A Voice Under the Bell

The fire line went out in three places at once.

Kaelen saw the dark gaps open below the north wall. Snow had buried the pitch trenches, and the wind drove black flakes into the coals until the flames shrank to red eyes. Beyond them, Skahl-skin pressed forward through the freezing fog. Their brittle hides scraped against one another. The sound carried up the stone.

“Oil!” Oren shouted. “Bring the reserve jars up!”

A defender ran with one arm held tight to his ribs. Another was already hauling a sled of oil toward the gap. The first Skahl-skin stepped into the trench before they could refill it.

“Hold the wall,” Kaelen called. “Don’t go down after them.”

A guard raised his bow. The bolt struck the creature’s shoulder and snapped. It climbed over the low stone lip, claws finding cracks between blocks. A torch came down from above. It struck the creature’s back and spun off into the snow.

The guard who threw it stared at his empty hand.

Kaelen drew the iron hook from his belt. He drove its point into the burning pitch left in the trench and lifted a burning clot onto the creature’s arm. The heat caught. Its hide blackened further, split, and flaked away. The thing kept climbing until the fire ate through its joints. Then it broke against the stones.

The second one was already coming over it.

Oren grabbed a jar from the sled and smashed it against the wall. Oil sheeted down the stones. A torch followed. The burst of flame rolled across the gap, and the nearest Skahl-skin curled into a smoking heap. The defenders cheered once. The wind tore the sound away.

More shapes pushed through the fog.

Kaelen counted until the moving bodies blurred together. The broad ring of tracks had not been a warning around the town. It had been a measure of how many there were.

“We can’t keep feeding the line,” Oren said, standing close enough to be heard. Soot streaked one side of his face. “We’ve burned the north reserve. If we spend the west barrels, there’s nothing for the houses.”

A heavy strike shuddered through the gate below them. The old beams groaned. Another strike followed before the first had finished.

Kaelen looked at the line of fire, at the men carrying the last oil jars, and past them to the dark rise of the Spire. He could still refuse the bell. The gate would not care.

“Get everyone off the lower walk,” he said. “Take them toward the square.”

Oren studied him for a moment, then turned and began giving orders. “You heard him. Move. Leave the jars.”