Date: January 17, 1999
Place: Beyond the Stockade - Parnassus - Edessa
Cast: Aeneas, Argenteus, Calpurnia, Cassiela, Dante, Elidi, Faisal (Achmed), Fide, Kiera (Nelth, Rolf, and general Varati actions), Sayyid, Severius, Simrad, Yakur
Clans: Akalas, Junarr, Juusa, Nafti
Staff: Anubis (general Varati poses), Astraea (Darius and general poses), Helios
Scene: Varati forces attack Parnassus early one winter's morning.

Beyond the Stockade - Parnassus - Edessa:
      An open field stretches beyond the stockade around Parnassus. Earthwork barriers ring the town to the south, with sharpened stakes, thorns, and brambles to act as a smaller, secondary wall around the perimeter. Between the earthworks and the brambly obstacles are about two hundred yards of clear field, though a six-foot-deep trench surrounds the earthwork. Ice coats the ground, making it treacherous, and the winds are chilly, bringing with them light precipitation in the form of an icy drizzle. To the north are some low foothills, which grow progressively rockier and steeper a few miles beyond the town. Vineyards, bare and battered from the winter storms, lie to the west.

Faint, icy drizzle sifts down from the darkened sky. It's still a couple of hours before dawn, and the city of Parnassus is quiet. The occasional muffled noise issues from beyond the earthwork wall, where the Empyreal encampment lies. Soldiers are still at watch along the wooden wall at the top of the earthworks, and some of them, perhaps, might detect movement to the north. Shapes move under cover of darkness, toward the sleeping city of Parnassus....

Without moonlight to reflect on blades and arrowheads, with damp and slick ground to muffle the thud but not the squelch of boots, it is difficult to pick out the creeping force of dark-skinned warriors that have begun their inevitable march toward Parnassus. There are no war-chants, no conversation. Just the grey ghost of a plume of breath now and again, the grunt of an man struggling to guide a wheel through miring ground, and the steady beat of thousands of Varati hearts. Those beats, however, are purely in the mind. Or are they?

Sayyid marches among this core of moving bodies, like armored beetles they are. He runs his tongue over his teeth, separating lips from gums. He should really have remembered to bring the waterskin. His throat is dry. He swings the bow he carries down over his shoulder, warming the grip in his hand as he trudges onward.

Standing beneath the wall of the Empyreal encampment, Cassiela shifts her crossbow once more with a restless motion. Wings shift behind her compact form as she stills her nerves. A glance is spared towards those with eyes raised over the wall.

The forces of Clans Akalas and Junarr wait beyond the west wall. They and their wyverns are beyond visible range. Simrad, Warlord of Clan Akalas, absently rubs the hilt of his falcare. No speech is necessary, for all the troops know their orders.

Yakur, a son of Clan Junarr, waits in silence with Simrad's forces, adjusting the weight of the grappling hook and line over one shoulder and double-checking to see that his falcare is free in its scabbard.

Growing tired of relying on others' eyes, Cassiela snaps open her wings and rises to the platform the other watchers reside on. In the darkness and the silence, the others give her a nod while she silently looks out over the fields beyond. Sharp eyes narrow as she focuses on the gloom-shrouded plain.

An icy wind sweeps from the west and sets the thorny barrier surrounding the earthwork wall to rattling. There are other sounds out there in the darkness. Frost-coated grass crinkles underfoot. Shapes move in the blackness at the northern edge of the city. Is it an illusion, or something more...?

Damnably cold, this weather. Still, they march on, with their rams rolling as best they can be rolled over ground that seeks to hold the wheels, or so it seems. Ifrit, one of the oldest warriors of Clan Juusa, stalks along side the wyvern-headed battering beam, in foul temper. That temper is not helped at all as a slick-soled boot goes out from under him, and he topples, fouling the legs of two more who march behind him. Though the protests that come from he and the other two -- not to mention those around them -- are quiet, they are still protests.

What was that?? Was it nothing, or was it imagination? Or was it something to truly sound the alarm over? Brow furrowing over her un-Empyrean-like round face, Cassiela reaches out and tugs the sleeve of the man standing next to her. Wordlessly, she raises a finger to point in the direction she thought she saw movement. Remaining silent, she just gives him a questioning look. Confirm me or tell me I'm wrong.

The soldier whose sleeve was tugged frowns, then squints out into the darkness. He thought he'd heard something, too, but it could have been the wind....

There is more movement out there, no doubt, but it will be difficult to see it in any one place at once. Ifrit is helped back to his feet, and with the judicious application of several shoulders, the ram is moved forward again. Moved forward, that is, until those in the front turn back and make an effort at stopping the steady advance. "Stop, stop," is the hiss. "There are pits. We'll have to carry the rams, or... something." Curses and another brief bout of discussion as the first of those crews send men down into the pits to investigate, sliding down the sides of the first.

Sayyid, with the rest of the cadre of archers, responds to another signal, a hand-signal that is passed through the ranks: fan out, it means, spread out over the field, so that when the bolts are fired from the crossbows, there is more coverage. Harder to kill all of the archers at once, better coverage of the wall they attack. The archers, too, clamber down into pits, and help one another through, as they can.

Cassiela growls softly under her breath. The Varati encampment is too close to ignore the chance of movement on the fields beyond. Willing to take the brunt of the ridicule and blame if she should be proven false, she calls forward one of the young pages waiting to carry word to the commander. Whispering into the boy's ear, she sends him off with word of the sighted movement.

Thousands of eyes peer in the direction of the Empyreal stockade as clans Akalas and Junarr chafe at the bit. Warlord Simrad sits stoically atop his wyvern; he seems as eager to attack as the rest of them. He removes his longbow from across his back, holding it ready. His mind runs through possible plans as he observes the bramble-obstruction from afar.

Akalas and Junarr remain beyond detection range of the stockade.

Other Empyreal soldiers had a similar idea to Cassiela's. Their eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness by now -- after endless nights of watching, after endless weeks of waiting. This is it. It must be. A soldier named Darius peers over the edge of the wall and convinces himself that the movement is real and no illusion. He prods the soldier next to him, who'd been half-sleeping. "It is time," he says, grim and certain. "They've come."

Yakur and his group of grapplers watch the stockade, waiting impatiently for the signal to attack. But all is still, the only thing heard is the occasional slushing of boot against frozen, wet ground.

Turning back to the darkness over the wall, Cassiela's lips pull back into an almost growl as she tenses her wings and waits. Bow aimed over the wall, she waits with the patience of a trained soldier. Not long now....

Word is passed along from Darius and Cassiela, and others, that those subtle noises and movements are no false alarm, but very real. There is no panic -- not yet. These soldiers have been waiting for this moment for four months. But word is conveyed as speedily as possible through the encampment. Sleeping pages are wakened and sent to convey the word. Half-dozing soldiers along the wall come to alertness. Bows are grasped, weapons readied, as the encampment slowly comes alive.

To clarify further, though those on Parnassus' walls could probably care less what clan a Varati belongs to, it is Clan Juusa who maneuver the battering rams, and they who are cautiously picking their way through the pits. It is decided that the best way to get the rams across the pits will be to roll them over shields held aloft by those in the pits. Caution is passed along, and still there are those who slip on their ways down the pit walls. Startled cries of those who encounter stakes at the bottoms due to clumsy footing are muffled by hands hastily clapped over mouths. Still, noise that can be heard.

Those not occupied with filling pits to make makeshift bridges for the rams hack at the brambles with drawn blades, some with teeth bared in distaste.

Clan Nafti are the archers, with crossbows all, and they move more quietly, though there are still the occasional missteps, and one unfortunate young man who steps on a caltrop, hops a few steps, and steps on another. He drops, and is left to attempt to pluck the things from his boots.

Elidi emerges from her tent inside the encampment after the boy informs her of the movement that's been detected. She is buckling on her leather sword-belt and the tendrils of her hair hang loosely down her back since she did not take time to braid it. A scowl is set upon her features, but there is still a bit of sleep in her eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Cassiela glances behind her towards the movement in the camp below. Good, everyone is preparing. This city will not fall like Duropolis if she has to face every single Varati herself. A quick glance is spared back towards the darkness over the land, and then she looks down the wall in both directions, watching the other archers and bowmen assembling. She had family at Duropolis....

Elidi extends her left arm and a mongrel assistant moves to buckle her round shield upon her arm-shield upon her arm. Her husky contralto calls, "Status report."

Out in the field, the numerous crossbow-men in the ranks of Simrad's force disperse themselves through the ranks, just as Clan Nafti's archers have.

Empyreal soldiers are lined up on the wall, readying themselves for the coming confrontation, yet awaiting orders. They peer off into the darkness to the north, where shapes can be seen, and the occasional, muffled sounds can be heard. In the darkness and drizzling rain, it is difficult to determine how many Varati soldiers are out there.

Clans Junarr and Akalas have little to do but wait. Their soldiers chafe at this pussyfooting, but all know that to disobey orders means death.

As the Empyreans appear on the wall, there is an unmistakable sound: crossbow bolts are withdrawn from quivers, and slid into place, with an echoing wave of clicks.

The ground is icy and treacherous -- even the wooden wall atop the earthworks is slippery. A chilly wind blows from the west, and some of the Empyreans atop the wall give their wings an agitated shake to free them of the icy rain that clings. Darius, an Optio assigned to the wall, gives a signal to his Cohors to ready their bows. But as yet, none of the Varati have come within range. And it is so hard to see....

Inside the camp, Argenteus glances briefly back at the commander's tent as she emerges. He pauses to stick the arrows he held in his hand into the top of the stockade before flying down to address his commander. Landing not far off from her, he makes the report short and quiet. "Minor movement has been spotted by lookouts all across the stockade, Praefect." He is immensely respectful to the Praefect, clearly not minding that a woman holds a rank higher then him. At least not this one. He turns at the sounds of the crossbow-cocking echoes through the night.

Fide raises his sword to his lips. "We who are about to die salute you," he mutters, eyes raised to the Gods. And with that said he stretches his wings outward and low, shaking them of the frost and rain.

Severius looks to Elidi, nodding in affirmation as he approaches her. A few men seem to group behind him, wings flexing for flight, quivers of throwing spears ready. "We await your order to start an airborne assault and scout, Praefect Augustin," he says quietly.

Cassiela glances to her own men and then towards the man directly over her. Still silent, she waits for word or for the Varati to make their move. It will come, and she will wait until it does, but for now she simply shifts her wings with the faintest ruffle of agitation.

Elidi murmurs, "Wait a little longer, Centurion. Let's see how they fare against the defenses. No sense alerting them just yet."

Though most of the warriors of Clan Juusa were tried, already, in this war, Nelth was not. The healers kept him back, said he had not recovered yet from his illness, but they were unable to restrain him this time. The young warrior, stalwart and earnest, now trots beside one of the wyvern-headed rams, his shield hanging from an arm, a sort of counterweight to the sucking mud that threatens to pull his boots off and mire him in this, his first battle. The rain slaps against his helm, deafening him effectively from anything but his immediate neighbor, Rolf, for whom Nelth is to act as protector. Though the Varati of this small contingent, tied to this ram, were light of heart and hearty of voice when they set out, the march has taken that energy out of them, and only the adrenaline of the upcoming confrontation keeps them alert.

Argenteus nods, saluting the commander respectfully and returning to his point atop the stockade. Once there, he continues to implant his arrows in the soft wood at the top of. His stance is low, and his form appears alert.

Severius bows his head to the wise Praefect, speaking in quiet whispers. "By your command, Praefect." He moves back to Aeneas by the wall as he watches the horizon again. "She says we should wait and see how they do against the defense perimeter. That should take out a goodly number, before they even realize we know they're here."

Down the line from Cassiela, one of her men hisses softly, "C'mon ye damn dogs... what're ya waitin' fer." The softest snap of her wings draws his eyes to her and her glare silences him. Let the Varati come as they will.

Elidi tucks her wings against her back and lifts her left arm to use her shield as an umbrella against the freezing rain. The precipitation tinks against the metal, coldly, as she steps up to the wall and has a look for herself.

A wild call echoes from somewhere within the encampment -- a high-pitched screech with a throaty, growling undertone that could only belong to a griffin. One of the beasts must have picked up on the tension within the camp, and it makes its displeasure known. The sudden cry might make a few high-strung soldiers jump.

It is as the first of the battering rams is crossing the man-made bridges, that trouble strikes again. Several of the men standing in the trenches now were those who hacked apart the brambles to get the rams through, and suffered some scoring from those same thorns. Those men, now, whose arms have been less than steady for the last few moments, crumple beneath the weight of the ram. More men are quick to jump into pits to replace them, but it is a questionable matter, whether the first of the rams will cross at all. Now there's a louder rumble of sound, as accusations of 'magic' and 'poison,' go up from the Varati.

Inside the camp, Aeneas nods to Severius. "I'm eager to get on with it, Severius..." His train of thought is broken by the feral shriek of the griffin from deep within the stockade. With a grin, he adds, "Sounds like I'm not the only one."

Anger sparks and loathing mounts. The Varati strain against restraint and a need for quiet. Clan Nafti halts at another hand-signal, and the crossbows lift, nearly as one. Wait... wait... but a younger member of the clan, tired and nervous all at once, stumbles, and collides with another of the clan, losing his footing entirely in the moment afterward. Too late, though; the collision has caused the firing of the first bolt toward the winged candala atop Parnassus' wall.

The unmistakable whish of a loosed arrow catches the ears of those upon the stockade wall. It's starting... Cassiela holds up a hand to steady her pentus and then readies her own bow. The orders will come now.

Severius chuckles quietly, nodding. "I see what you mean, Dominus. The Tenth Edessa has been preparing for something like this for quite some time..." He looks out to the stray arrow, then to the men with him. The Edessans. A glance is placed squarely at Aeneas. "It begins..." he says, then looks to Argenteus and Elidi for orders.

Simrad puts a finger in his mouth for a moment, then holds it up into the air. 'Excellent,' he thinks, 'the wind is blowing from the west.' He raises a hand, and according to plan, the wyvern cavalry begins moving to reach a point west of the stockade. The infantry remains where it is, and both sets of Varati troops are well beyond visual or audial range of the troops atop the wall.

Inside the camp, Elidi's voice is such that it carries without her needing to use a great deal of volume. "Prepare the arrows. We'll set the brambles afire and see what we can see."

Argenteus doesn't turn around, but his ears are listening. He also knows that firing into the darkness at long range achieves nothing, so he waits. He picks up an arrow as Elidi calls, notching it into his bow.

One of Cassiela's penti readies the arrow to be lit and fired into the bramble-filled pits. The lean, lanky man with cloudy wings pulls back his pitch-covered arrow and waits for the signal while the man next to him waits to light it.

Darius and his men also dip their arrows into a flammable mixture kept in barrels behind the wall, and ready them for lighting. Each soldier waits, tense, for the order to fire.

Rolf does not go down, though he shudders in repercussion of the collapse of several of the other men carrying the battering ram. Nelth stumbles to a stop and takes the time to drag in a breath, look up and toward the walls. Steam plumes from his helmet, almost obscuring his own view for a moment. Then he drops his head again and shuffles forward, when Rolf does.

Inside the camp, Elidi's mouth curls as she looks into the darkness and her senses try to tell her where the enemy is located. "First man to hit that two hundred yard target gets bonus pay. Wait on it... let them come a little further so the poison works..." There is a pause as she lets out a streaming breath and then, "Light the arrows. Light up those brambles. Let's see what we've got to face."

Word is passed and Cassiela gives the nod to her men. The arrow is lit and without another second passing, the lanky man rises to his full height and fires the burning arrow into the brambles. The fire begins!

Fide is merely a pawn. He has been raised to fight for the Empyre and little else. He turns his blade in his hand, feeling the familiar weight of it in his hand. The heavier, cross-planked circular shield has seen its share of injury, but the large spike resting in its center gleams brightly. Resting on his hip is the plain, unencumbered helmet. He stands in wait, doing little else now but listening in the wintry darkness for the call. Occasionally his wings shake the sleet from his wings.

"Let's see how well those bastards burn," hisses a low voice -- Darius, the Optio on the wall. At Elidi's command, torches are brought forth, and out in the field, Varati soldiers can glimpse a line of flickering lights suddenly glimmer forth as the archers put the torches to good use. Moments after Cassiela's group has let fly, another volley comes soaring forth toward the brambles.

The troops of Junarr and Akalas disregard the falling rain in all respects, except to keep their crossbow strings dry. The men can vaguely make out the fire arrows, but do not appear to register it.

Aeneas seems relieved as he watches the embers streak through the darkness above. Once again, he looks to his Optio, eagerly hoping that it is time to attack... to do anything to end the frustrating wait.

Argenteus actually doesn't fire flaming arrows, his targets more importantly the things that will become visible when those missiles hit their marks. Those around him, however join the barrage. The Centurion draws an arrow back in his bow and waits.

Severius looks to Elidi, then to the beginning fires. A glance to Aeneas with a grin and a nod. "This ought to be fun to watch. Using fire against the people of the 'Fire-God.' How much more ironic can you get?" He looks to his own Optio a moment, then to the Praefect again. "With the brambles lit, our scouts and attack will be much cleaner and more accurate, to be sure," he says to Aeneas.

Simrad leans over to his sub-commander. "I wonder how they expect to set much of anything on fire in this rain?" The subordinate Varati rolls his eyes. "I have no idea. No one said the strength of the birds was in their minds...." This conversation is out of audial range of the stockade, so the insult goes unnoticed.

A flight of fireflies appears, flickering golden and orange stars that rain down from heaven. A cry sounds out here -- there -- among the Varati line as several arrows, through sheer luck, strike flesh instead of brambles. The branches, all stem and thorn, do not catch. The arrows themselves burn merrily and offer a somewhat more defined sense of moving shapes, but it is not the bonfire the Empyreans were hoping for, by far. A few burning flames ride the shields of infantry, showing the forward motion of their carriers before the arrows are ripped off and tossed aside to gutter out in the mud.

Though the drizzling rain may stop some of the arrows' fires, it will not stop them all. Creating brief targets of their archers, the Empyreans let the burning arrows streak through the air into the brambles.

One target is very well-defined: one of the poor lads hauling the Varati infantry's own oil supplies gets an arrow right in the bucket. He drops it and the burning oil splashes up all over him. His wet haik does not catch, but the relatively dry padding under his brigandine does. Wind-milling, he goes over backwards into one of the pits; its edges flicker, illuminated at first by the burning oil and then by burning fat.

Fide chuckles as the word is passed down from the walls at the hit. "Flame to flame, dust to dust, eh?"

"Look, they do burn well!" That gleeful cry comes from one of Darius' men, and the others laugh, though the sound is grim. Another round of arrows is readied, aimed, and shot toward the distant brambles, using that one unfortunate oil-carrying Varati as a target -- before he ends up in the ditch.

Cassiela gives a small smirk and gestures for her men to start firing. Each of the five-man group begins notching arrows and letting fly into the ranks of the Varati beyond the walls. Fire or smoke, it doesn't matter to her... Just let her fight.

Argenteus motions to his men that tightly surround the Centurion. The rain of arrows that begins to come from the low-standing cluster of Empyreans is quite sizable, and quite dangerous. Every couple of arrows finds one flaming, sending light down the wall below. That particular patch becomes rather well-lit; the Empyreal defenders can easily see that rank upon rank of Varati soldiers are advancing steadily through the brambles. Firelight flickers along their swords as they hack at the cloying, clutching foliage. Two soldiers go down, one after the other; others are not so poor with their shields.

Between wind and rain, the archers are not as accurate as usual, and there are occasional curses from the Empyreal soldiers along the wall as their arrows fly wide of their marks. At least, with all those myriad fires smoldering in the brambles and the occasional downed Varati, they can see a bit better.

As the flames turn into choking, smoldering smoke, Cassiela continues to rain arrows down into the Varati below, her men following suit. For this part of the battle, she doesn't count on accuracy as much as frequency. They have enough arrows for the moment, and some will find their marks.

Then, slowly, the flames begin to fade as the rain takes its toll.

Nelth is on. He stumbles into Rolf, an inglorious start, then raises his shield high, to protect the both of them. High for a moment, anyway. Nelth's mom didn't raise any idiots. He relaxes his arm and sets the shield on his helmet, braces it there with the cuff of his gauntlet. Saves energy, does much the same function.

Elidi is having the same idea at the wall, resting her forearm atop her head as she continues to let her shield function as an umbrella while she considers her options.

Now the arrows begin to have more effect. Warned of attack by the flight of fireflies, the Varati at that section of the brambles have their shields in play. But there are cries and shouts of pain from other parts of the line, where the arrows shot by Empyreans on blind faith find targets who were unprepared for the bite of unlit arrows from the dark, wet sky.

Yakur's group of wyverns and riders advance with Warlord Simrad's, glancing every now and then towards the bright sparks that appear. Hearing the shouts and the few fires that caught, Yakur's lips pull back in a silent snarl, his wyvern mount hissing at the tension it feels from its rider.

With only the momentary pause to re-notch an arrow, Cassiela and her men continue lobbing arrows into the smoke-obscured Varati advancing below.

Simrad gets an idea. Several of the wyverns that accompanied him are seated double, and the Warlord leans over to Yakur, whispering to him. As he speaks, he removes a long horn from his saddle pouch.

Carelessly rising to fire his bow again, one of Cassiela's men goes down off the wall with an arrow through his chest. Swearing a harsh curse under her breath, the stocky woman barks a command at her remaining men to focus on the task at hand while one of the pages nearby checks on her fallen man.

Simrad slaps Yakur on the back. "May Atar lend you speed.", he says quietly. "Make--" his voice trails off again....

As flames flicker, flare, hiss and die, dependent on the rain's whim, the Varati hack their way through the bramble, some few in the front still daring scratches, but those behind able to move without fear of poisonous pricks. Ifrit urges the men of Juusa onward toward the gates with the twin wyvern-headed rams.

Sayyid and Nafti unleash battle cries as they fire freely, their targets the white-winged archers on Parnassus' walls. Some of them fall to darkened arrows, but the majority still press on, shields sprouting arrows here and there.

Yakur nods and takes the horn into his hands, handing the reins of his mount to the other riding behind him. Then, careful of the treacherous ground yet as quickly as he can, he seems to disappear into the darkness.

The ram escorted by the shield-toting Nelth and lugged along by Rolf and his compatriots lurches forward toward the gates. Unfortunately, one well-aimed (or was it luck?) arrow downs one of the bush-whackers, and the man stumbles, falls in front of Nelth. No better ruse could have been planned, for as the young warrior is halted, his partner Rolf continues on, out from under the protection of Nelth's shield. Two more Empyreal arrows (this couldn't be luck, this time) find Rolf. He sags, silently. His last noble effort for his God-King's war is to roll to the side, to avoid having his body trip the burden-carriers who follow him. Nelth curses, heaving himself over Rolf, and calling to another bush-cutter to come, be a shield. Nelth's job has evolved, and he takes the task of helping carry the ram.

Inside the walls of the Empyreal encampment, the spear-bearers make ready for their assault. Wings are shaken to rid themselves of icy rain, and mongrel pages rush about to fetch the shafted pila that will be used. The soldiers are tense, their faces drawn and grim. Flight will be difficult in this weather.

The wyvern-riders of Clan Akalas begin to array themselves in a close formation. Still far out of visual range, a large group of heavily-armored mounted warriors make their way to the front of the group. In their scabbards are especially long and sharp falcares, and their wyverns are the largest and strongest of Clan Akalas' stables. Even the mounts are armored in vital spots, to better protect. These metal plates appear to be placed in areas to provide more security from tearing thorns. These special riders and their mounts array themselves in a wedge before the rest.

More cautious now, Cassiela and her men continue lobbying arrows towards the Varati. Now that they're closer, the Empyreans take better care with their aim and with putting their own bodies in the line of fire.

The heavy infantry under Warlord Simrad's command, deprived of the presence of the wyverns, silently prepares. Falcares are loosened in scabbards, and coils of rope are hung from belts. Dispersed throughout are crossbow-men, who strive to keep their strings and bolts dry. All gaze toward the stockade longingly, but await a signal of some sort.

One lone figure makes his way around the encampment, his footing cautious, taking care to remain unseen. In one hand grips a razor-sharp falcare, in the other a long horn.

Aeneas, one of many in the pilum cetervas, takes his spear in hand and makes ready at the command of his Optio. He flexes his wings, brushing them unintentionally against the pilum of a nearby Ceterion in his pentus. Once again, he studies the turbulent sky.

Up and over the wall, white wings beating in a sheen of icy rain. Scores of Empyreal soldiers descend toward the Varati, pila aimed and released as they swoop. The wind and rain wreak havoc on their accuracy, and the spear-bearers are swift to double back lest they be caught in the field. Here and there, soldiers collide and a couple of them drop out of the sky--easy prey for the Varati.

The Praetorian units whip out low and quick to strike random parts of the northlanders' front ranks, not bothering to engage fully but rather to do as much damage possible in the few seconds before they retreat again. They cannot afford to be aloft long in the rain and wind, and their quick hammer-blows are of need surgically precise.

Severius looks to Aeneas, shaking his head. He looks to Praefect Augustin, his eyes showing his eyes showing his eagerness to engage the enemy and find out their true number.

Those Empyreans bearing pila have success on the foremost units, yes, impaling some dozens of the advancing Varati, who are brutally stopped, and who slump where there are pinned against the frozen ground, their bows falling useless from their hands. Those bearing the pila however, are under a barrage of heavy-tipped arrows, and they will see that the bowmen extend throughout the brambles, some still climbing out of trenches even as Clan Juusa moves the rams steadily forward.

Bowmen. Dark-clad, dark-skinned bowmen. There are... too many to be easily counted. Thousands, perhaps.

As the arrows from the Varati are loosed toward those swooping, pale spectres, more of them are caught by those deadly shafts, and more fall. Stoic though they may be, some Praetorians give anguished cries as arrows pierce armor and flesh, and they plunge... directly into the path of the advancing enemy. The remainder return to the encampment, and there are fewer than there were moments ago. The next wave is readied.

The only expression to show her emotion at watching her compatriots fall is a wince on Cassiela's face. Her men hold back on the arrow volleys as the more dangerous, and endangered, spearmen fly forth.

Aeneas' wave of II Imperatoris spearmen sweeps over the wall following the course of earlier unit. His ivory wings tug at the moisture-thickened frosty air. The normally fleet Praetorians are slowed dangerously by the elements, and a few drop from the sky, struck by Varati arrows. As they near the Clansmen, they release their missiles. Some strike flesh and armor, others fall harmlessly as the spearmen are buffeted by a strong blast. The grim determination on the spearmen's faces turns to urgency and, for some, desperation, as they turn to make their way back to the haven of the stockade.

Varati crossbow-men struggle to reload their heavy, slow weapons, egged on by the beautiful sight of straggling white wings fluttering in that urgent attempt to find home. Some, already ready, send black bolts streaking towards the quarry. Others swear and growl with frustration as success eludes them and the Empyreal wave dips back out of sight.

Within the walls, scores upon scores of Velites comb the Empyreal encampment bearing torches on their patrol, well-armed and vigilant. No stone is unturned as the sentries move among the tents and buildings.

One spear-bearer, knocked off-kilter by the heavy winds and an arrow through his shoulder, spirals out of control and desperately tries to right himself with frantically-flapping wings. But the cause is lost. Knowing he's doomed, he grips his pilum and aims toward one of the hulking Varati shapes. The spear impacts, but the Varati had been ready as well, and had slashed with his falcare just in time. Thus, two enemies die side by side, their blood mingling on the battlefield.

Those who missed the chance to fire between retreating pinions ready their weapons for the next volley. There is sure to be another volley, they tell themselves, as they eye the writhing, black, muddy shapes of fallen infantry-men before them.

With the most recent wave of spearmen back behind the walls, Cassiela and her men rise again with a volley of arrows aimed at the hopefully distracted and jumbled Varati ranks.

Severius follows Aeneas, leaping into the sky with the eager, perhaps over-eager spear group of the Tenth Edessa. They fall a few seconds behind the II Imperatoris, their wave striking while many of the Varati are still reloading. Some are hit with the obsidian black bolts that hurl sightlessly from the ground, drawing swords and hoping to take a couple Varati with them on their way to the Gods. The rest turn back fast before the Empyreal arrows return, Severius himself going to a high altitude and trying to get a scout report. He arcs wide over the battlefield as he turns back to the wall.

In the midst of the downed infantrymen, a drama unfolds. A young clansman, pierced through from front to back and bleeding out life against the cold ground, lifts a horn to his lips. It was meant to be blown when the rams reached the wall, but with kin and clan struggling around him, and gasping out their last, now seems as good a time as any. The horn is lifted, breath drawn, and two sharp bleats blown before the horn-bearer succumbs to his wounds.

As for the bowmen, they falter long enough to duck behind their shields, and to reload their bows. They will wait for the next of the spearmen, yes.

From the northeast, another long, clear horn blast is heard, as if in answer to the first. No unit of infantry likes to lose so many at one blow. In black rage, many of them leap forward towards the downed, wounded foes, steel hissing its whispering counterpart to their anger. Even minor clansmen among the Varati are skilled warriors, and the wounded Empyreans discover this. It is not an equal battle, it is not an equal trade of life for life, when the fight is on the ground.

From the eastern rise, there is a near-invisible stirring at the noise of the horns. Three winged figures swear almost in unison, overlooking the battlefield; none are close enough to hear the hiss: "Too damned late. Let's move!"

Despite the incessant sleet that drapes misty-grey through the smoke from quickly-lit and equally quickly extinguished fires; despite the oozing mud and the bitter cold wind that, even through his heavy armor, threatens to chill Nelth into immobility as he helps lug the ram, he hears the horn's cry. His lips twist slightly and he draws a deep breath, to try to pull the tension around him into energy, into forward momentum. Toward the walls.

The wyvern-riders heed the trumpets. Simrad chuckles to himself, as he and his army are on the opposite side of the stockade from the second trumpet. Clan Akalas urges its mounts forward, wyverns grunting and growling. They pick up speed, as the men ride silently; no battle cries are sounded. The steel-plated wedge of wyverns in front of the rest eyes the approaching brambles with trepidation, and then they are among the sharp thorns and spikes. The mounted contingent strives forward, heavy, thick-skinned wyverns crashing through where men have been impaled. As they gallop, over two hundred are lost to the pits and sharp thorns, but then the cavalry is through, out the other side.

Unwounded Varati soldiers leap forward to help pick up the ram and bear it forward. Half of them do nothing more than to hold their shields in a thick carapace over the ram-carriers, providing cover.

At the same time, the heavy infantry on the western side charges, beginning to hack its way through the brambles long after the wyverns are through. Some manage to go around, through the path of destruction left by the cavalry, and so make quicker progress. Harsh screams rise up in offering to the fading storm as wounded wyverns thrash against the spikes impaling them, claws tearing up great gouges of dirt.

Without any warning, an enormous spanse of ground in the midst of the northern entrenchment drops into an underground darkness with a terrible rumble. From this newly-made hole, Varati heavy infantry pour forth like massive, armored ants, ten at a time. They roar their battle-cry before charging through the Empyreal entrenchments towards the stockade wall, so close.

A lone figure, swathed in dark clothes and armor, makes his way back to his battalion, keeping to the shadows and praying to Atar that he remains unseen.

Hundreds of wounded wyverns are left behind in the brambles. Some languish at the bottom of pits, some have slipped on the icy ground, and others have been impaled by sharp spikes. Their riders are in no better shape, indeed, they have suffered worse fatalities and injuries than the mounts.

Three rows of infantry, then one row of crossbow-men, then again and again. The crossbow-men quickly form a line, ducking down to cover the rushing advance of their comrades. Dry bowstrings sing a clean, sweet song as the first volleys of bolts reach up towards the ramparts. There are only a few, at first, perhaps ten at a time, staggered so that someone is always firing and someone is always reloading. Then twenty at a time. Then more.

Severius flies into the blockade, more-or-less crashing into an open area of the standing surface. Somewhere along the line he was dealt with a flesh wound to the shoulder -- bleeding badly, but not critical. His feathers thaw a little with the freezing rain as he struggles to stand and make it to his Optio to report. "Horns... battle cries... all around me...." He takes a moment to try and compose a coherent sentence. "I could hear... hear them all around the perimeter. But I couldn't see their number..."

Hunkering down behind the stockade wall on her ledge, Cassiela waits patiently for the next action. Face grim, she pushes a hand through her short hair while casting a quick look over her men.

Severius looks to the Tenth Edessa spearmen as they take wing and fly out towards the perimeter line to launch another wave of spears. Similar results occur, as a number of the brave fighters are taken out by the black, silent death of Varati arrows. Those still in the air give a small cheer of victory as they watch many of their spears hit their intended targets before they head back to the wall.

Three pairs of wings -- two white and dimmed, the other invisibly dark in the blackness of the night sky -- ghost over the eastern front and pray for their silent passage to be unseen even in the harsh weather.

One hundred, one hundred and fifty... and more pile out of the tunnel mouth in the northern fortifications, so close to the untested northern wall. With shields hefted for protection from archers, and spears ready to pierce any defending Empyreans foolish enough to be outside the wall, the Varati charge.

More crossbow-men come out of the tunnels and hunker down, arraying themselves into little black knots against muddy ground. They form three ranks now. The first rank raise their bows to their shoulders, take aim, and let loose another chorus of steel up toward the well-lit defenders of the north wall. They lower their bows to reload as the second rank carefully sight and fire and lower their weapons to reload. The third rank fires and reloads, and now the first rank is ready. They fire unhurriedly, carefully, calmly.

As the spearmen fly overhead, Cassiela's archers rise in a motion followed by Empyreans all along the wall. Arrows are lit once more with pitch, but rather than fired over the Varati, they are fired down into the trench right before the stockade wall. Like stars falling from the sky in unison, the arrows rain down into the trench, one after another.

Before the gate, chaos is spreading. With further losses, handfuls of Varati abandon their tasks and turn their backs on the damned Empyreans. The weather is foul, clansmen die around them, and they are tired, scared, and fearing their fates. Where soldiers abandon the rams, or the ranks, others step forward, but these are uncertain. Resolve crumbles further...

Some of the archers on the wall are hit by crossbow fire. One of Darius' men gives an agonized cry and tips forward, toppling off the wall and drifting down, feathers fluttering to no avail. He lands in the trench below, joining the flaming arrows that had descended with him.

The Junarr heavy infantry on the west side nearly reaches the end of the bramble defenses. They've taken losses from pits and spikes, but have made their way more quickly than those at the north, due to Empyreal distraction. Jurak, a captain in the ranks, urges his men on as he speculates why. "Perhaps this section of wall is not manned as well as the north... The birds must have diverted forces from the other walls to deal with Juusa and Nafti...."

Gritting her teeth as she watches Darius' man fall off the wall, Cassiela shakes her head and rises up once more, sending another flaming arrow after the downed man. Her men, and the others along the wall follow suit, coaxing and urging the trench to become the wall of fire they prayed it would be.

With that, the trench begins to catch, flame growing on itself, and soon is spreading along the length of the ditch. The fire is hungry, and the water on top of its fuel evaporates quickly, allowing it to grow exponentially after a short delay. Soon it will be a roaring, infernal wall.

The man leading the charge of heavy Varati infantry slows his assault when nearing the flaming trench. Arrows clamor off his shield and those of the Varati infantry with little effect, their great shields providing adequate cover. He roars and gestures with his spear towards the stockade wall, and at once begins sprinting forward. Two hundred and fifty Varati heavy infantry follow in his wake, streaming afterward. Several fall when arrows find unarmored segments, but far too few to matter.

Two-hundred fifty Varati crossbow-men turn as their infantry comrades race toward the wall. They move forward slightly but great distance is not necessary. Bowstrings sing out again and again as they provide careful, slow cover to those moving up to reinforce the Varati manning the rams.

More forces come pouring out of the tunnel opening, forming into ordered ranks after a moment's after a moment's confusion at the ground.

The Varati believe in reincarnation, and Nelth is likely not alone in his private belief that a warrior who dies in battle, in the service of his God-King will be all the sooner, all the more gloriously reincarnated. He cannot even conceive how the others might leave rank, might turn away from this opportunity to have Honor, to be Remembered, and to, above all, serve his Khalid Atar. The man leans into his task and screams a guttural war-cry, cries out the name of his clan to the gods, so they may take notice even more, the men of Juusa. Let his wife remind his son that his father died gloriously, as their belief and religion speaks; Nelth will not quit. He, and the others who catch his cry, surge forward, flame or no.

The mounted Varati to the southwest unhook grapples from their saddles. The tight formation spreads a bit, to allow some freedom of motion, and as the wyverns charge, they slowly form into a line, with ten wyverns to a rank. Clan Akalas has not reached the flaming trench yet.

The inferno continues to grow, a hungry wave of heat lashing out from it as the fire's might increases.

Six hundred... eight hundred... and more pour forth from the trench mouth. The infantry with their large shields are unbothered by the hail of arrows streaking towards them. Still, some find the flesh of necks and unarmored limbs, slowly grinding down the numbers. The Empyreal spear throwers, much more effective against armor, claim more lives, but under the danger of the crossbow-men's attack. Achmed, leading this charge of infantry men, sprints for the battering ram. His command begins filling the gaps of those leaving rank, allowing the ram to surge forward. Other infantry, unable to help push the war engine, hunker down behind their shields fifty meters from the wall, waiting for a gap.

By some miracle of fate, Yakur reaches Warlord Simrad, handing the horn back to him as he swings back into the saddle of his wyvern, once more taking up his shield.

Trench lit, Cassiela and her men return to volleying arrows into the approaching hordes of Varati. As the battle wears on, they begin taking more care with their arrows, conserving where once they shot without care.

The three undetected Empyreans continue their discreet approach toward the stockade, even as the flames leap up, seemingly without pila or spears were they to be sighted. Their speed increases.

It's fortunate for Yakur that Simrad had not joined in the charge of wyverns. He laughs heartily and slaps the returning captain on the back. "Excellent job! You will be honored. Watch!" As the Warlord points, the ranks of charging wyverns veer to the north, running parallel to the flaming trench. The flames bother them, and many break off, but most are going too fast to be very affected. Grapples in the hands of the riders begin to whirl in circles above heads. The reduced numbers of Empyreal defenders on the wall hurl arrows toward the riders, but those mounted double begin to return fire. At this point, the heavy infantry and crossbows from Clan Junarr emerge from the brambles. The crossbow-men hunker down and begin to fire, bolts arcing high over the wall; some even catch fire due to the burning oil. The grapples in the hands of some riders soar through the air toward the wall, and the rest of the wyverns peel off, to stand in reserve.

The heavy infantry rushes up among the riders and their mounts, holding large shields in place. Many fall; many have fallen, but the valor of the wyvern riders is such that they continue their mission. Those whose hooks have attached to the wall (several thousand) begin to pull, the ropes harnessed to the bodies of their mounts. Men are steadily being picked off, and frequently loud screams rip through the night as a wyvern stops pulling, but soon the infantry of Clan Junarr reaches the pullers. They lend the protection of their heavy shields to Clan Akalas.

One unfortunate Empyrean gets impaled by one of those grappling hooks, rather gorily. He falls to join his smoldering companion down in the trench below.

Grinning slowly, Yakur watches as he catches his breath, tempted to utter a loud and long war-cry. But he settles for a prayer to Khalid, asking for his protection and success in the attack.

Achmed growls, pushing the battering ram forward. With the new replacements, one ram rumbles forward, gaining momentum. The wooden harness creaks and groans as it races towards the burning trench. Some fall to arrows, but the fallen are quickly replaced. With a giant heave, the battering ram is pushed across the trench. It dips with the lack of ground beneath it, but forward momentum carries the wooden ram's head into the muddy side of the wall, forming a crude log bridge.

One panicked soldier atop the wall, feeling its slight groan as grappling lines are pulled taut by wyvern steeds, shouts out, "It's going to fall!" He spreads his wings and flaps upward, and a few others follow suit, but the first is shot down by stray crossbow fire.

There is not enough room for all the wyverns to attack this wall and so the others -- the ones carrying crossbow-men as well as their riders -- wheel and run beyond the lines that have set their grappling hooks to the walls. Quick hands fasten rope to saddle-horns and then with shouts and the thumping of fists against scaly necks, the wyverns turn and strain. It does not take much. Twenty wyverns scream as arrows from the defenders thunk into them; twenty-seven riders are struck down. There is the sound of cracking wood, tiny peals of thunder up and down the wall, as the wood splinters and falls over. But the Varati do not rush forward. Their crossbow-men send more bolts blindly through the great gales of smoke that, unhindered now, roll into the camp. It is hot smoke, choking smoke, blinding smoke. Gales and clouds of it pour in, pushed by the easterly winds. For a moment they dim, allowing a view of the darting shapes of wyverns beyond. Then the clouds are given fresh life by the wood that has been pulled into the pit and which, aided by the oil, is slowly beginning to catch fire.

The second battering ram, seeing that the first has made a bridge, cannot go over that; the way is too narrow and the losses would be too great, risking the only remaining ram, itself. So orders are shouted, and in fairly quick time, the log is re-oriented, its wheels lifted entirely from the mud that cloys to it and the log is placed parallel to the wall, to the bridge. The shields that were being used to cover the ram-carriers are now propped against the outside of the logs, and the men shelter behind it, hollering for the Varati archers, who have followed, to come forward. So close now, and somewhat protected from the blasts of smoke gouting from the trench, this a much closer, now secured position from which the Varati archers can try to pick off the remaining Empyreal defenders who show themselves above these walls.

The Varati archers who have poured out of the tunnels to the north heave a collective sigh. With so much smoke, their firing is made on the basis of faith. Each flight goes its way with a prayer, and the flights are much less frequent.

Achmed's command, once five hundred heavy infantry-men strong, has been whittled to four hundred rapidly, the result of devastating attacks by Empyreal spearmen. With a violent wave of his spear, infantry-men begin to cross the battering ram bridge. The first slips and falls into the burning oil, screaming his last. The second loses his footing in the same manner. The third hefts his shield as arrows clang against it, and crosses safely to the opposite side... only to fall back into the burning ditch. Still more attempt the crossing

Those three will have to pass over a nasty section of infantry, and there doesn't seem to be any way to sneak across... so that knot of Varati is treated to the sight of a large Empyrean man dropping out of the air, screaming at the top of his lungs: "THE THIRTEENTH!" And the other two flash by, shuddering mid-flight.

Cassiela, coughing from the smoke beginning to pour into the camp, gestures for her men to follow her. Leaving the wall behind, she and the other Optios nearby lead their men off the wall and further into the camp. Soot-covered faces and wings gather further into the camp as the wall is abandoned.

Aeneas, along with the rest of his group, take wing leaving their tents and many of their belongings behind. A new pilum or two is all that they carry as they wing their way through and above the smoke. Flames sprout all around as Velites dart from tent to tent as it seems the stockade is about to be overrun.

"Retreat!" The call is shouted from some unknown Empyreal soldier as he fights to breathe in the smoke-filled air, and the call is taken up by others. Some fly south toward the city, hoping to free themselves of the smoke. Others stumble after them, choked and blinded. A few drop to the ground, killed by that faceless enemy which holds no distinction between Varati and Empyrean alike.

Severius looks at the conditions of the wall, shaking his head. His shoulder bandaged up now, he searches for his Optio and finds him among the dead, fallen to a Varati arrow. His men look to him for guidance, and he leads them back into the camp.

Wyvern cavalry race forward still, replacing those slain or who have used their grapples successfully. New grapples are launched over the remaining west wall. More wyvern riders fall to the few remaining archers, but most grapples land successfully. While the cavalrymen struggle to pull down the remaining west wall, hundreds of infantrymen race forward -- not to assault the wall, but to wrestle the dead wyverns into the pit of burning oil.

The Velites scurry between the leather and canvas tents with torches in hand. Each one sputters, then roars into flames, adding yet more smoke to the sky above the stockade. Sounds of dry, desperate coughing join the cries of the wounded.

Calpurnia shouts as a stray Varati arrow punches through her wing, but her Optio has already clamped onto her, only enough lift to steer over the stockade and touch down just behind Empyreal lines. Without pause, the two begin to run.

Several companies of Varati archers clued in to the ram-bearer's plan, and, under the cover of their companions (and under less threat due to the abandonment of the wall), course forward, to take position behind the mobile arrow-shield that the battering ram has become. Now, under their protection, several more of the heavy infantry try to cross the bridge. These, unlike their previous fellows, have taken the precaution of unhelmeting, of tying wet, coarse cloth around their faces, to leave only their eyes visible. A call goes up among those remaining, watching, and more infantry approach, carrying stout ropes taken from the downed wyvern-grapples. The grapples are still connected to some.

Cassiela and her men take up new positions on the roofs of buildings just inside the city itself. Taking up the supplies there, they re-equip with arrows and prepare to deal with the Varati breaching through the now-burning camp and into the city. Despite the frustration of giving up the wall, this is still the plan....

Buffeted by wind and choked by pitch-scented smoke, the smudge-winged Aeneas wings his way into wings his way into Parnassus with the remainder of his Cohors.

Dante runs full-tilt, caligae biting into the ground, covering his remaining soldier with one wing to prevent her further injury. Their race is against the roaring flames consuming the encampment, and their goal is their own people.

With the west wall drawn down entirely, the Wyvern cavalry pulls back, licking its light losses in comparison to those suffered by the infantry and crossbow-men on the north side. While they withdraw, the infantryman continue the chore of pushing bodies into the ditch.

As is the way in wars of this day and age, without instantaneous communication, the folks at the front door of the city still continue their valiant, if useless, efforts. With their single-minded goal of breaching that gate, they send men, two at a time, to try to cross that bridge --slick with mud and sweat and sleet and oil -- to reach to the other side.

FIN  

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