signals came-trumpets struggling through the muffling snow. Before the
Galtic drums broke out in their manic pounding. Nine thousand veterans
led by the greatest general in Galt were pouring into his city and
facing blacksmiths and vegetable carters, laborers and warehouse guards.
He was losing.
24
Balasar trotted through the streets, his shield held above his head.
Despite what Sinja had said, the great towers of Machi commanded the
streets around them fairly well. 'T'hroughout the day, stones and bricks
peppered his men, sailing down from the sky with the force of boulders
hurled by siege engines. Arrows sometimes came down as well, their
points shattering against the ground where they struck despite the
slowly growing cushion of snow. Ile ducked into another doorway when he
came to it. Five of his own men were waiting, and the bodies of ten or
so of the enemy. It was a slow process, spreading out and then moving
down not only the streets that were the fastest path to the tunnels, but
also two or three to each side. The Khai Machi had learned a trick, and
he'd used it against Coal. But he didn't have a second strategy, and so
Balasar knew where to find the waiting forcesjust back from where they'd
he seen, waiting to attack on all sides at once. Instead, Balasar was
killing them by handfuls. It was a had way to fight-bloody, slow,
painful, and unnecessary.
But it was better than losing.
"General Gice, sir," the captain said as all the men saluted him.
Balasar raised his hand. his arm ached from holding the raised shield.
"We're, making progress, sir."
"Good," Balasar said. "What have we found?"
"All the smaller passages are blocked off, sir. Collapsed or filled with
rubble so deep we can't tell how long it would take to dig them out. And
they're narrow, sir. Two men together at most."
"We wouldn't want those anyway," Balasar said. "Better we keep for the
objectives. And casualties?"
" NN'e're estimating five hundred of the enemy dead, sir. But that's rough."
"And our men?"
"perhaps half that," the captain said.
"So many?"
"They aren't good fighters, sir, but they're committed.'
Balasar sighed, his mind shifting. If he assumed the force pushing
toward the palaces was having similar luck, that meant something like
fifteen hundred dead since he'd walked into the city. More, if there was
resistance in the south. This wasn't a battle, only slow, ugly
slaughter. He went to the doorway, peering out down the street. Etc
could hear the sounds of fighting-men's voices, the clash of metal on
metal. A hundred small outbursts that became a constant roar, like
raindrops falling on a pond.
"Get the drummer," he said. "We'll make a push for it. Scatter the
enemy, take the entrance to the tunnels and then get runners to the others."
"The men we're seeing, sir. They're able-bodied. And decent fighters,
some of them."