"I meant…"

"He won't hit back. He don't want to give himself away. There's two of us and only one of him."

The imperials began assembling artillery pieces. The compound had not been built to withstand bombardment.

Time passed. The sun climbed. We watched the sky. When would doom come riding in on a carpet?

Certain the imperials would not immediately attack, the Lieutenant had some of us gather our plunder on the parade ground, ready to board a windwhale. Whether he believed it or not, he insisted we would be evacuated after sunset. He would not entertain the possibility that the Taken would arrive first.

He did keep morale up.

The first missile fell an hour after noon. A ball of fire smacked down a dozen feet short of the wall. Another arced after it. It fell on the parade ground, sputtered, fizzled.

"Going to burn us out," I muttered to Tracker. A third missile came. It burned cheerfully, but also upon the parade.

Tracker and Toadkiller Dog stood and stared over the ramparts, the dog stretching on his hind legs. After a while Tracker sat down, opened his wooden case, withdrew a half dozen overly long arrows. He stood again, stared toward the artillery engines, arrow across his bow.

It was a long flight, but reachable even with my weapon. But I could have plinked all day and not come close.

Tracker fell into a state of concentration almost trancelike. He lifted and bent his bow, pulled it to the head of his arrow, let fly.

A cry rolled up the slope. The artillerymen gathered around one of their number.

Tracker loosed shafts smoothly and quickly. I'd guess he put four in the air at one time. Each found a target. Then he sat down. "That's that."

"Say what?"

"No more good arrows."

"Maybe that's enough to discourage them."

It was. For a while. About long enough for them to move back and put up some protective mantlets. Then the missiles came again. One found a building. The heat was vicious.

The Lieutenant prowled the wall restlessly. I joined his silent prayer that the imperials would not get worked up and rush us. There would be no way to stop them.

Chapter Eighteen:
SIEGE

The sun was settling. We were alive still. No Taken carpet had come swooping out of the Plain. We had begun to believe there was a chance.

Something hammered on the gate, a great loud pounding, like the hammer of doom. One-Eye roared up, "Let me in, damnit!"

Somebody scooted down and opened up. He came to the ramparts. "Well?" Goblin demanded.

"I don't know. Too many imperials. Not enough Rebels. They wanted to argue it out."

"How did you get through?" I asked.

"Walked," he snapped. Then, less belligerently, "Trade secret, Croaker."

Sorcery. Of course.

The Lieutenant paused to hear One-Eye's report, resumed his ceaseless prowl. I watched the imperials. There were indications they were out of patience.

One-Eye evidently supported my suspicion with direct evidence. He, Goblin, and Silent started plotting.