In the same instant, all six of the bulks raised their opened maws and let out basso bellows. They did not sound loud, precisely, but the sound shook the wall and Amara’s bones with unnerving intensity.

The mules loosed another volley, which landed all around the leading bulk, exploding into fiery destruction. The great beast did not react. It just kept coming on, as vast and unstoppable as a glacier. As the bulks passed through the fires, Amara saw vord behemoths and mantises crouched upon their glossy, armored backs, as tiny as parasite-birds on the backs of gargants.

Amara could see the idea behind the creatures at once. They would roll forward and smash through the wall like so much rotten fencing. Anyone that attacked them would be forced to deal with the defenders riding upon them.

Amara started as a sudden presence intruded close upon her, but looked over to find that Doroga had arrived and made his way to them on the wall. The slab-shouldered Marat looked calm and interested as his eyes traveled along the walls, through the skies, then down to the field out in front of them. He, too, stared at the bulks for a slow count to seven before pursing his lips, and saying, “Hungh.” After a moment, he added, “Big.”

“Bloody crows,” Gram said. “Bloody crows. Bloody crows.”

“We got a problem, Count,” Giraldi said.

“Bloody crows.”

Bernard nodded. “Possibly.”

“Bloody crows,” said Gram. “Blighted bloody crows.”

Giraldi’s hand was resting on his sword. “I’d say get some archers and go for the eyes. But they ain’t got any eyes.”

“Mmmm,” Bernard said.

“Bloody crows,” said Gram.

“Sir?” the centurion asked. “What do we do?”

“We be quiet for a moment, so that I can think,” Bernard said. He stared at the oncoming bulks. They were bellowing almost constantly, and signs of panic had begun to spread along the wall. A nervous gargant, somewhere nearby, let out its own coughing roar, and Bernard glanced over his shoulder in irritation—and then his eyes locked onto Doroga. They narrowed once, and the wolfish smile reappeared.

“We don’t go for the eyes, centurion,” Bernard said. “We go for their feet.”

Doroga looked at Bernard, then barked out a harsh laugh, one that sounded rather remarkably like the one that the gargant, probably Walker, had just loosed.

Amara looked at Doroga, blinking, and suddenly understood. Years before, during the first vord invasion in this very valley, they had spoken with Doroga after a battle, while the Marat took care of his gargant’s enormous padded paws:

“Feet,” the Marat had rumbled. “Always got to help him take care of his feet. Feet are important when you are as big as Walker.”