“In Byrille, I came across a curious engine, collecting dust in the hall of a rich shipowner; a relic made by a great mind of old, laying there with the sole pitiful purpose of impressing guests and whatnot. Its wood was all cracked and swollen and the centuries had turned its steel to rust, but the weapon was still enormous, the size of a watchtower, and should have been capable of discharging large stones through great distances. Alas, it seems it was never completed, and was therefore never tried out, but the kind merchant prince gave me permission to study it and make drawings of it. If I had time, I could certainly finish it and perhaps improve it, but at this rate, I fear it might only be part of the legacy I'll be leaving behind.

-Private papers of Euronel”

* * *

Nelvel

The stink of perfume and opium from the brothels seemed to emanate directly from the ambassador's very existence, and Nelvel had to bear with it as he followed him and Demnir down the stairs of the palace and on the way to the walls. Even there, amongst the soldiers' stench of sweat, old leather, and steel, it would not fade.

They passed through rows of half-asleep guards, wandered between military tents at the base of the walls, climbed a few volleys of stairs. The clatter and yelling and stomping was loud, but not as loud as the damn bells, ringing and ringing. It got to him eventually, his heart was beating faster and faster now and he let out the occasional shivering breath. On the way up, Nelvel spotted some of the engines Demnir had built for Ocia's defences. Monstrosities of wood and steel stretching toward the sky, hooked on the stone battlements, or just laying down there behind the walls, waiting to cast absurdly large stones and arrows toward the enemy camp. Beams and ropes and pulleys and levers turned into eerie works of art by a even more eerie mind.

Atop one of the huge square towers that flanked the south gate, the closest to the enemy camp, the man known as captain Flavo greeted them. “Lord Segheon, lord Demnir, well met. I've been awaiting orders.”

“Good day, captain,” Demnir said cheerfully as if they were the best of friends. Flavo's eager nod supported such an idea, and it confused Nelvel. “First, we must ask, where is this emissary you spoke of?”

The captain adjusted the belt that held together both his sheathed longsword and his mail tunic, then glanced over his soldiers with those wolf eyes of his. Like the rest of them, he had spots of fresh beard on his jaw, and probably had no time to shave this morning. “Made him wait, mostly untouched. Come, milords, I'll show you to his room... Unless his lordship Vierodel has other plans for him?”

“Ah, well...” Saerge Segheon rubbed his hairless chin. “The lord and the lady have been very clear, we shan't negotiate with the besiegers, so...”

Something wicked sparked in the captain's already mean eyes. “In that case, may I suggest that we send him back to the Paarese camp by trying out our new catapults?”

Demnir chocked on a snicker, but Nelvel wasn't sure what it was he found amusing. “Oh, dear captain, how eager can a man get, I wonder? That won't be necessary, of course.” Flavo grunted and nodded. “No, lord Vierodel also hopes to waste as much time as possible. We'll hold the emissary here for as long as we can, then send him out there to make it look like we're open to negotiations.”

“If we can delay their assault until the Daeli fleet comes, perhaps there will not even be a need for bloodshed. The Paarese, too, should want to take the city with as little death as possible, that is if they intend to rule it peacefully afterwards.” Ambassador Segheon then glanced at Flavo, and must have read something on the captain's face. “But... perhaps it is all a ploy, perhaps they hope to secretly mount an attack while we are busy thinking up terms and deals. We cannot be certain, so we must stay vigilant and ready to strike.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I'll be speaking with the emissary now,” Saerge decided.

“I can spare a pair of soldiers to accompany you, if you wish,” captain Flavo replied as he motioned for two brutish looking guards to approach. Nelvel did not think the soft-spoken, perfumed, well-mannered Saerge was the sort of man who'd bring a hammer, pincers, and hot knives to a conversation, especially with a diplomatic envoy, but apparently Flavo did, as hinted by his satisfied smirk. “Who knows, the sight of my subordinates could help him blurt out useful information.”

Lord Segheon gave a dry smile. “It could frighten him as well, and make him too wary. No, let me work my magic, captain; it is called eloquence, and it has served me well for as long as I can remember.”

Flavo did not answer and bowed deeply as Saerge departed for the emissary's cell, disappearing in a corridor of brown bricks. Demnir and the captain then walked along the walls, checking on soldiers, hearing reports, readying the weaponry and staring in the distance to see if the enemy was preparing an attack; but they had raised a wooden wall in front of their camp, making it impossible for the watchers in Ocia's towers to see anything aside from the smoke of the fires, the flags of the tents and the top of the siege engines.

And so the wait began.

The morning passed slowly, and they'd mostly stay around the brasiers to warm their hands. When the sun shone brightly at its peak in the sky, soldiers began to distribute fresh bread and one cup of boiled wine for each and everyone. A bunch of hot headed youngsters – new recruits, Nelvel guessed – wanted to lead an attack on the enemy camp. They kept bragging and insisting until a veteran slapped one's face with his steel gauntlet, knocking a couple of his teeth out. More like a punch, maybe. That ought to bring silence back, Nelvel thought nonetheless, grateful. His ears had been ringing like the bells in the morning, and although those were silent now, with the cackling of the lads, his head had started to ache again.

The afternoon was warmer, thanks to the sun. Demnir would go off on his own every now and then, to wander in the towers or have a chat with the lieutenants. Still, nothing happened until the evening, when it got cold again, when the sun disappeared beyond the western horizon, and when thick clouds masked the moon and the stars, and their light. For a moment, everyone feared the fog from the morning would return, but Nelvel knew it wasn't cold enough. Soon enough, a lone torch approached in the dark, casting its light against the white flag of truce; a rider, who, in spite of the two dozen crossbows aimed in his direction, enquired with an authoritarian voice about the negotiator they had sent early in the morning.

Nelvel overheard Flavo discussing the idea of capturing or killing the rider, as he seemed to be a high-ranked officer, with his fancy helmet, his decorated yellow surcoat, his whole being hinting at his noble birth – handsome face, arrogant manners. A Paarese commander, maybe. In the past, when he was travelling through the western monarchies, Nelvel had heard about noblemen without inheritance joining or even creating mercenary companies instead of fighting under the banners of greater lords. It wasn't surprising, some were always more interested in the thrill of riches or pillaging, instead of honour or a lady's favour.

Demnir dissuaded the captain from recklessly executing the man, which would only hasten the start of the battle, and instead suggested that they make him wait comfortably down here in the muddy sand, with the chilly evening breeze and twenty crossbows pointed at him from atop the gates, while they went to fetch lord Segheon. Then they made the rider wait some more by asking for lord Vierodel's orders, and even though Nelvel was never near those conversations, he knew they'd send back the emissary with tens and tens of empty and meaningless terms, and as many other ways to waste the besiegers' time.

“I gather we'll have an answer by the morrow,” lord Vierodel said when it was done, watching the dark horizon, where the light of the fires shone in the shadows, above the wooden walls of the enemy camp. Lord Segheon left them, to go home perhaps, or to spend his coin in a brothel, and the rest of them began to walk from tower to tower, greeting soldiers and hearing more reports.

Nelvel was surprised the noble had actually bothered to come here, on the walls. It was as if he was all dressed for battle – he wore gilded plate and chainmail over a purple tunic, and his golden helmet also had feathers with Ocia's colours. His longsword hung at his waist, rubies and emeralds embedded in the metalwork. A prettier blade than Demnir's, though Nelvel guessed Vierodel had never used his against a man.

And if he has, it must have been a slave, he thought bitterly.

“Anyhow,” Demnir said at last when they stopped their tour, his back laying against the battlements, facing the noble with that smile of his. His raven hair was almost absorbed by the darkness, and only his pale grey eyes glimmered as they reflected the flickering light of the brasiers. “Very kind of you to show yourself amongst the men, my lord.”

Vierodel shrugged. “If it helps, I'll come as often as I must.”

“Men fight better with high morale, and seeing the lord on the walls does help,” said captain Flavo, but his voice was so indifferent, he did not sound like he had a slightest bit of that high morale he mentioned. No doubt he'll be more joyous when comes the time to swing swords and shoot arrows.

“Perhaps the lady Atricia would grant the men the honour of her grace, next time?” Vierodel glanced at Demnir and frowned, perhaps displeased by the merchant's suggestion. “No offence, my lord; but you cannot visit every soldier by yourself. Your mother would not mind sharing the burden, I am sure. After all, the men would gladly fight to the death, if it meant defending the honour of the most beautiful woman in the city.”

“Well, of course,” Vierodel said, not showing much interest, “we've thought about it.”

The lord went to speak with some guards, therefore ending the conversation, and Demnir sketched a bow, as if it was enough for him to have his suggestion considered. Nelvel wondered how honest said suggestion truly was. He would not go as far as suspecting that Demnir was plotting the lady's demise, but who could say for sure what thoughts crossed the merchant's mind?

As lord Vierodel was about to retire to his palace, a commotion in the western parts of the walls caught Nelvel's attention. Similarly, Demnir and Flavo both stared silently in the same direction. The racket got louder and louder as it spread toward them, until screams and orders became clearly understandable.

“To arms! To arms!” the bellowing officer riding atop the wall would scream, echoed by the other rider down there, slaloming between tents and catapults. “The west gates are under attack! To arms!”

“It appears good lord Segheon's terms are not to the Paarese's liking,” said Vierodel from behind. “Or perhaps this moonless night inspired them to paint my city in red.”

He was flanked by half a dozen guards now, but he still had his arrogant smirk. As Nelvel began to understand that this time, the battle would really take place, he wondered how the lord managed not to look nervous. He cannot afford to show fear or weakness, he then realised. In truth, Vierodel was probably as anxious as the next guard.

Demnir too, had stopped smiling – but in the dark, the weak lights of the brasiers revealed no fear on his youthful face. After hearing the reports, the merchant exchanged words with Vierodel and captain Flavo, who then passed on some orders to the men.

Nelvel gazed westward, trying to see something, anything. But there was only the fire of the brasiers, and sometimes the light reflected on the breast plates and helms, the glittering of the swords, the small flames of torches and arrows wrapped with oiled cloth. Demnir motioned for the slave to come with him in the opposite direction, toward the port.

“Where are we going?” Nelvel muttered, glancing back to see Flavo, Vierodel, and a bunch of guards following. “Is this just a way for them to pressure us?”

“The real attack won't be at the west gate,” Demnir said, his voice distant, his eyes staring at the black water, calm and lost in thought. “It seems they're not going to wait after all.”

“Why would they?” Vierodel said. “The fog, and now the clouds blocking the moonlight, it is all very convenient for them. One would almost think the gods are doing their bidding.”

“Oh, my lord,” the merchant replied softly, a strange smile flashing for half a second. “If Irixil or Atharemine were involved, I'd know, I assure you... Trust me, the clouds are of no concern to us, and while the Paarese may want to use the darkness to approach the walls, they won't succeed.”

Nelvel meant to ask how Demnir knew all that, but he felt he wouldn't get much of an answer right now. Might as well wait and see whether we live or die. He noticed that the bells were back – but now they did not sound as loud as before. The racket spreading from the west was much louder.

They arrived at a watchtower standing tall in the middle of the sea – the port was almost invisible in the darkness, with only the faint fires in the distance, proof that the city was awake, and it looked as if the wall was floating on the water. The torchlights shone against the waves, yellow reflections coming and going with a more or less regular rhythm, and looking over the battlements Nelvel glimpsed at some strange mechanisms, pipes of steel and great wheels and large containers. He noticed the torches were in fact stuck right under those curious pipes. They climbed to the top of the square tower, and eventually Demnir turned around with an arm spread toward the sea.

“Captain Flavo has already been introduced to this engine,” he began, “but allow me to demonstrate its effectiveness, my lord. We only need to wait for our guests, and we shall begin.”

The thumping of the huge ballistas was already echoing from afar; the crash of the stones, the clanking and crunching and screaming. By the sound of it, the enemy had brought out their siege weaponry too. Or rather, Demnir's weaponry.

Vierodel seemed to think so too, because after glancing repeatedly in the same direction, he addressed the merchant, a hint of worry in his voice at last, a slight frown on his pretty face under his gilded helmet.

“What makes you think it's a decoy attack? They're using those monstrosities of yours, Demnir. If my walls crumble because you're not there to take care of the mess...”

Neither Nelvel nor the merchant failed to notice that Vierodel had dropped all manner of politeness. But Demnir simply smiled and, raising his finger against his lips, gestured for silence. Vierodel didn't have the time to be angered by the rude gesture, as he seemed to have noticed too. Ignoring the chaos from the west gate, the yelling, the sounds of war, there was an eerie silence. Under captain Flavo's whispered orders, the guards of the watchtower were wordlessly arming their bows, hiding behind the battlements, or readying these strange steel wheels. Nelvel had a vague recollection of seeing those drawn amidst Demnir's many diagrams, but that was all.

“They're using some of my creations, my lord,” Demnir said quietly. “They probably never intended to take the walls with a frontal attack, because they have another, better way to get inside the city. You have yet to see it.”

They all kept silent, and they waited. They waited, until they were accustomed to the echoes of war, until they could hear the sea. There, Nelvel noticed the faint waves, the slight creaking of wood, the occasional cough or rattle. It's not coming from the walls, he realised with horror.

“Ships?” Vierodel whispered, but he looked like he knew the answer was different. Ships would do no good here, the walls were too high, the entrance of the port was still far from here, and even so, it was guarded with a bunch of Vieran galleys and more ballistas.

But in the darkness, the shapes began to appear. All around the walls, as far as the eye could see through the night, they appeared, gliding almost silently on the black water of the strait. They looked like ships, but Nelvel immediately knew they were something else. These boats were larger and flatter, and on their deck stood a mechanism of ropes and platforms. For a short second, a single ray of moonlight passed between the gap of the clouds, and steel flashed and sparkled – atop the wooden platforms, rows of pikemen and bowmen waited.

“Floating siege towers,” Demnir said, his tone somewhat proud, his eyes shining with a kind light, eyes a sculptor would have when gazing with satisfaction at his own art. Then his expression darkened, and he gave Flavo a glance. The man uttered some order, not caring for the noise he made any longer, and the guards began to turn the great wheels with pumps. The soldiers on the closest floating platform seemed to have realised something, and whispered amongst themselves. Nelvel could almost see their faces; some looked old, some looked as mean as Flavo. Some looked as young as Nelvel himself, younger perhaps. Ordinary faces half hidden under iron caps or hoods of chainmail, nervous frowning faces, confident smiling faces. One face that seemed to ask, what am I doing here?

“The Paarese paid quite a sum for these,” Demnir said with a sigh. “I figured they would use them at night, and during a diversion, since they're easy to spot otherwise. Great for surprise attacks on coastal cities, given the right conditions. They burn quite well, unfortunately. All this wood...”

And the sea was set ablaze.

The heat reached Nelvel, a sudden wave of hot air, but it was the light that struck him the most. The blackness of the cloudy night and the dark waters had given way to bright yellow and orange flames, a fire that grew and grew as the steel pipes Demnir had placed everywhere on the walls gushed it out like a liquid of sorts. Vierodel watched with an expression of stupor, his arm covering his eyes against the blinding light, while Demnir stood there, rubbing his chin, a stare of ice against the red hell that burst out against the enemy.

Before long, the screams of the burning men covered the sound of the battle taking place at the west gate. Screeching filled with agony, so atrocious it gave Nelvel cold sweat and goosebumps despite the heat. In the corner of his eye, he glimpsed at the gleeful smirk on captain Flavo's face, a smile that softened his usually hard and impassible features.

“It's something ancient warriors from a forgotten era used for naval battle,” Demnir explained calmly, wiping the sweat on his forehead with his sleeve. “The old recipe, a much more powerful version of this one here, was apparently lost with time, and I'm afraid I couldn't manage to find it. This concoction here was the best thing my chemists and myself could come up with despite our restless efforts.”

“...I think it's potent enough,” said Vierodel after a short hesitation. His voice was almost inaudible because of the screams and the crashing of the wooden structures falling into the sea, and he couldn't entirely manage to get his composure back.

“I am glad you like it, my lord," the merchant replied without joy or grief. Flavo had his cruel grin and he wasn't fooling anyone, but there was something undoubtedly disturbing in the way Demnir stood there, indifferent in the face of the screeching madness, the raging fire, the sinister song of a thousand painful deaths. Whether or not the Callirian noticed Vierodel and Nelvel's horrified looks, he kept on with the same serenity.

“The concoction is kept in a sealed container, and heated from underneath by a brasier, which is in turn kept alit by bellows. A pump pushes air inside the container, and on the other side a valve is opened to let the concoction out. It is emitted through a nozzle, and a fire would be waiting right there to ignite the product. Of course, as I said, I am not the original inventor of this weapon, but I suppose I can take the credit for the new concoction instead. It is nowhere near the level of the old recipe, which was so dangerous it could burn on water and through hides coated with vinegar, but I reckon it works well nonetheless – especially against ships, or in this case, my poor and beloved floating towers.”

Flavo muttered something, words of lunacy lost in the chaos, his mean eyes staring at the melting bones, the sizzling flesh, the charred wood. But there was a brutal honesty to the captain's reaction, and compared to Demnir's collectedness, his bloodthirsty smile was almost reassuring.

“Be at ease, my lord,” the merchant added. “The city won't fall, and even if it does, it won't be tonight, and it won't be here. Captain Flavo can handle the rest, best we get back to the west gate in the meantime. I don't trust the common soldier with my other inventions, even less so when they also have to defend against them.”

The danger of the enemy had vanished, but deep down, Nelvel knew that another danger had appeared; or rather, it was merely revealed today. It walked the walls alongside the lord of the city, it dressed in the crimson of Xito, and its silver eyes shone with the dull light of apathy. Tonight was the enemy, the slave thought. But if tomorrow it's Ocia he has to burn, he'll do it without hesitation.