chuckled.
“Have no fear. There should be plenty of chaos and blood for the both of us soon enough.”
The span on which they trod was a gleaming gold, near enough to blind anyone who spent too long gazing down. Sweeping arches provided the bridge its support, while spouts with no natural source provided scintillating waterfalls between each arch. They flowed from the bridge itself, plummeting into depths unseen. It was musical, in its way, that constant rush.
Rocky outcroppings stood beside the bridge, boasting an array of knotted trees and thriving brush. Great statues of warrior angels, the stone worn and pitted by the flow of centuries, towered three or four times War’s own height from a few of those crags. They made, so far as the Horseman was concerned, unimpressive guardians. Grand in design, perhaps, but he would have expected a martial community to have
live
sentinels upon the bridge.
His first sight of the city itself was not the wall, but the highest of the flying isles. These small parcels of earth floated freely overhead, not merely ignoring but actively mocking agreat many natural laws. They were jagged at the base, rather like mountains flipped upside down, and housed various fortresses and towers atop them. From this distance, War could make out few details, either of those structures or anything else. The faint shape of wings, flapping around the islands, might have been either angels or great birds for all he could tell.
Nor did his attention remain on those for long, for it was only moments later that the ramparts themselves hove into view.
The lines and angles—windows and cannon ports, embossed emblems, and of course the gate itself—gleamed in the light, though not so brightly as the bridge. These looked more brass than gold, due to that contrast, but War knew well that they were far sturdier than either metal. The walls themselves were of some pale stone; not quite like marble but, at least in War’s personal experience, even less like anything else. These, too, were carved and inlaid into sharp panels and inset layers, so that the entire bastion was a work of art. The ramparts were too high for War to see if any guards stood atop the wall, just as the cannon ports were too narrow to expose anyone within, but he felt certain they were present. The angels might leave the bridge unwatched, but never the gate itself.
The light, War could not help but notice, was purely ambient, radiating from all directions at once. Although the world was noon-bright around him, he saw no sun in the sky, nor any shadows falling across the luminous roadway. It was almost uncomfortable, in a way. The wall stood several dozen paces in height, the ornately sculpted barbican more than twice that. The approach
should
have been cloaked in deepest shade, yet there was none.
The portcullis was raised, presenting a long and seemingly empty corridor that cut straight through the impossibly thickwall. As Ruin approached, however, hooves ringing metallically on the bridge, War heard the blast of a great trumpet. Almost instantly his path was blocked by a small phalanx of angels, all heavily armored and clutching the race’s infamous halberds. Wings flapped above, as other soldiers appeared from over the wall, and though he couldn’t see them War could somehow
feel
the barrels of a multitude of cannons gaping his way.
That’s more like it, then
.
The guardpost’s commander—War knew him to be the commander, as he was the only angel whose face and platinum hair were unconstrained by any helm, and who carried a great axe rather than a halberd—marched ahead of the others. He planted himself directly in Ruin’s way, and War couldn’t quite restrain a nod of respect. Not only did the angel handle his bardiche easily, never mind that the weapon was twice his height with a blade broader across than the warhorse’s girth, but he showed no qualms about standing before a potential adversary whom he
knew
was far deadlier
“Have no fear. There should be plenty of chaos and blood for the both of us soon enough.”
The span on which they trod was a gleaming gold, near enough to blind anyone who spent too long gazing down. Sweeping arches provided the bridge its support, while spouts with no natural source provided scintillating waterfalls between each arch. They flowed from the bridge itself, plummeting into depths unseen. It was musical, in its way, that constant rush.
Rocky outcroppings stood beside the bridge, boasting an array of knotted trees and thriving brush. Great statues of warrior angels, the stone worn and pitted by the flow of centuries, towered three or four times War’s own height from a few of those crags. They made, so far as the Horseman was concerned, unimpressive guardians. Grand in design, perhaps, but he would have expected a martial community to have
live
sentinels upon the bridge.
His first sight of the city itself was not the wall, but the highest of the flying isles. These small parcels of earth floated freely overhead, not merely ignoring but actively mocking agreat many natural laws. They were jagged at the base, rather like mountains flipped upside down, and housed various fortresses and towers atop them. From this distance, War could make out few details, either of those structures or anything else. The faint shape of wings, flapping around the islands, might have been either angels or great birds for all he could tell.
Nor did his attention remain on those for long, for it was only moments later that the ramparts themselves hove into view.
The lines and angles—windows and cannon ports, embossed emblems, and of course the gate itself—gleamed in the light, though not so brightly as the bridge. These looked more brass than gold, due to that contrast, but War knew well that they were far sturdier than either metal. The walls themselves were of some pale stone; not quite like marble but, at least in War’s personal experience, even less like anything else. These, too, were carved and inlaid into sharp panels and inset layers, so that the entire bastion was a work of art. The ramparts were too high for War to see if any guards stood atop the wall, just as the cannon ports were too narrow to expose anyone within, but he felt certain they were present. The angels might leave the bridge unwatched, but never the gate itself.
The light, War could not help but notice, was purely ambient, radiating from all directions at once. Although the world was noon-bright around him, he saw no sun in the sky, nor any shadows falling across the luminous roadway. It was almost uncomfortable, in a way. The wall stood several dozen paces in height, the ornately sculpted barbican more than twice that. The approach
should
have been cloaked in deepest shade, yet there was none.
The portcullis was raised, presenting a long and seemingly empty corridor that cut straight through the impossibly thickwall. As Ruin approached, however, hooves ringing metallically on the bridge, War heard the blast of a great trumpet. Almost instantly his path was blocked by a small phalanx of angels, all heavily armored and clutching the race’s infamous halberds. Wings flapped above, as other soldiers appeared from over the wall, and though he couldn’t see them War could somehow
feel
the barrels of a multitude of cannons gaping his way.
That’s more like it, then
.
The guardpost’s commander—War knew him to be the commander, as he was the only angel whose face and platinum hair were unconstrained by any helm, and who carried a great axe rather than a halberd—marched ahead of the others. He planted himself directly in Ruin’s way, and War couldn’t quite restrain a nod of respect. Not only did the angel handle his bardiche easily, never mind that the weapon was twice his height with a blade broader across than the warhorse’s girth, but he showed no qualms about standing before a potential adversary whom he
knew
was far deadlier
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