Chapter 4 of 4·6 min read·The day and night after the assault
A Line of Borrowed Fire
By morning, black snow had crusted the north gate’s broken beams. It lay in the cracks like soot packed into old wood, and the hinges had twisted where the Skahl-skin struck them. Kaelen tested one beam with his boot. It shifted a handspan and stopped against the rubble behind it.
“Don’t lean on that,” Oren said. He had a strip of linen tied around his forehead, already dark with blood. “The whole frame could come down.”
Kaelen stepped back. Beyond the gap, the Ashen Waste disappeared into cobalt fog. A few black flakes drifted through it, slow and wet-looking against the snow.
“How many?” Kaelen asked.
“Of the gate?”
“Of the people.”
Oren glanced at Vey. She stood with a short spear braced against the stones, one sleeve torn open at the elbow. “Four dead,” she said. “Nine hurt badly enough they won’t work today. More with burns.”
Kaelen looked at the broken gate again. He had heard the bell’s shockwave. He had felt the tower shudder. The town’s dead were not a number he could make smaller by looking away.
“What can we use?”
“Not oil,” Oren said. “Every reserve barrel went into the last defense.”
“The smithy has coal,” Vey said. “Some. They were saving it for the hinges and the mill teeth.”
“Those can wait,” Oren said. “The gate can’t.”
A gust pushed fog through the gap. It carried the smell of wet ash into the town. Kaelen felt it in the back of his throat.
“Coal won’t cover the whole wall,” he said.
“No. We don’t need the whole wall.” Oren pointed toward a narrow stretch just inside the breach, where two stone storehouses stood close enough to pinch the approach. “We block the wider gap with rubble and make them come through there. Fire baskets on both sides. If we keep the heat concentrated, it might do the work.”
“Might,” Vey said. “And what feeds it?”
“Doors. Roof beams from the empty houses on the north row.” Oren paused. “If we have to.”
The north row had been emptied after the first winter of bad raids. Most of its houses were locked, their owners dead or gone south before the passes closed. There were still a few families living near the inner end. Their walls were not empty.
Kaelen looked to Oren. “Start with the abandoned ones.”
“That buys us a little.”
“Then we’ll know what we have.”
Oren’s jaw moved once. He nodded and went to gather the smiths.
Next
The fire line has bought Verndall time, but when the abandoned houses are stripped, Kaelen and Oren must choose whether to take warmth from occupied homes or risk another toll from the bell.
Elora was waiting by the cart when Kaelen turned. She had wrapped a scarf over her hair and carried a basket of nails against her hip. The basket was nearly as wide as her shoulders.
“You can’t lift the doors,” he said.
“I can carry nails.”
“Stay behind the stone stores.”
“I know where the stone stores are.”
He took the basket from her and set it on the cart. “Then sort the straight nails from the bent ones. We’ll need the straight ones.”
She nodded, as if that was what she had meant to offer all along.
The smithy’s fire had been banked low. The smith, a broad man named Hedd, drew the coals into two iron baskets with tongs. They glowed dull red, too weak to light the room. He added the last of his stored charcoal and worked the bellows until the coals brightened.
“How long?” Kaelen asked.
“An hour in those baskets. Longer if I had oil.” Hedd pushed the bellows handle toward him. “Keep it steady.”
Kaelen took over. The forge breathed brighter with each push. His fingers ached where the heat reached the old burns on his palms. He kept the rhythm.
Outside, workers dragged doors from the abandoned houses. Elora sat on a block of stone, sorting nails into two piles. When one bent nail rolled away, she chased it under a cart and came back with a smear of soot across her cheek.
“Is this enough?” she asked.
“For the first try.”
“That means no.”
“It means we try.”
She accepted that and returned to the nails.
By dusk, they had narrowed the breach with broken stone and wedged the fire baskets into a pair of shallow pits, one on either side of the passage. The salvaged doors were cut into lengths and stacked behind them. It was a poor defense: low, exposed, and hungry for fuel. Still, it gave the defenders a place to stand that wasn’t the open street.
Vey took the first watch. Oren sent the wounded indoors and brought the rest of the guards to the inner side of the barricade. Kaelen stood with them, holding a long hook meant for dragging burning wood into place.
No one asked him to ring the bell.
A sound came from beyond the gate. Not a footstep. A brittle scrape, then another.
The guards tightened around the fire baskets. Kaelen watched the fog at the breach. A shape slipped through, low and narrow. Its charred hide flaked where it brushed the stone. It moved toward the nearest defender, head tilted to the beat of the man’s pulse.
“Back,” Kaelen said.
The guard obeyed, stumbling over the stacked stones. The Skahl-skin followed. Hedd thrust a burning length of door into its path. The creature recoiled from the heat, its limbs jerking without pain. The fire licked across its chest, slow at first, then bright where the hide had split.
“More wood!” Oren called.
Kaelen hooked a second length from the pile and pushed it into the basket. Hedd worked the bellows. Sparks burst against the stone. The Skahl-skin tried to force past the burning beam, but the narrow passage held it close to the heat. Its charred hide cracked. Black pieces fell from it into the snow.
It collapsed before reaching the defenders.
The fire consumed another door before the body stopped twitching. Nobody cheered. Hedd lifted the half-burned wood with his tongs, then set it back into the basket.
“That was one,” Vey said.
Oren looked at the remaining stack. “I know.”
The guard who had stumbled sat on the stones. He was shaking, though the fire warmed his face. Kaelen gave him the hook and helped him stand. The man’s lips moved as if he meant to thank him, but nothing came out.
The gate held through the night. The fire line needed tending every few minutes, and the stacks of salvaged wood sank faster than anyone liked. Still, no bell rang. By the time the fog thinned, they had proved the defense could kill a Skahl-skin.
They had not proved it could kill many.
Kaelen found Elora in the Spire’s lower room, curled beside a small brazier with the nail basket in her lap. She had sorted every nail. The bent ones filled a tin cup.
“You should sleep,” he said.
“So should you.”
He put a piece of bread beside her. She broke it in half and handed him one piece.
For a while they ate without speaking. From above came the slow metal creak of the Pyre-Chime settling in its frame. Kaelen’s hand tightened around the bread.
“If it rings again,” Elora said, “will it take Mum from you?”
He looked at her. She kept her eyes on the brazier.
“I don’t know.”
“Could it take me?”
The answer should have been a comfort. He could not find one that was true.
“It could take what I remember,” he said. “I don’t know how much.”
Elora’s fingers pressed into the bread until the crust cracked. “Then don’t ring it.”
“I’ll try not to.”
She glanced up at him, searching his face for more. He had nothing better to give her. After a moment, she pushed the bread into her mouth and chewed.
Kaelen took the tin cup of bent nails from her. “Tomorrow, you can help Oren count the wood. Don’t go near the gate.”
“I can count.”
“I know.” He set the cup aside and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. She leaned against his arm, tired enough not to pretend she wasn’t. He stayed still until her weight settled.
At first light, Oren brought the count to the Spire. The abandoned houses had provided enough timber for another short defense, perhaps two if the fires were kept small. After that, the town would have to take beams from occupied homes.
Kaelen looked past him to the dark smear of black snow on the window. The bell was above them, quiet and waiting. Below, the defenders were already gathering more wood.
“Keep the line,” he said. “We’ll count again tonight.”