The sun rose higher, the land awakening. Sirano looked at the distant tree-line, waiting for the Daroth. As a child he had gone hawking in those woods, hunting rabbit and pigeon. He had swum in the streams, and climbed the tall trees. And in a glade, near the centre, he had played the mighty hero – fighting imaginary foes, defending his people.
Now the game was real and, unlike his childish fantasies, doomed to failure.
The first of the Daroth riders emerged from the woods. They came in a line, fifty abreast, and rode slowly towards the city gates. Sirano climbed to the ramparts and looked down on the riders. Creatures out of nightmare, colossal and unreal, they moved forward in silence. From the woods came thousands of foot-soldiers. There were no battle cries, only the slow drumbeat of their boots striking the ground in perfect harmony.
‘What do you want here?’ called out Sirano, as the first of the riders neared the wall.
The Daroth did not reply. Forty foot-soldiers dragged a bronze-headed battering-ram forward, lining it up against
the gates. They swung it back, then thundered it forward. Sirano heard the splintering of the wood, and felt the impact on the parapet under his feet. Taking one of his remaining two glass globes, he hurled it down. It smashed against the ram. Fire exploded outward, engulfing the Daroth. Their armour glowing red, they staggered back, slapping at the flames which sprang from their clothing. Some fell, and not one of their comrades ran forward to help. The stricken Daroth blazed like torches, and died where they fell.
Forty more Daroth made their silent way to the smouldering ram. Four times it swung – and the gates gave. Sirano ran down the steps as the Daroth swarmed through, then sprinted along the street, heading for the palace. Daroth riders galloped after him.
He was breathing heavily when he reached the long, tree-lined avenue which led to the palace building, and could hear the pounding of hooves behind him. Swinging round, he threw the last of his globes. It struck a rider in the chest. Flames enveloped him. The huge horse reared, throwing the Daroth back from the saddle.
Sirano sprinted on, up the twelve steps to the main doors and on into the Great Hall. At the far end, beneath a huge stained-glass window, was the Ducal Chair, carved from mahogany and inlaid with ivory and silver. Upon it was the Eldarin Pearl.
Sirano ran to the chair and, taking the Pearl in his hands, sat down. Drawing in a deep breath he shouted out a single Word of Power. Below the Hall one of the globes scattered in the oil ignited, the flames spreading quickly across the cellar floor, licking at the wooden barrels.
Daroth warriors swarmed into the Hall. ‘Welcome to Morgallis,’ said Sirano, with a broad smile. ‘Who is your leader?’
The Daroth approached him, spreading out in a wide circle. He stared at their bone-white features and their dark, soulless eyes. ‘Afraid to speak?’ he asked them.
A towering figure stepped from the ranks. ‘I am the general,’ it said. ‘And tonight I shall feast on your heart.’
‘I think not, you ugly whoreson! But let it not be said that Sirano did not give his guests a warm welcome.’ Rising, Sirano shouted once more. All the remaining globes flared into life, the heat rising like a volcano. Beneath the feet of the Daroth the huge flagstones shifted. A wall of flame seared out. Then came a second explosion that tore the walls asunder, collapsing the roof.
Sirano, his clothing ablaze, was hurled up and back, his burning body smashing through the stained-glass window, where it crashed into the upper branches of a willow tree in the Ducal gardens. He fell through the branches into a deep pond.
His body a sea of pain, he dragged himself from the water and, still clutching the Eldarin Pearl, staggered out into the street beyond.
Behind him a tower of flame was roaring up a hundred feet, through the broken roof of the palace.
The Daroth army swept on towards the south, sacking villages and towns, until they reached the outskirts of Prentuis. There for the first time they came up against a human army, of 2,000 horse, 500 bowmen and 3,000 foot-soldiers. The humans were cut to pieces, the army scattered. The carnage inside the city was awful to behold, and the few survivors who made it to Loretheli on the coast told grisly stories of the massacre, and the terrible feasting that followed it.