The final part of the battle was more protracted than she had hoped for, and harder won. The few surviving militia had quickly retreated to the Conbarma moon temple, barricaded themselves inside and prepared for siege. There were maybe a dozen men and women in the building, and although the Krotes were comfortable with the fact that they could not escape and give warning, they wanted the remaining villagers dead. There was work to do, preparations to make for the army’s landing, and inconveniences such as this were troublesome. The Krotes attacked, and the besieged militia fought back with the ferocity of those knowing they were doomed.

The temple was a small building with small windows, and this aided those inside. They fired their arrows, and attacking Krotes fell with steel and wood ripping their flesh. Those that could tried to crawl back into cover, but they were shown as much mercy as they had themselves displayed. Krotes took up positions in buildings around the temple, letting their skill as bowmen come to the fore as they put arrows into gaps little wider than their forearms. The exchange continued, and while the Krotes had to send some of their number away to restock their quivers, those inside were being given an unending supply of ammunition. Soon, Krotes began to fall by their own poisoned arrows. The toll inside the temple could not be counted, and yet slowly, inexorably, the rate of fire from within dwindled.

After two hours of this continuous exchange Lenora ordered a change of tactics. They took the battle to the doors of the temple. Six Krotes carried a long boat from the harbor to use as a battering ram, running at the door under covering fire from their comrades. But the building was old and sturdy, dating from centuries before Krotes had last been driven from these shores, and the oak and iron door withheld the assault long enough for the attackers to be shot down or sent away to die with arrows in their flesh.

The besieged cheered and mocked their attackers, their bravado all the more frustrating because of their untenable position. Those inside the temple could never win. And though frustrated, Lenora and her warriors could not help but feel a grudging respect for these last few defenders.

They have their lives, and they revel in them, she thought. Until the last, they relish existence. She listened for the voice of her daughter, but the darkness inside her mind was silent. She thought that perhaps she really was mad. She was over three hundred years old, and whatever Angel had given her on the deck of that burning ship as they fled Noreela had been to preserve her for this very moment, this era in time. She was fulfilling the meaning of her life. She hoped she made her baby proud.