Tristan watched closely as the soldiers split their forces: Half approached the gate with ax and fire, and the rest shot arrows into the sky to clear the wall’s defenders. Tristan redid his count. There were closer to two hundred soldiers that he could see in the open, plus maybe two dozen more crouched in the darkness at the edge of the field. They were still well short of what Sev had claimed, and even what the most recent scout had reported.
The soldiers at the edge of the field were busy unhooking large, round objects from their backs, lining them up in a row. Were they weapons, or supplies? As another round object landed on the ground, Tristan’s mouth went dry.
It was a battering ram.
It would be impossible to carry a heavy assault weapon like that up the narrow steps from the way station, but they had found a way to create one that broke down for easy transportation. They must have been planning this attack from the moment they made contact with Elliot almost a year ago.
A barrage of arrows flew from the village walls, and several of the attackers dropped. Since the stronghold doors were already locked tight, Tristan sent a runner through the concealed postern gate behind the stables, relaying the information about the ram in case Captain Flynn hadn’t seen it. If they could eliminate that threat, their defense would hold.
Or so Tristan thought.
His confidence shattered when the first grappling hook soared through the sky and landed with a clatter onto the stone walkway not five feet away from him.
The villagers nearby jumped at the sudden appearance of the three-pronged metal object attached to a thick coil of rope. It scraped along the ground and then flew up against the wall with a sudden, violent jerk, taking the weight of the climber on the other end.
Two more hooks flew over the wall, their resounding clanks driving fear deep into Tristan’s heart. They were coming from the south, from the steep ravine between the thrust of stone on which the Eyrie and the stronghold perched and the surrounding rocky landscape.
Surely these were the remaining soldiers from Sev’s count.
The battle outside the village was yet another diversion, an attempt to draw soldiers and resources away from the stronghold, where the inexperienced Riders and their phoenixes would be together, relatively unprotected. They’d managed to divide the Phoenix Riders’ already limited numbers into three smaller, less threatening groups—the patrols that had already flown out, the guards at the village gate, and their remaining forces at the stronghold.
Swallowing a sour lump in his throat, Tristan lurched toward the nearest hook and withdrew his belt knife. He hacked savagely at the rope, but it was treated with some kind of wax or resin, the woven thread almost impossible to get through, even with Ferronese steel.
“A serrated knife,” Veronyka said, coming to stand next to him.
Tristan continued to hack and gouge, ruining his blade as he hit metal and stone, the words taking several seconds to penetrate his frustration.
He took a deep, steadying breath and squeezed his eyes shut. Calm as the mountain.
When he opened them, he nodded at Veronyka and thrust his knife back into his belt. He turned to the nearest runner crouched at the bottom of the stairs, a small girl with wide eyes and—unless he was seeing things—a sparrow in her hair.
“Go to the kitchens and ask Morra for every serrated knife she has.”
The girl ran off as several more hooks flew over the wall. Tristan wanted to thank Veronyka for keeping a cool head when he could not, but to admit that weakness would be his undoing. Instead he shoved the moment of panic out of his mind and tried to regroup. Climbing onto a crate, Tristan looked over the edge of the wall.
It was a sheer drop, disappearing into darkness that Tristan knew was filled with shifting gravel, gnarled trees, and tangling vines. No one would dare attempt to climb these steep slopes unless they knew exactly what lay hidden within the labyrinthine walls of rock. And these soldiers did, thanks to Elliot.
The climbers were courageous to attempt to scale such a high wall with so many jagged stones below them, but Tristan didn’t have time to admire their bravery. Five hooks had made contact now, their climbers emerging from the trees at least a hundred feet below. They’d soon reach the top of the walls, and the angle was too steep and awkward for their archers to hit.
Rocks, Tristan thought. He sent another runner to ask for any kind of heavy objects they could throw down on the climbers, just as the first runner returned. She was helped by several kitchen hands, and serrated knives of all shapes and sizes were handed out along the wall. Tristan shouted instructions, his mind clearing as adrenaline kicked in. While some of their number worked hard to saw at the ropes, others moved to strategic points along the wall that gave them better angles to shoot the climbers with arrows or to drop the newly delivered stones, pottery, and scrap metal onto their unsuspecting heads.
Veronyka was one of those working the knives, sawing with all her might into the rope Tristan had first tried to cut, while he backed up several paces, standing on the same crate as before and pointing his bow down, flush against the wall. It was a difficult angle, but it was the danger that Veronyka faced that made his muscles tense and his palms sweat. If she didn’t cut the rope, or if he missed his shot, she would be the first thing the soldier saw when he mounted the wall. She would be his first victim.
Veronyka seemed oblivious to the danger, slashing relentlessly at the rope, which had begun to fray from her efforts. Her forehead was damp with sweat, and she’d rolled up the sleeves of his oversized tunic.
Scuffs and grunts reached his ears, and he looked down again to see the climber rising steadily. The man was armed with a battle-ax strapped across his back and several daggers on his belt. Pausing for a moment to gather his breath, he looked up, and their eyes met.
Next to Tristan, a triumphant “Aha” was followed by a loud snap. The metal hook hit the ground with a heavy clang, and the severed threads of the rope disappeared over the edge of the battlements. Tristan looked back over the wall as the climber dropped soundlessly into the chasm of darkness below.
Veronyka didn’t stop to celebrate. Gasping, she took up her knife and attacked another rope farther down the line.
Across the courtyard, another hook rattled to the ground as a second climber fell, this time crying out as he dropped from the wall. The surge of happiness that flared inside Tristan was quickly stifled. For every rope that was cut, two more flew up in its place.
A handful of Tristan’s arrows found their mark, but it wasn’t enough. The stream of climbers seemed endless, and the time it took to cut them was longer than the time it took for new soldiers to make the climb. Soon they would crest the walls, and all his best fighters were in the village.
The grappling hooks flew up in waves, usually sets of two or three, with a few minutes’ lull in between—climbers trying to find better positions, Tristan guessed, or dodging their fellows as they hurtled back to the ground. At this rate, the stronghold would be lost before the village gate fell—a shocking realization, with the sound of groaning hinges and splintering wood echoing from below, along with the steady thump, thump, thump of the battering ram, pulsing in time with the rapid beat of Tristan’s heart.
He had to change their strategy, but how?
During the pauses between the waves of grappling hooks, the defenders traded positions, giving those hacking at the ropes a chance to attack, while those who had been firing arrows or dropping stones took up a blade.