Then the counterattack begins.
A peal of thunder erupts from an imperial sorcerer’s staff on the Wall, and a blue-white flash of lightning sears through the sky.
From their tall watchtowers, the sorcerers’ onslaught is massive and indiscriminate. Streaks of lightning blast down into the natives’ mud hovels, shattering their adobe walls into powder. A few bolts shoot up into the sky, burning jagged lines into Gil’s vision. Thunderclaps shake the buildings and rattle his chest.
More lights flash in the dark sky—a pair of violet arcs. The warping mystics sail back over the Wall, landing on peripheral buildings.
Bolts of lightning blast in their wake. The mystics continue shooting from rooftop to rooftop, like frogs leaping from lilypad to lilypad. The sorcerers show only slightly more hesitation to shoot buildings on the Akkadian side of the wall. The storm of lightning is now far brighter and infinitely louder than the still-burning wreckage from the mystics’ attacks.
Below and behind him, Gil hears a growl.