Amara looked up at him again, then up and down the length of the wall. She couldn't stop her voice from shaking. "But there are so few legionares."
"Easy," Bernard rumbled. "That's all right. Pirellus has his most experienced troops on the walls. Career fighting men, most of them with families behind them. The compulsory terms are down in the courtyard as reserves. These troops can fight ten times their number from this position with a good chance of victory, even without the Knights here. Pirellus and his men are the ones who are really going to win this battle. The legionares just have to hold the horde off of them until the Knights can bring their furies to bear on the Marat. We'll bloody their noses, and as soon as we can determine who is leading them, the Knights will take him down."
"They'll kill their hordemaster," Amara said.
"It discourages new hordemasters," Bernard said. "Or that's the idea. Once enough Marat are dead and their leader is gone, and they've not managed to break our defense, they won't have the stomach for any more fighting.''
She nodded, pressing her lips together. "All right. What can I do to help?"
"Look for their leader. They don't wear anything much beyond what a normal warrior does, so you just have to look for someone shouting orders near the center."
"And when I've found him?"
Bernard drew an arrow and set it to the string of his bow, finally. "Point me at him. They should come in any moment now. Good fortune, Cursor."
"And you, Steadholder."
On her other side, Pirellus leaned a hand against a merlon and leaned a bit forward. "Ready," he whispered. "Come on. We're ready."
They came without warning. The Marat surged forward, thousands of screaming throats with one voice, plunging into the cold furylight like a sudden, living tide of muscle and bone. Their battle roar washed over Amara, deafening, terrifying, more sound than she would have believed could happen. Before she realized what she was doing, she was screaming, too, shouting out her fear and defiance, her sword in her hand, though she didn't remember drawing it-and beside her, Pirellus, sword held high, did the same.
"Archers!" he thundered, voice stentorian on the wall. "Loose!"
And with the thrum of a hundred heavy bows, death went flying into the ranks of the charging Marat.
Amara watched as the first rank of the enemy bucked and went down, only to be crushed by those coming behind them. Twice more, Pirellus cried to the archers, and twice more arrows flickered into their ranks, sending Marat sprawling and screaming, but doing nothing to stop the tide of bodies flooding toward Garrison's walls.
"Spears!" Pirellus barked, and along the walls the archers stepped back, while legionares bearing heavy shields and long, wickedly pointed spears stepped forward.
Arrows driven by short, heavy Marat bows began to flicker over the tops of the walls, and Amara had to jerk her head to one side while a stone-tipped shaft flew past her face. Her heart surged with terror, and she crouched down enough to take her head from view as a prime target, while Pirellus, in
his helmet, stood staring down at the oncoming Marat, ignoring the arrows that buzzed past him.
The ground shook as the Marat reached the wall, a physical trembling that traveled up through the stones to Amara's feet. She could see them, a sea of wild, inhuman eyes, teeth that stretched into animal's fangs, and wolves ran beside them, among them, like great, gaunt shadows. The Marat reached the wall, where the gate suddenly shook with the blow of a tree trunk being held by a dozen hands, used as a ram. Several long, slender poles arched up into the air, studded along their lengths with short spikes, and once they came to rest against the walls, Marat began to climb the poles, nimble and swift, their weapons held in their hands, while companions beneath them fired arrows up at the defenders on the walls.
It was too loud to be believed, screams splitting the air, making any kind of communication nearly impossible. Arrows flew thicker than raindrops in a storm, their dark heads gleaming in the furylight, shattering where they struck stone or good Aleran steel-but Amara watched as one grizzled old veteran pitched back from the wall, the dark shaft of an arrow piercing his throat, and another man dropped motionless in his tracks, six inches of haft and fletching showing from the burst socket of his