Chapter Thirty Four: Fallback
Murann, 8 Tarsakh, 1370 DR
It was a living hell on earth.
Nalia used her magic to send a wall of pure flame blasting upwards, and the orc troop that had managed to break through the gate stopped, the first rank being torn into ash by the wicked, devouring flames. She watched with despair, as, all around her, the warriors of Murann were retreating from the walls, with little to no organisation.
In the distant haze of smoke and fire, she saw Imoen, using her black staff to fight off an ogre. A blast of ice knocked the ogre to the floor, and then a hefty blow from the staff shattered the ice sculpture. Above them, towering, stood Apheyr, his white robes whipped this way and that by the incredible energies he sought to control.
Imoen saw Nalia, and shouted: "Get the warriors back to the palace! I will take five hundred to the docks, to hold them. Quickly, Nalia! We need to move, or not even the inner walls will hold!"
Nalia nodded, and looked around for someone she knew. Cernick was commanding the southern wall… panic shot through her… he probably didn't know the walls were falling. Nor did the commander of the north wall.
She turned, her robes swirling in the rushing wind that the fires generated as they sucked in more and more air, just so they could continue to burn. Shadows passed her by as the warriors of Amn fled, screaming in fear and pain.
The victorious bellows of the ogres made Nalia shiver in anger. It had been the constant pressure. None of them had expected the enemy to keep on attacking constantly, never ceasing… with Nalia, Imoen and Apheyr trapped in an endless battle, they had been forced to memorise spell after spell, with very little rest.
It was a cunning tactic on the part of the ogres. It required a tremendous amount of warriors, with which to absorb the casualties that the three wizards were causing, but now those casualties were becoming less and less, as the three were completely exhausted.
The walls were nearly empty now, and a massive sea of the enemy warriors was pouring over the undefended walls. Nalia knew a flash of fear, but then that faded beneath a wave of fury. So, they wanted to break Murann, did they?
She checked the walls.
No-one on her side was there.
Her keen ears picked up the distant horn calls and commands from miles south and north, as Cernick and his parallel commander were told to withdraw. They would be fleeing now… and it meant that Nalia was alone.
Smiling, she walked calmly over towards the nearest burning building, feeling the prickling, painful intensity of heat washing over her. Towards her, the enemy were charging, screaming with red eyes glimmering, for her blood. Their swords were glinting in the firelight murderously.
But whatever murder shone, was mirrored, and increased a hundredfold in Nalia's eyes. A complicated series of words tumbled from her lips, musical and tinged with the power of magic. It was an incredible spell, one she had snatched with glee from the library of the city, telling the annoyed librarian that it was for the good of the city.
It was a spell that gave the caster complete control over any fire, but it was unlike minor spells of its kind, because it gave the caster control over any fire within a three mile radius. Nalia had read the description of the spell within the tome, and had nearly had to make herself breathe.
And now, there was a perfect time to use it.
Half of outer Murann was burning… if she could just control the fire, then perhaps the retreat could be made less hazardous… and maybe the ogres could be scared into resting for a while, so that the army and the Companions could get some rest.
The incantation finished, and Nalia was aware of a tickling feeling running from both her hands, and the fingertips, to the depths of her skull… it was a tantalising feeling. She could feel the shell of magic surrounding her, its invisible mass filling her with awe, and at the same time a little fear.
And then, to complete the spell, she placed both hands into the fire.
Her view of the real world dissolved into a myriad of orange, red and yellow light, swirling and roaring. The heat washed through her, and she smiled, feeling more comforted than she had in years. Sending her senses through the realm of flame, she soon forced herself to be directed upwards… and with her, rose the fire.
And then, her consciousness became aware of another fire, and it eagerly awaited her command, for it could sense, although it was no animate object, her desire to kill, her desire to send it, without constraints, against the enemy who had given birth to it.
For a brief moment she lost herself amidst the anger of the flame, amidst the passion and angst of the fire, but then she remembered that she was Nalia. Not a middling little apprentice struggling to cast a fireball, but an archmage, whose skill with magic was awesome… if anyone could master and control this spell, then it was her.
So, with as much force as she could, she commanded the fire to bow before her. It struggled, and for a moment Nalia gasped, thinking she was on fire. But then she remembered that she wasn't, and she urged the fire to bow again.
And this time it did. As it did, Nalia was rushed from the depths of fiery colour, and back into the real world. She was now standing in the centre of the furnace, and she saw the enemy running from her in terror.
Nalia smiled.
Let them run. She moved forward, the flames burning around her, a shroud of immense power and glory that made her seem more an elemental than a mortal. With a single gesture, she send a wall of flame rocking towards the shattered gates, towards the massed ranks of the enemy, who shrieked as the bestial nature of fire gripped skin and bones in its molten desire to crumble, to crush, to kill.
Ash was whipped through the air, and smoke cascaded like a torrent, like a hurricane.
Nalia closed her eyes, and urged the fires: kill the invaders of Murann, guard its defenders… and with that mental command, she sent images. Goblins, ogres and orcs were to be killed… any human with the insignia of Murann or Amn was not to be.
And she felt the sense of completeness, as every fire in Murann obeyed.
*
Imoen roared, and a lash of crackling blue energy struck the enemy trying to scale the walls of the docks. Seven orcs tumbled, and their fall knocked those behind them. She heard the commands of the commander behind her, and arrows, steel-tipped and buzzing like insects, sped into the enemy ranks.
Through the open gates, the last few survivors were running, dazed, bloodied and most wounded. Men frantically grappled with the winch on the gatehouse, urgently trying to get the gates to shut, trying to close the gates before the press of humanoids just ran through, and killed every warrior behind the walls.
A single command word and Imoen sped into the air. Soaring towards the gate, she roared a fireball spell, the easiest one and quickest that she knew. It flew, a tiny dove of flame, through the closing gates, and scattered the charging enemy with immense force.
Yet now a group of orcs had managed to get through the gate before it was shut. They used their brute strength to keep the gate open, as more of the brutes poured through. Imoen knew she needed to stop this influx of enemies, and sent a death spell, tingling with her desire to kill, from her fingertips.
A collective groan escaped the lips of each orc, and Imoen watched with some satisfaction as they crumpled, lifeless, to the floor, each one touched by a separate spark of the spell that leaped from the original globe of blue.
And then, with a loud, final clang, the gates were shut.
Imoen nodded once, satisfied, and then levitated herself upwards, until she stood once more on the battlements, looking down at the city. She estimated that perhaps thirty thousand enemies now held the outer city. The ogres would not be stupid enough to send their entire army into a city fight.
There were probably another one hundred and fifty thousand. Maybe a few less.
A sense of futility washed over Imoen then. In the retreat from the walls, they had probably lost about five thousand men. Five thousand men lost meant only fifteen thousand remained to stop the siege… and although the enemy had lost nearly thirty thousand that hardly seemed to even dent their numbers.
There was a loud roar, and Imoen saw about twenty huge hill giants charge towards the walls. These were the biggest giants she had seen, and that included the Fire Giants of Yaga-Shura… and in the centre of the ten, was a massive giant, wearing a huge iron crown that crackled with power. He must be the chief of the hill giants… Imoen heard the panicked cries of the warriors manning the walls, and she knew that none of them knew how to react.
Taking control, she used her magic to heighten the volume of her voice, and then yelled: "Ballistae, fire! Do not aim, just launch into the clump of them! Archers, target the eyes! Catapults break up the ground in front of them! Wizards, area effect spells, now! Pikemen, crouch behind the crenulations, do not stand, or you will be knocked aside like chaff! Somebody get the reserves from the Pier Tower! Tell them we need them urgently!"
She saw the men around her react then, stirred into action by her words. One of the giants toppled and fell, and Imoen held on to the wall as the ground shook with the force of his fall. Arrows, ballista bolts and destructive spells tore like a cloud of death, towards the giants, and another one fell, followed by another.
Just seventeen left… and the chief.
Imoen sent a finger of death tumbling towards the giant king, but as the spell neared, the crown flashed blue, and the spell disintegrated. The daughter of Bhaal paled. His crown extended an area of dead magic… it meant that her spells did not work. She took a step back, and then frowned.
No… that couldn't be right.
The spells other wizards were casting were working… maybe spells against him specifically didn't work. Almost experimentally, but still realising that speed was of the essence, Imoen send a fireball at his feet. It exploded, and the giants around him gulped.
But the king didn't even shiver slightly.
So… that crown must protect him from all magical harm, of any kind…
"Ballistae bolts against the giant chieftain! Wizards and archers, target the rest of the giants! Quickly! Quickly!"
It was too late, though. With a bellow, the giants attacked the wall. The pikemen did their best, but they were flung from the walls. Even the crenulations didn't help. The strength of the giants merely knocked the top of the wall to pieces.
A colossal club swung a few metres from Imoen,
and the wall crumbled, the top of it falling down into the killing ground.
Imoen fell to her knees, and coughed as dust filled her throat and lungs.
Standing, she released contingencies, and surrounded herself with her most
powerful protections, and then, glaring angrily, she called out, "Chieftain of
giants, I challenge you to a duel! Let us see how long you fare against my
magic!"
There was a booming laugh. "You stupid. Spells not work against me. Fight me if you
will. I will crush your spine and skull and drink your pretty blood."
And the giant king roared. Her spell protections gleamed, and as the king's club hit her, Imoen was knocked back through the air. The protections still held up though. Uttering another word, Imoen hovered still in the air, magic preventing her from falling. From her robes, she pulled a long dagger, wrought by her own hands, from the spine of a demon obtained during her extra-planar travels.
Grasping it tightly, Imoen whispered a brief incantation, and felt her muscles grow, and her reflexes and speed increase. Another word and she soared through the air, towards the giant. She dodged hit club easily, able with magic to fly through the air.
She slashed at his face, and tore easily through his thick skin. He bellowed in pain, and took a step back. The hill giants who were attempting to destroy the wall stared in surprise that this tiny little mage could actually wound their chieftain.
Imoen took advantage of his surprise to slash again, and this time his eye was gouged from his skull. His bellow was more of a shriek this time, and his club struck Imoen on her left side. The spell protections fizzled out, but it had absorbed one more blow- her ribs felt pained though.
Knowing that she had one more chance, Imoen pointed her arm forward, her dagger held tightly, and flew, like a bow from an arrow, headlong, into the vacant eye socket of the giant king. The dagger flew through his eye socket, and he shrieked. It then continued to cut through, and Imoen was pale in horror as she stood on the bridge of his nose, her arm in up to the shoulder in blood and brains.
The giant thrashed, refusing to die. Imoen jiggled her knife around, and he thrashed even more, as if Imoen was slashing the part of his brain that judged movement. Another merciless cut from the dagger, and the king grunted, and then went as stiff as a board, toppling down to the ground.
At the last moment, Imoen flew upwards, and landed gracefully, like a cat, on the battlements. Now, the reserves from the Pier Tower had arrived, and the ballistae and wizards and archers were sending their lethal missiles against the remaining giants.
They fell, and scrambled to flee.
Out of twenty giants who had attacked, three escaped alive…
But then, not even those three escaped, as Imoen watched the fires of Murann rise against the invaders, and she smiled. Nalia's spell was working, then. A brief taste of envy span through her, but then she realised that she was too tired to feel envy.
Far too tired.
With a weary groan, she fell against the shattered, cracked battlements, and just lay there, against the cold, unforgiving basalt rock. And slowly, her eyelids flickered shut, as she gave in to the peaceful darkness of rest.
*
The ogre magi had to rest their army, who were all as exhausted as the defenders of Murann. But the next day, they attacked again, and again, and again. Every time they attacked, they lost thousands, but the defenders were losing warriors too… again and again they attacked, and with blood, sweat and tears, they were repulsed.
Nalia looked out of the palace on the twelfth of Tarsakh, and bowed her head.
It was a foregone conclusion that they would lose.
But there was one chance, at least… once chance to defeat this horde.
And that chance relied on one thing. The five thousand defenders of Murann who were left would have to charge against the hundred thousand humanoids, in an attempt to cut out the heart of the army, led by the ogre magi themselves.
And as Nalia stared, tears in her eyes, at the mass of enemies that they would have to fight through, she wondered if she had, perhaps, given away her afterlife to Kelemvor too quickly. For it seemed that she would probably rejoin his grim halls within a day.