Sadran patrolled the top of the thick mud wall surrounding the town of Talnashir. All the way along the top of the north wall, an entire half-parsang, turn, walk all the way back, using his long spear as a walking stick. Over and over for hours he marched.

  It was work he was well-suited to. He lacked the imagination to get bored, it didn't involve heavy labor, and he was in fresh air all day. Granted, sometimes the fresh air was filled with rain, but he didn't mind that either. Sadran was one of those rare individuals who had found the perfect groove for his life and slotted into it, content with his lot.

  Though he had patrolled in a number of towns and villages, Sadran liked Talnashir. It was quiet--the hashashim were not guards, but everybody knew that Talnashir was their nest, and behaved themselves well. It was right in a fork of the Shiqu river, which meant that fish were plentiful and fresh, and more exotic foods were easily available by river trade. Talnashir was large enough that the taverns and dicing-houses were always open, but small enough that you felt that you knew the layout of the whole city.

  Above all, it was tucked far away from borders, so he had little worry about an attack ever reaching them. All Laiqar's enemies would have to approach from the south, then cross the river and penetrate the wall. For a city as small as Talnashir, it wasn't worth it.

  Sadran smiled as he marched. The town had been especially quiet lately. The hashashim hadn't had to correct anyone in quite some time. As he thought about it, he realized he hadn't seen any hashashim in a couple of weeks. They didn't advertise themselves, but you could always pick them out by their intense stares and glittering eyes.

  The thought sailed through his mind without stopping to collect any worry.

  He was only a few hours into his duty shift when he recognized a strange phenomenon. He was marching in a different cadence than he normally did. He looked down at his feet. His patrol was usually easygoing: a rolling walk that was slow and easy on the legs. Now, however, he realized he was actually marching.

  He quirked a half-smile, and slowed to a stop. When had he started doing that?

  His brow furrowed as he stared at his feet. There was a faint vibration coming up through the soles of his sandals. A steady, regular, pulsing. That was why he'd been marching, he'd unconsciously fallen into the same rhythm as this vibration.

  He stared stupidly at his feet for a few minutes, wondering at this new mystery.

  Slowly but surely, it was growing stronger. He looked up.

  All along the north were the terrible, frigid ice fields of Laiqar. Barren, frozen wastelands with howling, murderous winds and bleak seas of snow. On a clear day, they were were just barely visible on the horizon as a faint rim of dead white.

  To the northwest, a thin black line crept in front of the white. Sadran squinted his eyes. He felt that it was connected to these strange vibrations somehow. He leaned on his spear and watched.

  Over the course of the next hour, the black line grew and clarified. The vibrations grew stronger. Sadran tried to return to his patrol, but little surges of worry kept shooting through his mind. He wondered if he should notify his captain? But there was nothing evidently harmful about it, it was just a little blot on the horizon.

  Sadran forced his eyes forward and returned to his patrol, steadfastly refusing to look at the strange blot. But after only fifteen minutes of this, he could not resist turning his eyes northwest again.

  He stumbled to stop and he gaped. He was finally able to make out what the black blot was.

  Marching toward Talnashir was an army, cloaked in black, all in fierce silver masks. Their feet struck the earth in unison as they marched, sending that steady pulsing vibration through the parsang of ground all the way up the wall of Talnashir and into Sadran's legs.

  His spear dropped out of his nerveless fingers and clattered to the top of the wall.

  "Enemies," he whispered. His hand fumbled at his belt for his ram's-horn. "Enemies!" He tried to shout, but his voice had no strength, as though he were trapped in a nightmare.

  His fingers finally closed around his horn. He numbly raised it to his lips and blew. It had been so long since he'd sounded it that his first attempt came out as nothing more than a spluttering squawk.

  The black line of soldiers grew as more came over the horizon. Sadran's eyes fixed on their black cloaks and silver masks. His gut twisted.

  Namar?nian Amtaka. But why were they here?

  With desperate focus, Sadran blew his horn again, finally getting the embrasure right, and a piercing, powerful note rang out from the wall. He sounded the horn again and again, waving at the towers and barracks in the town. Annoyed soldiers wandered out to frown or curse at him.

  He kept blowing and blowing the horn, pointing to the northwest, frantically raising the alarm.

  The Amtaka marched toward the sleepy city of Talnashir. It nestled in the crook of the Shiqu River, which they well knew, since they'd marched many, many parsang to get around the headwaters of the river and make a land approach from the northwest.

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  The army halted. Runners carried messages back and forth for several minutes, getting everyone set. A tall pole rose from the mass of men, carrying the standard of Namar?n: a giant wild auroch, a carved and gilded bull with wide horns, carved from wood. It was frozen in a mighty rear, its horns glittering gold in the late morning light.

  Beneath the auroch was the carved image of a fierce panther, the standard of the Amtaka.

  From within the mass of men, drums began sounding, audible all the way to the city. A marching beat.

  Three loud, bass booms sounded over the cadence drums. A command beat. Prepare.

  Up and down the front of the line, the Amtaka fixed long steel claws to their forearms and feet. Behind them, spears and bows were readied. Further back, sabers were unsheathed.

  One long beat and two short beats. Advance.

  The dark soldiers marched forward in unsettling silence, the only sound from their ceaseless drums and their feet striking the earth. They marched on Talnashir in a relentless wave.

  As they neared the city, the disorganized defense managed to loose a few arrows into the mass. They were, by and large, ineffective. Beneath the Amtaka's robes, they wore good bronze scale mail. The thin Laiqarian arrows shattered against their armor or caught in their thick robes.

  The Amtaka continued to advance.

  Sadran clung tightly to his spear. He'd retrieved it from where he'd dropped it. All he could do was stare in horror at the advancing Amtaka.

  A few other soldiers had joined him on the wall. He edged as far back as he could without putting himself in danger of falling off. The edges of the walkway atop the wall were crumbly, and there was no defensive crenelation. Simply an edge, and a drop to the hard earth nearly thirty-five hands below.

  "The hashashim will save us," he said. He'd been repeating it like a chant, a charm against the advancing wave of death. "The hashashim will save us."

  Tariq, the soldier to his right, loosed another arrow at the oncoming army. It was a laughably inadequate response to the marching invaders.

  "They say the hashashim cannot be found," Tariq through gritted teeth as he nocked another arrow. "They have turned into smoke and vanished."

  Sadran's stomach fell. He turned to his companion.

  "Wh-what? The hashashim have abandoned us?" He looked out over the army. "Who will save us?"

  "They are closing the gates right now," Tariq said. "They will close the gates and bar them. We'll get more archers on the wall and in the towers." He loosed, then glanced over his shoulder at the milling chaos of soldiers below him inside the city. "These Namar?nian dogs have no siege equipment. They will break their teeth on our mighty wall!"

  Sadran forced a smile and nodded.

  "Y-yes. The wall will save us." He turned to the advancing army and shook his spear. "You cannot take Talnashir!" he cried, though he wished his voice had been a little steadier.

  Still, the army advanced, slow and relentless.

  More soldiers joined them on the wall. Some did not have their armor, some were not even in uniform. One archer ran up, then had to run back down, as he'd forgotten to bring any arrows.

  A clattering boom sounded, and a heavy vibration ran through the entire wall, running up Sadran's legs. He relaxed a little.

  The heavy, bronze-banded doors of the gate had been barred. The heavy timber that held it closed was three hands thick; no matter how strong these terrifying warriors were, they could not break that.

  They could not enter the city.

  The Amtaka reached the base of the wall. More arrows sang into their ranks, and a few of them fell. Not many, but a few. They died as they had marched: in ominous silence. Their silver masks bore the same expression in death as they did in life.

  Without slowing, the Amtaka at the front drove their claws into the rough mud wall. The mud crumbled, and small stones tumbled free. They drove the claws of their feet into the wall, and with the same steady, relentless pace, began to climb.

  A cry of despair went up from the soldiers on the wall.

  Arrows rained down on the advancing Amtaka, but it was a hard angle for the archers to shoot at.

  Sadran gripped his spear tightly, his heart triphammering in his chest. He scooted as close as he dared to the edge and peeked over.

  One of the black-cloaked soldiers was climbing directly toward him. He would drive his claws into the friable mud wall, lift himself a little more. Kick a foot free, set it back in the wall, lift a little more. Other claw, into the wall, lift a little more.

  It was not a fast climb, but it was far faster than Sadran liked.

  Sadran was not a brave man. He was not a warrior. He had never been in battle. But in the face of these silent, ominous soldiers, he knew he had to do anything he could. He turned his spear around, pointing it downward, and leaned out over the wall. The advancing solider looked up at him, his silver mask catching the morning sun, its unchanging expression corroding what little courage he'd managed to scrape together.

  He drove the spear down, directly into the face of the soldier.

  The long spearhead sparked as it deflected off the soldier's mask.

  Gibbering, Sadran raised his spear and jabbed it down again. The soldier reached up and caught the spear between the claws of his right hand, then pinned it to the wall. He twisted his claws and the thin spear snapped. The spearhead tumbled away to the ground below.

  Sadran stepped back. The Amtaka's head peeked over the top of the wall, and he reached out with one claw to pull himself up. Sadran battered the black-cloaked invader with his broken spear, desperate to slow him down however he could.

  The soldier gained the top of the wall. All up and down the wall, other black-cloaked soldiers overran the disorganized defensive line. Their claws rose and fell, stabbing into the ill-prepared defenders. Screams filled the air.

  Sadran took his fighting stance, a stance he had not practiced in nearly a decade. He held the broken spear ready, pointed at the soldier that faced him.

  He pulled back to strike, but the black-cloaked warrior rushed in past his clumsy maneuver. Sadran heard more than felt the crunch of claws slamming home between his ribs. Breath rushed out of him, and his eyes flew wide. This close, he could see through the eye-holes of the mask. Behind the mask were the eyes of another man: pitiless, relentless, and cold.

  The man ripped his claws free and flung Sadran off the wall, back into the city. He plummeted thirty-five hands and crashed into the hard dirt street below, landing on the nape of his neck with a horrible crunch. His head flopped over, pointing his eyes at the wooden gate to the city.

  Sadran tried to stand, but his arms and legs would not move. He could not even turn his head. A mewl of terror rose from him. He could only watch as black-cloaked soldiers swarmed over the wall and into the city. They slashed their way over to the gate, and a dozen of them worked together to lift the heavy wooden bar that held the doors closed as the rest of the warriors held off the soldiers of Talnashir.

  In only moments, the bar lifted free. The Amtaka cast the heavy timber aside and pulled open the thick wooden doors.

  Beyond the gate waited the bulk of the black-clad army. As the doors swung open they poured into the city. The black tide rushed over Sadran as darkness closed in on him. His terror faded and became distant, and his consciousness winked out.

  Then the destruction of Talnashir began in earnest.