Page 123 of City of Stone and Silence

“Understood,” Breta says, with another salute.

Jakibsa, Giniva, and I pass on, into the Sixteenth Ward. It’s empty here, too, though there are fewer locked doors and more abandoned buildings. People have largely fled—we’ve been urging them to get out—contributing to the overcrowding in the Eleventh Ward. Jakibsa and his assistants have been finding them places to live in the upper wards, repurposing elegant townhouses and sprawling mansions to shelter a dozen dockside families.

As we move west, we see more red sashes, in groups with spears and crossbows. Weapons, at least, we have in plenty, having captured most of the Ward Guard’s armory. I flag down one squad and get directions to Hotara, who has made her headquarters on top of a warehouse, facing the broad clear space in front of the wall and about a block from the water’s edge. We climb a ladder in the alley behind it and find Hotara huddled with a cluster of red sashes.

“Are they coming?” I ask her.

She looks at me, irritated at the interruption, but nods. “They’re coming. A couple of thousand of them outside the wall. And…” She nods at the water.

I follow her gaze. A full squadron of Imperial war galleys, six ships in all, are loitering just beyond bow-shot of the wall. Their triangular sails are furled, and their long banks of oars barely move to keep station in the calm water of the bay. Chained to those oars, in the depths of the long, sleek vessels, are some of the sons and brothers of the defenders here today—it is the fleet’s voracious need for fresh arms to power its ships, more than anything else, that drives the draft.

Along the rails of the ships, marines in fishscale armor and broad, flat helmets wait with crossbows at the ready. Behind them, at the fore and aft of each ship, are the siege engines called scorpions, like giant versions of those handheld bows, capable of propelling a bolt the size of a spear.

There are defenders on the shoreline, taking cover behind the crates, coils of rope, and other nautical detritus on the piers. They have their own bows, I know, but few have much experience using them. More red sashes are visible on top of the wall itself, and on the roof of the round tower that anchors it at the waterside. There’s a signaler up there, too, with a red flag in one hand and a white flag in the other. As I watch, he holds both flags over his head, then starts to wave them in a complicated pattern.

“Brave rotting bastard,” Hotara says. “Signalman from the Navy who came to our side.” She turns to a young woman beside her, who’s squinting at the shifting flags. “What’s he saying?”

“Enemy advancing,” the girl says. “Along the whole front.”

“Tell them to fire at will when they get into range,” Hotara says.

The girl raises her own flags and makes a quick signal. The signaler on the wall wags acknowledgment and disappears. For a few long moments, nothing happens.

A dart of flame rises into the air from the other side of the wall. It blooms into a ball of white fire far overhead, easily visible even at midday. It’s too far up to hurt anyone, but that’s not the point. It’s a signal to the fleet. As one, the ships start to move, gliding diagonally closer to the shore. A bolt skips out from the defenders, then another. The first drops in the water well short of the vessels. The second comes closer, raising a splash only yards away.

Then, at a shout from their officers, the marines raise their weapons, and a moment later the Rot itself breaks loose.

The pair of ships in the lead open fire first, disciplined volleys rising at a sharp angle to scythe down like deadly rain all across the waterfront. The soldiers reload, an operation that requires them to ground their bow on the deck and press down with one foot on a stirrup to re-cock the mechanism. In the meantime, the next pair of ships has come into range, and another volley fills the sky.

Red sashes are shooting back, but piecemeal, and most of the archers have never learned to judge arcing fire at long range. A few shots hit the ships, and I see one marine slump forward into the water, but that’s all. The piers and quays of the waterfront are rapidly coming to resemble a porcupine, with quills jutting from every surface. Some defenders are huddled close to their cover, and others are slumped over dead, the difference impossible to tell from here.

One of the scorpions fires, its bolt flashing above the waterfront and into one of the buildings behind it. The huge projectile punches through the wood-and-plaster wall as though it weren’t there, leaving a hole the size of a horse and a cloud of fine dust. Answering fire comes from another window of the building, and a second scorpion replies, ripping out an entire corner of the top floor and spilling bodies to the street below.

On the waterfront, there’s a flare of light. Myrkai fire zips over the waves, concentrated into tight, brilliant beads. The first one hits the water just behind one of the ships, detonating in a colossal spray of steam. The second impacts one of the Navy vessels at the bow, the blast spilling marines into the sea and sending chunks of wood flying.

I can see the mage-blood now, a short woman with wild hair. She’s one of ours, a girl named Enoka from the sanctuary, a few years older than me, excitable and obsessed with boys. Beside her is Sekota, one of the Tartak talents who accompanied us to confront the Immortals. They volunteered to try this gambit, eager to get back at the people who have hurt so many of our friends. Now the defenders on the docks are cheering as she conjures yet another missile to hurl, straining to keep the flame coherent enough to do damage at long range.

Even as she lets the bolt loose, every ship turns its attention to her, volleys filling the air. Sekota stands up, hands spread, and walls of blue force materialize around the pair, deflecting the crossbow fire. Enoka yells excitedly and summons another ball of flame, pressing it between her hands as though squeezing over-tough dough.

Then the scorpions fire again. Sekota snatches the first huge bolt out of the air, sends it hurtling into the water. The second takes him in the chest before he can recover, punching him off his feet and pinning him to the dock like a butterfly in a collector’s case. The blue Tartak barrier vanishes in a spray of sparks as he dies, and Enoka barely has time to look up before a cloud of crossbow bolts descends on her. She vanishes underneath them, and a moment later the fireball she was priming goes off, blowing the dock around her into flaming splinters. Out in the bay, the ship she damaged is still underway, the hole in its side smoking but above the waterline.

They volunteered, and I didn’t stop them. It might have worked.

The detonation takes all the fight out of the red sashes along the water, and they abandon their positions, scrambling up to the street. I hear the shouts of their officers, trying to call them back, but I think not even trained soldiers would stay for such an unequal fight. Crossbow bolts continue to scythe down, sending men and women spinning to the dirt. Some keep moving, hobbling or shuffling toward the buildings across the road from the water, but no one is eager to risk the same fate to go and help them.

“Flags on the wall!” the signalwoman beside us announces. “Exchanging fire with enemy archers. Holding so far.”

“It’s not the wall I’m worried about,” Hotara says. “Grego, go make sure your squad is ready.”

Another of her companions, a big man in a long leather coat, gives a wordless nod and leaves the roof by the rear ladder. I glance at Hotara, and she shrugs.

“We can’t form a line between the water and wall without getting the rot shot out of us,” she says. “If they put marines ashore, our only chance is to try a counterattack.”

It quickly becomes clear this is exactly what’s in store. Defending fire from the waterfront slackens, as any flicker of movement in the harborside buildings draw a devastating response from the scorpions. A pair of the galleys pull up at a long quay, strewn with bodies and studded with bolts, and at least fifty marines disembark, leaving their ungainly crossbows behind and rushing forward with swords drawn. A few fall to rebel archers, but not enough—they’re armored and moving fast, and most of the red sashes on the wall are focused on the Ward Guard infantry outside.

“Go, Grego!” Hotara shouts. “Push them back to the water!”

A hoarse war cry erupts from around the sides of our building, and rebels start pouring out of the alleyway. My guess is that these are the best fighters Hotara has, handpicked men and women, those experienced with violence. They wear mismatched leather armor and carry a variety of weapons—swords, spears, even clubs and knives. There’s not much room for tactical niceties on either side. The mass of marines, rushing toward the wall and the gate they hope to capture, turns to meet Grego’s squad in a confused mêlée in the strip of clear ground, and the mud is soon churned red with gore.