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Now it paved the way for her enemies.
He wondered again whether he should simply counsel the Chancellor to surrender. The small garrison that remained would not put up a fight once the walls were breached. He had gambled, and lost. High Priest of Battle indeed. His ambush had both emptied the Citadel of most of its fighting men, and likely killed an old friend. No doubt Grip died smiling about an honorable death or some other foolishness.

"Well, there's nothing for it. I'll give them a siege, if it's what they want," said Ilijah.

He inhaled the sea air deeply, tasted only a hint of smoke, turned and began his descent. He had begun preparations for a siege weeks ago. They had all hoped it wouldn't come to that. The fighting men knew as well as he that, if it came to a siege, they were lost. He passed servants and saluting guards on his way down to the gates. He could hardly bear the weight of the hope he saw smoldering in their eyes. They trusted him wholly. They expected salvation. He knew he had no right to give them to despair, so he held the gaze of each and managed a small smile to some. Let them hope until the moment of their deaths, he thought.

When he reached the gate, the men were ready. They had heard and felt the concussion of the spell that had broken Grips men. What they hadn't heard was the screams. From his perch atop the Citadel, he had heard them, and seen more. He had watched impotently as the ambush, his ambush, was sprung upon the right flank of the enemy. The timing was impeccable, and the enemy turned and retreated immediately.

He had allowed himself a momentary rush of relief then, it lasted only moments. The enemy retreat was far too orderly. A man who has seen many battles can tell the difference between an organized retreat of disciplined soldiers, and a choreographed maneuver. The enemy split as they retreated, leaving a space open in the middle of their formation. At the far end, in a clearing at the base of a hill, a man in dark clothes knelt. The air around him shimmered and bent the light, he had looked like a dark stone pressing the stretched fabric of the hill behind him. Ilijah knew what he was witnessing. He also knew how much time it took to prepare a spell of that magnitude. Days at least, perhaps weeks. It was betrayal then, he thought.

Grip, to his credit, was aware of the trap immediately. His men turned and ran back towards their trench. Before they had covered half the ground, the spell was unleashed. A wave of force raced out from the enemy mage, spreading as it advanced. It churned up great man-high gouts of earth before it as it widened vertically. Some twenty men from the front ranks were swallowed by the earth immediately; Captain Grip would be among them. The rest were smashed like rotten fruit. Their shattered bodies were flung back obscenely, spread in pieces fifty paces from where they had stood.

Ilijah had collapsed forward then and gripped the stone parapet to steady himself. He had been defeated before, but never betrayed. Betrayal was not failure to plan, or a failure of strategy. It was a failure to lead, to win the loyalty of his men. It stung far worse than he could've imagined. He didn't even allow himself to grieve for his old friend. That must wait.

Ilijah could see bodies writhing below in the brown swath of the spells force. He prayed quick deaths for them, and for a fast journey to an eternity of peace. No, not writhing, he realized. The men were crawling, scrabbling their way back towards their trench. They were shielded from the enemies view by the mound of earth that had amassed at the impact point of the spell. They would make it to the trench, he realized. Not that they would be good for much, out of contact and diminished.