It was like something out of a ancient epic poem. As Melville and his officers watched in amazement, the Guldur hordes attacked, and died. And died. And died.

A hundred thousand fighting men

They climbed the frowning ridges,

With their flaming swords drawn free

And their pennants at their knee

They went up to their desire,

To the City of the Bridges,

With their naked brands outdrawn

Like the lances of the dawn!

In a swelling surf of fire,

Crawling highera"highera"highera"

Till they crumpled up and died

Like a sudden wasted tide,

And the thunder in their faces beat them down and flung them wide!

The batteries of mighty cannons atop the walls roared out defiance and death for days on end. Their stockpile of shot, sh.e.l.l and powder was immense. But so was the enemy army.

Their packmasters moved immediately behind each wave of Guldur. These were huge, brutal curs with long whips, goading their troops into a frenzy of bloodl.u.s.t. Little was known about the distant Guldur empire. Even the most basic aspects of their culture and leadership were a mystery. The doggies who were now members of Fang's crew could do little but moan and hang their heads when asked about it. Clearly their leadership was brutal, goading the individual curs into acts that, without their leaders and ticks, they would ordinarily never be capable of.

The ticks were an even greater mystery to the alliance. They were foul-smelling little creatures with nasty habits, apparently not of basic humanoid stock. The Guldur leadership used them to control and incite the doggies, but exactly how this happened was an enigma.

Regardless of how they accomplished it, some highly effective combination of factors made it possible for the Guldur to goad their troops into endless, suicidal attacks. The Guldur hordes attacked in a rainbow of uniforms, each regiment dressed differently, with color-coordinated Goblan ticks on their backs. Each attacking figure needed to be killed twice, cur and tick. And they were. For all their pretty uniforms they died in great, horrid, ghastly gray heaps.

They had paid a thousand men,

Yet they formed and came again,

For they heard the silver bugles sounding

challenge to their pride,

And they rode with swords agleam

For the glory of a dream

And they stormed up to the cannon's mouth

and withered there, and died.

The might of a vast star empire was wasting away before their eyes. The Guldur members of Fang's crew couldn't bear to come to the ramparts and watch, as the others did on their off hours.

As the Stolsh defenders watched in horror, their resolution began to waver. Even the refugees from Scrotche, the Lower Pier city that had been conquered by the Guldur, were losing heart for the slaughter. Melville, Broadax and Hans found that even their fierce l.u.s.t for vengeance was being fulfilled. The young captain was constantly busy in the councils of the allies. Encouraging them to fight and, yes, to kill their foes, now while they could. Churchill's admonishment was brought up again and again.

Fielder, self-centered as a tornado, as self-absorbed as a cat, was able to find complete comfort in his pragmatic, egocentric philosophy. "Do onto others before they do onto you" and "Better you than me," had served him well for a lifetime, and he saw no need to change now that a whole army was coming to kill him. But even he couldn't find delight in the enemy's slaughter. Only Ulrich, Melville's fierce c.o.xswain, could continue to watch the enemy's death and destruction with undiluted pleasure.

The daylight lay in ashes

On the blackened western hill,

And the dead were calm and still;

But the Night was torn with gashesa"

Sudden ragged crimson gashesa"

And the siege-guns snarled and roared,

With their flames thrust like a sword,

And the tranquil moon came riding on the heaven's silver ford.

All too soon, the tide began to turn. Slowly but surely, inexorably, the enemy fought back. At great cost they emplaced siege guns. Vast batteries, battalions and brigades of siege guns, howitzers and mortars began to strike back at the besieged city. And the tide of public opinion began to turn. Each Stolsh soldier who died renewed the defender's determination, each civilian killed rekindled their hatred.

The curs had taught Melville to hate. Now they were teaching the Stolsh to hate. It was a lesson the Guldur taught well.

Each night the enemy attacked. Each night the a.s.saults grew fiercer, ever more terrible and ferocious. The defenders' guns became worn, the crews grew weary, but the seemingly inexhaustible Guldur hordes attacked fresh each night.

What a fearful world was there,