The roof of the Artisan Guildhall was a windy, soot-stained plateau of dark river slate. It was surrounded by ornate iron gargoyles and tangled coils of copper telegraph wire.
The climb to the roof of the Artisan Guildhall was a sprint through a maze of creaking timber stairwells and forgotten attics. Toby hauled the sixty-pound military vox-transceiver on his back, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. Meanwhile, Valerie and two armed blacksmiths covered the rear with loaded crossbows.
Arthur reached the roof first, stepping out onto the wet slate tiles. The wind up here was fierce, blowing directly from the northern salt marshes, carrying the stinging bite of chemical sulfur and the distant, bone-shaking rumble of the retreating swarm. From this vantage point, seventy feet above the Lower Plaza, the entire valley was laid bare:
To the south, the sixty-yard breach in Wall Section 8 was a smoldering graveyard of dead hard shell, anchored by the two massive carcasses of the fallen Siege-Behemoths. To the west, the smoking chimneys of Foundry 4 stood like black gravestones along the greasy canal. And directly above them to the north, towering over the valley on its massive stone dark rock stone stand, sat the Grand Citadel. Its gold-trimmed roofs, marble rows of stone pillars, and high curtain walls catching the morning sun like a crown of polished ice.
