War of Wizards by Michael Wallace

small stock of spells in his mind. The best he could think of, given the circumstance, was a ball of fire. Its power, Markal had said, came from how much heat could be drawn from the air. It would be of more limited effectiveness in cooler weather like this, and limited further by his own weak skills. But he couldn’t manage the same spell Chantmer had used to shift the earth, and the only time he’d tried to use the magical hammers, he’d knocked himself unconscious.
    He gathered his will, focused his mind on saving Balsalom, reminded himself what would happen if wights broke into the city. They would kill and destroy. Thousands would die, perhaps the entire city, barring the khalifa, a prisoner until she gave birth to the dark wizard’s child.
    “ Ignis globus percutiens inimico iram et perditionem. ” 
    The sense of growing power wasn’t as strong this time as in the Grand Bazaar, but he could still feel it there, tantalizing, a massive pool of energy at his fingertips, ready to be called upon. Some of it dissipated even as he considered, wondering, how he could call up such a thing. But much power remained as a ball of fire formed in front of him. He pushed it with his rapidly withering right hand, and it was as heavy as a stone as it dropped over the edge of the wall.
    A ball of fire splashed over the wights. Where it hit, they turned into flaming white-hot torches, like oil-soaked rags tossed into a blacksmith’s fire. Other wights touched them and broke away screaming with a sound like the shriek of metal on metal. The main fireball was gone in an instant, but the devastation continued to spread.
    The undead army now flowed away in a dozen individual currents. Wights fled back toward the Tothian Way or into the tombs. For a single, triumphant moment, Darik thought he had broken the attack, that the entire army would go howling into the night. The Harvester’s hunting horn blew in the distance, and Darik wanted to shout a prayer to the dark god, telling him to hunt far and wide, until he had gathered every soul of King Toth’s unholy army.
    Chantmer looked at him, eyes widened slightly. There wasn’t precisely respect in his expression, but neither did it carry sneering disdain. “Do it again. Now, hurry.”
    Darik looked back down and was alarmed to see that hundreds, perhaps thousands of wights remained, hurling themselves against the wall, tearing apart the stone foundation. He wanted to cry out in despair. Would nothing stop them?
    “Quickly, now,” Chantmer urged. “Before it’s too late.”
    “I can’t.” Darik lifted his other hand, which was still withered from the tracking spell he’d cast at the bazaar. He eyed Chantmer’s hands; they were undamaged. “You do it!”
    “These are my final recourse,” Chantmer said. “To call for the spells that will change us back into birds and fly us away in safety should our efforts fail.”
    The other wizards stared at Chantmer and Darik. They were hunched, their tattoos stripped. The fight had sapped their strength, as they’d hurled one spell after another, and now they were drained, defeated, apparently stunned that they had not defeated the enemy. They didn’t take their eyes off Chantmer, asking silently what they should do.  
    Ethan shouted from below. “Brace yourselves, men!”
    Darik rushed to look. The first wight came squirming through the hole and into the city. More followed, tearing as they came, each new arrival widening the breach. They threw themselves at Ethan and his men.
    “By the Brothers,” Darik pleaded with Chantmer. “We almost broke them. You can finish it.”
    Men screamed below as the wights tore into them. More soldiers came running to join the fight—Eriscobans, watchmen, young recruits—and they fought ferociously, but they couldn’t hold back the wights.
    “Very well,” Chantmer said. He held out his left hand.
    “Hurry!” Darik cried. More wights were coming through.
    Chantmer had already started to