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