The Last Watch: The Tower’s Death

“I knew it!” Bertram’s chartreuse eyes blazed. “This is our chance!” he cried, rushing forward and seizing the end of a massive iron chain, dragging its heavy links toward the lip of the machicolation.

Oswald and his men were already loosing bolts from their ballistae at the advancing horde. There were so many enemies that every shot struck true, so they simply reloaded and fired again, as fast as their weary arms would allow.

Meanwhile, the dragon’s fires had spread. Much of the wall was scorched and cracked, parts of it crumbling, others so weakened that a single blow could bring them down. Only the gate and its surrounding buttresses remained strong. Fortunately, the incline of the ground around the wall, along with the rows of sharpened stakes  –many still unburned–  had funneled the brunt of the assault against the gate. Still, shades were already slipping into the city through narrow gaps where the defenses had given way.

Roric, counting another four of his own fallen, realized that beyond the closest foes, the enemy’s true attention lay elsewhere. The tide of shades poured against Tarlmere’s walls.

“Give ground!” he ordered. “Withdraw to the Turning Tower!”
And at once he began hacking a path toward it. Only a moment earlier such an escape would have been impossible, but now the shades were flowing away from them, like seawater drawn back from the shore.

The horde hurled themselves at the timber walls. Some clambered up with startling agility, others broke sections down, others flung themselves uselessly upon the wood. Still the waves pressed on, wave after wave, countless beyond reckoning. Soon, they would fully encircle the town – though many had already broken inside.

Roric prayed that their last stand could be made in or beneath the Turning Tower. The fighting there would be narrower, more controlled, without enemies coming from every side.

Red, though on high ground, began to realize her position would not hold. Her warhammer could drive back the few who climbed up to her, but ever since the charge had begun, arrows had started arcing her way. So far the crossbowmen were distant and inaccurate, most bolts clattering against her foes instead – but she knew she could not remain. She vaulted down, running parallel to the horde, hammer sweeping enemies aside as she passed. Their shock was great, and she did not disappoint them.

She made for the walls where from she had attacked them earlier, sprinting along the perimeter toward the Turning Tower. Strangely, the shades did not care for her passage as before, almost as if she no longer mattered to them. Before long she broke free of the chaos, hammering only a few enemies aside. But once clear, monstrous shapes loped after her – too fast, too many limbs, four or six, she could not tell.

At the town’s lower point, on the gate, Oswald fought hand-to-hand against shades scaling from inside the town to reach the winch that opened it. He would not let them. With one of his spears he thrust shade after shade back down, while his other spear –fighting on its own– battered those climbing from the other side.

But he was weary. His drael were spent. No other guards remained. The walls were overrun. And the city itself… empty. Not a soul. He felt utterly alone.
Beneath him, the gate timbers splintered under ceaseless blows.

Without hesitation, Oswald seized a coiled rope secured above the gate and swung down, dropping inside. Shades rushed after him as he fought his way toward the Turning Tower, striking down any who barred his path. His second spear, still on top of the gate, held the shades back a little longer – but, it was exhausting. He released his hold and it simply fell. A moment later, the gate gave way with a deafening crash, and the full tide of the enemy surged down Tarlmere’s main street.

Meanwhile, Bertram had climbed onto the slates of the Turning Tower’s spire, the chain slung across his shoulder. Inch by inch, he circled toward the dragon’s rear. In his mind he imagined himself silent as a cat – invisible, even. Whether it worked or not, he didn’t know; such stuff was never his gift. But it was worth the attempt.

Baldwin, in concert, began banging and shouting from the turret below. Not to drive the dragon off, but to draw its attention. “Where are the bolts?! How does this thing work?! Why won’t it fire?!” he cursed aloud, feigning incompetence. It worked. The dragon’s gaze fixed on him, closing in for the kill.

With one swift move, Bertram looped the chain around the dragon’s heel. “Now!” he cried. But with a single lash of its tail, the beast flung him from the roof, leaving him dangling over the void, fingers clutching the edge.

Red, running nearby, saw the falling tiles. She recognized Bertram hanging above and turned, planting her feet. Warhammer whirling, she crushed the pursuing beasts.

The other end of the chain was threaded through two massive boulders inside the tower. When dropped, they would slam down to seal the passage that cut beneath the tower’s base.

At once, Baldwin pulled the lever. The stones plummeted, the chain yanking taut – dragging the dragon down with brutal force. But before it fell, the beast loosed the fire it had been gathering, right at Bertram. He screamed as flames consumed him, fingers losing their grip. He plunged, crashing to earth beside Red, who had just felled her last pursuer.
“Bertram!” she gasped – but he was already gone.

The momentum dragged the dragon into the turret where Baldwin stood. He had no time to flee. It crushed him.

Oswald, reaching the Turning Tower just then, found his path blocked by the two great boulders. With no choice, he pressed his back against them, meeting the shades that surged after him.

The dragon thrashed, wings beating, trying to rise, but the boulders anchored it, as though the Turning Tower itself held it fast.

For a brief heartbeat Oswald felt nothing but open air at his back. He risked three quick steps backward – and just in time, the boulders slammed shut before him, crushing several of his pursuers in their stone jaws.

By the time Roric hacked his way to the tower, only four remained with him, all pursued by scores of beasts. Red arrived from the other side and rushed to their aid.

“Red!” Beatrix cried, shield buckling under the assault. Red’s hammer struck with fury, giving her a breath of relief.

“Roric!” Red shouted, frustration cutting through her exhaustion. “I told you to lead the Tarlmerfolk to the Common Ground!”

“We had to intercept the flank, or none would’ve escaped!” Roric roared, blades flashing.

Again they fought back-to-back. One guard collapsed from sheer exhaustion, another was cut down by a massive shade.

“Into the Tower!” Roric shouted. “We’ll hold longer there!”

But Red shook her head, eyes burning. “No. Not inside. We bring it down – on them!”

“What?!” Oswald gasped, staggering under a blow.

“Everyone! With me!” Red cried, lifting her hammer. “Imagine it greater. Stronger than ever before!”

Beatrix, teeth gritted, pressed her shield against the enemy and shouted: “Yes!” Then she was gone, fading – her will and strength pouring into Red.

A faint glow rippled along the head and haft of Red’s warhammer. For a breath it felt impossibly heavy, filled with every ounce of their defiance.
With a scream she drove it into the Tower’s base.

The impact was like the crack of the earth itself splitting. A shockwave blasted outward, hurling shades aside as if they were leaves in a storm. Stone shattered, dust erupted, ground trembled, the warhammer itself was swallowed by the cataclysm it unleashed. The sound was not thunder, but a thousand thunders at once.

Above them, the Turning Tower groaned. Its absurdly high spire, that had once seemed to prick the belly of the storm clouds, swayed. Then it broke.

The entire mass came roaring down – crushing stone, shades and dragon alike.

For Red, at least, there was nothing more. The world went black. The last thing she knew was the Tower’s death, rolling like the end of all things – a thunder that swallowed even her own heartbeat.