Free Bleak Seasons by Glen Cook

light was over there.
    The Shadowlanders had not scaled the wall there. They had attacked off of
     earthen ramps. Not a surprise. They had been building the ramps from the
     beginning. That was just basic siegework, employed since the dawn of time and
     one reason your thoughtful modern prince builds his stronghold on a crag or
     headland or island. Naturally, the besieger spans the last dozen feet with a
     bridge he can yank back if a dangerous counterattack develops.
    The flareball smashed down four hundred yards out. It continued to provide light
     until the southerners buried it with sand originally intended to extinguish
     firebombs if we used them. “One-Eye! I’m going to have your wrinkled balls for
     breakfast!”
    I snarled, “Cletus, keep throwing them fireballs. Who’s got messenger duty?
    Feet? Go find Goblin and One-Eye . . . Never mind. One of them brain-damaged
     runts just turned up.”
    One-Eye said, “You rang, milord?”
    “Are you sober? Are you ready to get to work now?” He stared at that nasty light
     across town without me coaching him. I asked, “What is that?” The light seemed
     more sinister now.
    One-Eye raised a hand. “Kid, why not take this gods given opportunity to
     exercise your least well-honed talent?”
    “What?”
    “Be patient, dickhead.”
    The mist or haze or dust started getting thicker. The light grew brighter.
    Neither happening buoyed my confidence. “Talk to me, old man. This ain’t the
     time for any of your bullshit.”
    “That haze, that ain’t no mist, Murgen. The light ain’t shining off it. It’s
     making the light.” And the mist and light were drifting toward the city.
    “Horse puckey. You can see where there’s a light burning in their camp.”
    “That’s something else. There’s two things going on at once, Murgen.”
    “Three things, halfwit.” Goblin had arrived, beer breath and all. Presumably all
     was well at the secret brewery, the arrangements with the cavalry were secure,
    and he and One-Eye could take time off to help the Black Company defend
     Dejagore.
    Heaven help them if Mogaba discovered what they were doing with grain supposedly
     set aside for the horses. I wouldn’t have a prayer of saving their butts nor
     would I offer one.
    “What?” One-Eye barked. “Murgen, the man is a walking provocation.”
    “Watch, bonehead,” Goblin countered. “It’s already happening.”
    One-Eye gasped, suddenly astonished, then frightened. Ignorant in the dark arts,
    it took me longer to catch it.
    Shadows snaked through that blazing dust cloud, thin things little more than
     suggestions but with something flitting back and forth amongst them. I thought
     both of a weaver’s shuttle and of spiders. Whichever, web or net, something was
     forming inside the blazing dust.
    They did call him Shadowspinner.
    The glimmering cloud grew larger and brighter. The web grew with it.
    “Shit,” Goblin muttered. “Now what do we do about this?”
    “Exactly what I’ve been trying to get out of you two clowns for the last five
     minutes!” I bellowed.
    “Well!”
    “Maybe you could pay attention over here if you can’t do anything about that!”
    Bucket yelled. “Murgen, those fools have gotten so many ropes up that we can’t .
    . . Shit!” Another barrage of grapnels fell amongst us. In moments they showed
     the strain that meant some moron was trying to climb them.
    So much for my belief that there was no chance the southerners could scale my
     wall.
    Guys were hard at work with knives and swords and axes. Imaginary people stood
     around looking fierce. I heard a man grumble that if he had half a brain he
     would have sharpened his knives. Rudy reminded him, “If you kept your pecker in
     your pants more you’d have time.”
    Some Jaicuri women, naturally, inevitably, did what they had to do to survive.
    Doing my part, I hacked on ropes but kept turning to check that light and the
     webs forming inside it.
    Goblin howled, creased by a