Rhisart vaulted the last two steps and sped to the edge of the parapet where an accepted, face pale with fear, pointed with a trembling hand. “There.”

The haze of smoke from the day before had dissipated. Although the sun had not yet crested the eastern flank of the mountain, dawn was far enough along that he could dimly make out the lower valley. He squinted into the distance, and his heart fell.

Marching out of the forest and up the road toward the lower town came rank after rank of makrasha. The horde advanced at a steady, inexorable pace. The vanguard entered the blasted remains of the town before the rear of the force emerged from the forest.

So many, Rhisart thought. All here to destroy the keep. How in the truename of the creator is it possible?

No, he realized with a growing sense of horror. They weren’t there to destroy the keep, but to reach the heart of the mountain. As impossible as it seemed, that had to be their intention.

He’d already sealed the passage, so anyone trying to break through would be shattered by the many defensive spells. As he stared at the advancing horde, he wished he’d doubled the number of protective wards.

“I estimate around eight hundred,” one old sentinel remarked, his voice calm.

“Look.” The young accepted’s voice cracked with fear. The advancing horde began crossing the bridge into the upper town.

Rhisart could make out the crimson-robed figures in the vanguard.

“Eight shadeleeches.” The old sentinel breathed. “By the creator, there are eight of them.”

All along the wall, sentinels and townsfolk alike watched the host with terror. The wall of the keep stood high and strong, but with so few defenders, it seemed insanity to attempt resisting such an army.

None of the townsfolk were trained soldiers, although at least they carried real weapons. A dusty armory had provided swords and spears that had never before tasted battle. Sharpened for the first time, those old weapons had offered the townsfolk the hope of fighting for their lives instead of being slaughtered like sheep. That hope seemed vain in the face of this new army.

“Be strong,” Rhisart called, projecting confidence he struggled to feel. “Hope is not lost. They will not find this keep an easy conquest.”

The defenders all turned toward him, their faces desperate for any hope he could offer.

“We are not defenseless. Take courage, my friends.” Sweeping his arm toward the advancing host, he declared, “The enemy seeks to kill and plunder, but we fight for a better cause. We fight for our freedom, and for the lives of our families. Be strong and of good courage, and we will triumph!”

A weak cheer greeted his words and he raced for the long stair to the central tower. I should have spent some time preparing something a little more stirring, he thought. I should have realized they were waiting for reinforcements.

If only he'd prepared the keep better.

It is too late for that. He reached the top of the tower and stepped into the simple room. Raising a hand, he called upon the magic of the keep. Runes of power burned along the walls, then faded again. Magic rose through the building to fill him, and his eyes shone silver as he linked his soul to the keep.

Rhisart blew out a deep breath, a little more confident than a moment ago.

Let them come.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The army had begun climbing the twisting road up toward the keep, and Rhisart felt a shiver of fear despite the tremendous power he controlled. He might inspire the hearts of the defenders on the wall, but he could not delude himself. They would most likely all die.

It will not happen, he vowed, defiantly casting away the doubts that threatened to undermine his purpose.

A rumble of thunder from the sky drew his eyes upward. The heavy clouds that had threatened rain all night churned low, spinning directly above the keep. A flash of lightning arced between two of those clouds, and a peal of thunder shattered the early morning air.

At the rear of the advancing army, six shadeleeches stood in a circle, surrounded by two score kneeling makrasha. The six raised their hands in unison, and a dark cloud enveloped them. Tendrils of darkness snaked out to consume several of the kneeling makrasha. The beasts howled and writhed as evil power consumed their souls.

Another flash of lightning arced above, lighting the entire landscape for a second. Thunder shattered the air and the sky opened. Rain hammered down upon the keep in a torrent, concealing the attackers and threatening to knock defenders off the wall. The wind howled, buffeting the keep.

Rain lashed Rhisart’s face through the open window. Raising his arms, he called upon the magic of the keep. The stones thrummed in response and the awesome latent power at his command awakened.

He formed an invisible shield of magic that pushed the rain back from the tower. Drawing deep, he pushed the shield farther, extending it over the keep, and then beyond, until it spread over the entire walled enclave.

The rain stopped and the defenders on the wall stared in open amazement at the water pooling in the air high overhead before cascading to the ground just beyond the wall in a giant waterfall. The roar of water and howling of the wind outside the fortress rose until the very ground rumbled, reducing communication to gestures.

Rhisart grunted under the strain of sustaining the spell. The weight of the water was staggering, but he allowed a fierce grin as he stared at the waterfall he’d created. Any makrasha trying to scale the walls would first have to fight through those tons of churning water. He could imagine the rage of the shadeleeches.

Perhaps they were not so clever after all.

The rain stopped.

The water drained off the shield a moment later and Rhisart gaped. The lowering clouds whirled above the keep in a tight circle. As he watched, an opaque funnel descended toward the keep. The wind shrieked to a new pitch, lightning flashing all around the funnel, pealing thunder shaking the entire valley.

A tornado.

Rhisart had never heard of anyone triggering and controlling a tornado. The enemy had not just been waiting, but spent the previous day preparing for this moment. Around the six shadeleeches, makrasha fell in ever-increasing numbers as the spawn of Angrama drained the life force of their slaves and expended that energy to fuel their spell.

The tornado touched down on Rhisart’s shield, and brilliant amber sparks flew. The shield buckled under the pressure and the funnel descended lower.

Rhisart drew from the power of the keep until it nearly overwhelmed even his enhanced capacity. Shouting a word of power, he buttressed the shield and reinforced the spell, pouring everything he had into holding the tornado at bay.

A scream of agony startled the defenders. Most of them were staring in open-mouthed terror at the tornado whirling only a couple hundred feet above them. The scream reminded them of their own situation. While they had been distracted, the makrasha had silently rushed the wall. One of the defenders toppled off, clutching a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest.

Grappling hooks whistled up from below, and heavy wooden ladders capped with iron thudded against the top of the wall. Howling for blood, makrasha swarmed up.

Fire and glittering sheets of raw magic knocked the invaders from the wall, but more kept coming. The two shadeleeches not part of the group generating the tornado attacked in turn.

Bolts of magic arced up from below, knocking defenders from the wall, and crimson fire exploded along the parapet. Most of the sentinels were forced to focus on warding off the magical attacks, leaving the townsfolk to fight off the hundreds of swarming makrasha.

With desperate strength, villagers cut ropes and pushed ladders, but there weren’t enough of them. As makrasha reached the top, they tore into the defenders and blood sprayed across the ancient parapet.

One old sentinel cleared the wall with a blast of hardened air, but let his guard down against the shadeleeches. A bolt of darkness struck him in the back and knocked him from the wall to his death.

Up in the tower, Rhisart groaned from the strain of holding the tornado at bay. The whirling cyclone continued to grow in strength, expanding both in girth and weight. It bore down upon the shields with the untamable power of nature. Rhisart gritted his teeth and uttered a wordless howl of defiance. He would not relent. If the shield failed, the tornado would destroy them all.

Sparing a glance down at the wall, he stared with growing dread at the makrasha.

We’re not strong enough. We’re all going to die.