“Surrender,” she called out. The walls were no barrier to the zarich’s claws. Stone and granite tumbled down like they were made of sand, and armed men were sent screaming. The akvan sang and battered at the gate walls with its massive tusks and trunk until, with a loud splinter, they disintegrated.
“Surrender,” she called out. From above, the indar struck, raking its terrible claws into wood and masts until every catapult and weapon of war splayed before us was rendered useless. The aeshma hissed and curled itself into a ball, using its spikes as a battering ram to break through the last wall. The cries of the fleeing soldiers and the groans of the injured carried louder than the sounds of battle.
“Surrender,” she called one last time, and the nanghait strode forward, its two faces in full view for all to see. The daeva stood proudly in the open, and no manner of sword or cannon or pitch could pierce its hide, until, finally, even the bravest of the soldiers were forced to retreat from the nightmare staring back at them.
But it was the azi that posed the greatest threat. From the skies, it swept down and bathed the roofs in fire and ashes until the city writhed from within a great bonfire. The beast screamed its defiance into the clouds, heralding death to the people below. But even then, Lord Kalen was quick to act; he raised his hand and water poured from the heavens, quickly extinguishing the inferno before it could do more damage.
I cowered behind the savul, the only one among his brethren ordered to remain for my sake. It rested placidly beside me. With the scales of a large lizard and bulging yellow eyes, the savul was reptilian in appearance, yet this twenty feet of monster ended in sharp talons. Whenever a stray arrow or fireball drew too close, it lifted a hideous limb to snatch it out of the air. The fire did little to singe it, and arrows caused it no harm.
I clutched at the zivar the asha had given me; it prevented compulsion against my will but did not protect from physical harm. Without any other armor, I clung to it desperately, the way a drowning man clings to driftwood.
In the space of an hour, every line of defense from the city of Santiang had been demolished. At Tea’s signal, the beasts lumbered on, stepping past the gates and into the now-deserted streets of Daanoris’s capital.
“Make for the palace,” the asha said and then added with a touch of steel in her voice, “Harm no one else.”
Quietly, I wept. I heard the wails of the injured, of those searching for loved ones. The bone witch had tried to stem the casualties, but…
“I had no choice,” the asha said quietly, her face drawn and tired. She repeated the words a few seconds later, like a mantra.
The Daanorian palace stood before us, the ivory gleam of its curved towers shining brighter as we approach. Soldiers still manned the palace walls, the tips of arrows quenched in fire pointed at us as we drew nearer. Beyond them, heavy catapults mired in pitch waited for the signal to burn.
The asha stopped, her face suddenly wreathed in smiles.
“So it is the hanjian,” she called out pleasantly, her voice carrying through the distance. “How nice to see you again.”
From atop the highest wall, a man in gilded armor came into view. He called out to her in Daanorian in a shaking voice, but she responded with laughter. “You know as well as I that you understand the common tongue, hanjian. It was the language you spoke when you betrayed your emperor.”
The man staggered back, his fear palpable. He turned toward his soldiers and issued a harsh command. At his shout, they released the fire-tipped arrows. At the same time, the catapults flung flames into the air.
The savul faced them with imperturbability, shielding me from the incoming storm. The arrows did no damage, but the fiery boulders produced better results. The savul’s scaled hide caught fire, and the beast began to burn.
Alarmed, I backed away, but the asha took hold of my arm before I could step out from the daeva’s shadow. “Do not be frightened, and do not move if you wish to survive.”
“You called him a hanjian.” The Daanorian word for traitor.
“There is only one punishment for traitors.” She seated herself beside the savul’s webbed talons, heedless of the growing heat. Already the fires on the daeva’s hide were dying out, leaving no wounds. “We shall wait until the bulk of their arrows are exhausted, their stores of pitch and rocks depleted. It is the only way to save those soldiers’ lives.” She glanced back up at the wall, where the man in bright armor had revealed himself. A strange, terrible eagerness came into her voice. “That man, on the other hand, is a different matter. Shall I continue the tale as we wait, Bard?”
I stared at her in shock, but already she was calmly resuming her story, even as fire and fear were all around us.