Lysander sat in the war room alone.
The lamp burned low. The clay tablet in front of him was blank. He had been staring at it for an hour.
No oil. The cauldrons were empty. Nine platforms remained. The Greeks would repair the three they lost and come again with twelve. Fifteen men per platform. A hundred and eighty men per wave.
The kill zones could not handle fifteen.
He tried everything.
Stones. Drop them onto the platforms. The hides would bounce them. Not enough stones.
Sand. Pour sand on the ground. Sand did not stop wheels. It slowed them. Slowing was not enough.
Fire. The hides were soaked. Fire would not catch.
Ropes. Trip the platforms. Too heavy. Ropes would snap.
He pressed his palms against his eyes. Every idea led to the same wall. The platforms would reach the wall. The kill zones would break. The wall would fall.
And after the wall — what?
