(Path of the Dragon Mage: Nomad) 46. Battle (2) (Patreon)

Note: Two (somewhat shorter) chapters tonight, folks! Happy Friday!

Roan made sure to keep his war hammer holstered to his belt but hidden under the tails of his long coat. Several of the Towner guards had gotten stupid ideas that they ought to have all the weapons, and while the commoners kept to the polearms. 

Roan had to smash a nose or two, which had allowed him to keep his hammer, but kicked out on one of the balconies where the real fighting was said to be.

That was fine by him.

Roan felt nothing but numb. Maybe returning some pain to the ratkin would allow him to feel something again. 

When Corvus flew Charm off the tower and into the night, most of the guard let up a ragged cheer. The towners mixed in with them — troublemakers like Roan — shrank back in fear from the beast.

The guard sergeant swept an eye over them all. "That's your prince, boys. You'd better cheer for him, lest he turn his dragon around and teaches you some respect.”

Roan snorted in derision, but luckily the sound was swallowed by a halfhearted cheer.

What followed then was a lot of what the guards called, “Hurry up and wait.”

They were several stories up above the street and watched the ratkin crash against the  bottom of the tower like living waves. Some managed to climb up and there was a little excitement as the men with the polearms got to knock them back down again.

The ones who reached up this high were only small creatures – lower leveled as Gwen and Corvus called them – though Roan could swear he saw flashes of shadow on the walls beyond as unseen ratkin scurried past them. Hopefully, men on the other balconies would catch what they missed.

Corvus had talked about his night vision enough that Roan knew those with the Paths could see in the dark.

Those who were lucky to be blessed with magic… those who might properly heal his horse…

"Sir!" called a guard. A weedy man who stood at the edge of the balcony holding a spyglass to his eyes. "More of them demon rats are crawling up the sides of the Veer Tower, sir!"

Naturally, everyone who heard him turned that way. Several streets away stood two oddly shaped towers, tilted away from each other to form the letter V. It was built in the ancient style with all windows and no balconies. The nobles had built a connecting structure between the two roofs, of which an ancient garden had grown. Vines, thick with centuries of growth, cascaded down either side. In this city positioned between a shallow salt sea and the desert, a garden fed by freshwater was a display of wealth.

And now, it was infested with ratkin.

The sergeant turned to another one of his men who held to which held white and yellow flags. "Pass the word to them to watch for an incursion. They may not look down this far, but it's worth trying to send the message."

The man with the spyglass still looked on and danced from foot to foot nervously. "Oh, no, don't do that! You idiots —"

"Report!" the sergeant barked.

The man didn’t answer. He seemed too entranced by whatever scene was unfolding in front of him.

Irritated, and wanting to know himself, Roan pushed a guard out of the way and snatched the spyglass out of the man’s hands.

The man set up a yell, but the guards had already learned the hard way not to mess with Roan. That gave him a few seconds to put the spyglass to his eye.

"They're pouring hot oil from the roof on the ratkin," Roan reported, calmly, distantly. "But the tilt of the buildings make it a lot of the oil is splattering back… No,” he corrected, “it looks like their captain is ordering them to pour on purpose. They're trying to slick up the sides to make it harder for the ratkin to climb.”

There was a pause and he imagined that the guards are wondering if they should tackle him and take the expensive spyglass back or just let him keep on.

Finally, the sergeant ground out, "Anything else?"

Roan pressed his lips together, sweeping the spyglass back and forth. "It’s too late. A lot of the rats have already reached the roof."

There was a sudden bright flare and Roan heard himself say, in that distant voice, "I reckon the demons might be smarter than we think, sir. Some of them have grabbed brands from the bonfires up top."

"But the oil—" one of the towners said in protest.

His voice cut off as there was a sudden flash. One tower, then the other, lit up in flame.

Helped first by the oil, and then by the centuries of vines and plant matter that grew artfully from the top of the building, the fire spread quickly.

Soon, the sound of distant screams could be heard.

Would you look at that. Roan found he could feel something, after all. Horror.