, Gall flicked his wrist and released the spell.

The fireball plummeted toward the battering ram, trailing sparks like a comet. It struck the ironbark log dead center, and time seemed to stand still for an instant.

Then the world erupted in flame.

The fiery orb exploded like a malevolent star, sending a shockwave across the battlefield. From the center of the inferno, a dozen writhing serpents of flame spread with wicked purpose, each tendril alive with supernatural malice, devouring the great ram as a starved beast tears at carrion. The enchanted fire clung to everything it touched, burning with unnatural hunger.

Men screamed as the flames engulfed them, clawing across their armor and igniting hair and cloth. The fire seemed almost sentient, pursuing those who fled. Soldiers flailed wildly, clawing at the spreading blaze that would not be smothered. Some, in their desperation, threw themselves from the bridge into the river below, the water hissing and steaming as they plunged beneath its surface.

The battering ram became an inferno, the ancient wood crackling as centuries of seasoning fueled the magical fire. The bronze wolf’s head glowed red-hot, then white, before melting into formless slag. With a final groan of burning timber, the massive weapon collapsed onto the cobblestones, sending up a fountain of embers that swirled in the night air.

Gall sagged against the merlon, suddenly drained. The casting had taken more from him than he’d anticipated. He was not a natural wielder of magic, and the spell exacted a steep price. His vision swam, black spots dancing before his eyes. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him.

But he forced himself to straighten, to look out over the devastation he had wrought. The enemy forces had scattered, leaving their dead and dying behind. For now, at least, the North Gate would hold.

He allowed himself a moment’s satisfaction before the reality of their situation reasserted itself. This was but one skirmish in a greater battle. The Nagun still roamed the western quarter. And somewhere beyond the walls waited Faline with her Shatain warriors—patient, implacable, thirsting for his blood.

Gall turned away from the burning carnage below. They had won a brief reprieve, nothing more. Now he needed to reach the Inner Keep, to help the Queen prepare for what was coming.