“Care to try it?” he asked quietly, and the group were galvanized into activity, with all of them clamoring to try this devastating new weapon.
Damien silenced the eruption almost instantly. “I’ll go first,” he announced. He looked sidelong at Hal with a grin and added, “No point in being the commander if you can’t pull rank, is there?”
Hal gestured for the archer to take his position behind the weapon as Ingvar reloaded it for him. He watched as Damien lined the sights up on the target at fifty paces. He could see there was no need to tell him what to do. But he did offer one piece of advice.
“Don’t snatch at the trigger. Squeeze it,” he said.
Damien, head bowed over the sights, eyes intent on the target, nodded. His shot smashed into the target, which was lying cocked up on its side where it had fallen.
He stepped back, gesturing for one of his men to take his place, and met Hal’s eyes.
“Amazing,” he said. “That’ll shake up those riders if they come poking around here again.”
“I’ve got something else to show you,” Hal said. “But we’ll wait until your men have taken a few shots.”
All of his men wanted to try the new weapon, but Damien shook his head. He had selected three men to train with the manglers and they would be the ones who shot it. The others grumbled but gave way relatively cheerfully when their leader told them: “If you all practice with it, we’ll run out of darts.” They had to admit the sense of that.
Once the three selected archers had each shot three darts, Hal reached into the canvas wrap and produced another dart. This one had a bulbous clay head instead of the sharpened metal warhead. On closer inspection, Damien could see a small thread protruding from it.
“This is something new,” Hal told the assembled men. “We don’t use it on our ship. It’d be too dangerous. But for a static setting like this, it should be fine. It’s designed to cause panic among your attackers—particularly their horses.”
He indicated the clay head. “This is a reservoir that holds a mixture of oil and pitch,” he said. “You can see the fuse here.” He indicated the threadlike piece that could be seen underneath the warhead.
“The idea is, you line up the shot, light this fuse and let fly. When the warhead hits the ground or a rock or a rider’s shield, it shatters and spills out the sticky oil and pitch. The burning fuse ignites it and there’s a sudden burst of flame.” He paused. “And I have it on good authority that horses won’t like that.”
Several of the archers murmured agreement. Damien smiled wolfishly. “Not sure I’d like it myself,” he said. “Let’s see it in action.”
Gently, Hal removed the cork stopper from the top of the warhead and made sure that the reservoir was full of the combustible oil and pitch—and that the fuse was firmly seated in it.
“It weighs a little more than the standard iron warhead,” he explained. “So, you need to aim higher. But it doesn’t have to be as accurate, as the flames spread over a wide area once the head shatters.”
He waited while Ingvar cocked the mangler and set the new dart in the shallow trough on top, turning the projectile so that the fuse stood clear above it. Hal surveyed the valley below them and pointed to a rock outcrop on the northwest wall of the valley.
“I think that black rock will do nicely,” he said. He crouched behind the mangler and lined it up, aiming slightly above the target to allow for the heavier warhead and the extra wind resistance of the bulbous clay reservoir. Ingvar took a burning brand from the brazier that had been lit early that morning. The fire had been kept alive to provide warmth for the sentries on the walkway. Before he could light the fuse, however, Hal held up a hand to stop him.
“Just a moment, Ingvar,” he said, then turned to the expectant semicircle of faces watching him. “One thing I should mention,” he told them. “We’ve been testing these for a while throughout the winter. We’ve found that they work, on average, three out of five times. The other times, the fuse doesn’t ignite the oil and pitch—or it’s extinguished in the rush of air. So, don’t be too surprised if nothing happens.”
He nodded to Ingvar, and the big youth stepped in and applied the burning brand to the fuse. He waited for a second or two until he could see it hissing and spitting as it burned.
“It’s afire,” Ingvar said.
Hal made a final adjustment to his aim and squeezed the trigger lever.
SLAM!
The mangler rocked back on its tripod as the arms sprang forward. The fire bolt streaked away, leaving a faint gray trail of smoke behind it. Then it smashed into the rocks.
There was a shattering sound as the clay head exploded, spilling its contents out. Then, after a second, the oil and pitch caught with a loud WHOOF and a tongue of flame leapt into the air, surrounded by coils of black, acrid smoke.
Again, the assembled archers voiced their appreciation at the effectiveness of this new weapon.
“Who thought of this?” one of them said.
Hal said nothing, but Ingvar elbowed him proudly, very nearly sending him off the catwalk. “He did,” Ingvar told them. “He’s full of good ideas.”
Hal made a self-deprecating gesture as they gathered around him, congratulating him. They were all experienced warriors, and they respected anyone who could come up with a more efficient way of waging war against their enemies.
“Imagine one of those going off among a tight-packed group of riders,” Damien said. “Their horses wouldn’t stop bolting until they were halfway back to the steppes.”
One of the younger archers stepped forward and studied the mangler more closely, running his hands over the smooth timber and metal.
“I could almost wish they’d have a crack at us,” he said, “just to see this scare the pants off them.”
The older soldiers among them shook their heads at the enthusiastic youngster.
“Be careful, Simon,” said one. “You might get what you wish for.”
chapter seven
Lydia continued to ghost her way through the trees as the valley widened and flattened. She stayed inside the tree line, but close to the open ground.
From time to time, she saw evidence that the eastern riders had passed this way. Usually it was in the form of piles of horse dung in the snow. She emerged from the trees when she saw one of these and, crouching down, poked it with a twig. The dung was half frozen, and quite dry on the inside. Obviously, it had been here for several days.
As she broke it up with the twig, the rank smell of the manure assailed her nostrils and she sniffed, rising to her feet and casting a look around.
There was no sign of the horse that had deposited it, or its rider, although that didn’t surprise her. The rider would hardly wait around for several days. As she proceeded, moving back to the concealment of the edge of the trees, she saw increasing numbers of dark piles. Several had been dusted over with light snowfall. Most of the piles were several days old, at least, although she saw two that were still moist. In addition to the manure, the snow was disturbed by hoofprints. She studied them closely. They were left by small, unshod horses.
She regarded the tracks curiously. She had never encountered the Temujai before, but Thorn had instructed her about them.
“Don’t take any chances,” he had said. “They’re fierce warriors and expert shots with the bow. They were born on horseback—and the day after they were born, they had a bow placed in their hands.”
“Are they as good as the Araluen archers?” she’d asked.
Thorn had pursed his lips, considering his answer. “Not as good as a Ranger like Gilan,” he told her. “But they’re pretty much on a par with the other Araluens. Each squadron of horsemen has a highly trained sharpshooter assigned to it. He’s selected for his above-average skill and accuracy. His task in battle is to look for enemy commanders and shoot them.”
Lydia had wrinkled her nose. “Charming.”
Thorn reached out his left hand and seized her wrist firmly. “Don’t take any chances with them,” he said. “They could be the most dangerous enemies you’ll ever encounter.”
She noted the serious tenor of his voice and nodded. “Are they good trackers?”
Again he considered his answer. “Not as good as you,” he said. “But they’re capable. So—”
“Don’t take any chances with them,” she finished for him.
He drew breath to speak, but she patted his forearm reassuringly. “Thanks, Thorn. I’ve got the picture,” she told him.
He studied her for a few seconds, saw that she wasn’t joking and gave her a satisfied nod. “Keep it in mind,” he said gruffly. He was very fond of the young woman whom they had rescued from a sinking skiff some years before. The Heron brotherband had come to rely on her tracking and scouting ability, and her uncanny accuracy with the big darts she threw from her atlatl.
Now, crouching in the snow in the middle of the cleared ground of the valley, Lydia tensed as a slight sound came to her ears.
It was a metallic sound—a light jingle, carrying to her from the north even though the slight wind was out of the south. That meant that whoever was making the noise must be close, and she was exposed in the open. She ran toward the cover of the trees, casting an anxious glance up the valley to see the source of the noise.
It took her a few seconds to identify the sound: It was the metallic jingle of a horse’s harness—either the bit or stirrup buckles. The dim shadow of the trees closed around her before she saw any sign of a rider approaching from the north. She ran to the second row of trees and dropped to her belly, sliding in the snow to the cover of the thick trunk.
And waited, her heart in her mouth.
For a few more seconds, she saw nothing. Then a movement caught her eye at the edge of a blind corner forty meters away. A dark horse sidled into sight, staying close to the outer row of trees, on the opposite side of the valley to where she lay concealed. The rider was swathed in fur and leather. The tip of a recurve bow was visible above his right shoulder, and a heavy-laden quiver of arrows rode at his right hip.
She lay still, unmoving, barely daring to draw breath, as he rode closer. His eyes, under the conical fur hat he wore, darted back and forth, constantly moving and appraising as he studied the valley and the tree line on both sides. His gaze passed over her and she felt convinced that he must have seen her. Yet she lay still as a rock, even though her nerves were screaming for her to leap to her feet and run.
You know that’s the worst thing you could do, she told herself. Why do you always feel like doing it?
She guessed it was a natural instinct for flight, overlaid and countermanded by her years of training. It was the same natural instinct that made a grouse, or other small game bird, break from cover—usually with fatal results.
The jingling harness was louder now, and she could make out the soft thud of his horse’s hooves on the snow and the creaking of leather as the saddle moved slightly under the rider’s weight. Her hood was up, shading her face. She was able to watch him without making any movement to lift her head.
She felt a sudden surge of panic as a thought occurred to her. What if he saw her footprints in the snow?
She was tempted to look for them, to see how obvious they might be. There would be slight scuff marks on the snow’s surface that she had made when she moved out to study the horse dung, and larger, deeper tracks left behind when she ran back to the shelter of the pines. She’d never miss such a clear sign as that, she thought.
But to look for the marks, she’d have to lower her head, and she knew any movement could give her away. She remained still, her eyes deep inside the cowl, fastened on the solitary rider as he moved down the valley.
But he wasn’t looking for tracks. He was alert to the possibility that there might be enemies concealed in the trees either side of the valley. If he were planning an ambush, that was where he would choose to be. He continued on, head constantly moving, eyes constantly searching.
Finally, he was far enough past her for her to be able to move without fear of being seen. She squirmed around the bole of the pine tree, staying low to the ground and positioning herself so that the tree was between her and the rider. The soft clumping of the horse’s hooves was almost inaudible now. The thinner sound of the jingling harness still carried to her. Then the rider passed around a bend in the valley and disappeared from her sight.
She sat up, leaning back against the tree trunk to think, brushing excess powder snow from her jerkin and knees.
“So, where are you off to?” she asked herself. The answer came quickly enough. Keeping an eye on proceedings at the fort.
She cast her gaze back up the valley, to the north. “And where have you come from?” she asked, barely speaking above a whisper.
Once again, the answer was self-evident. There must be a Temujai camp somewhere close by, where the commanders could dispatch observers like the one she had just seen to keep watch on the fort and its defenders.
Which raised a further question: Why keep watch on the fort?
One possible answer was that the Temujai leaders were planning a raid, or even a full-scale attack, on the border crossing. Of course, the rider might have been detached out of sheer curiosity. But somehow, from what she had been told about the Temujai, she doubted it. There’d be a more serious motive.
Next question: Were they planning a raid or a full-scale attack?
And that depended on the size of the Temujai force gathered in the vicinity. If there were fewer than a hundred, odds were that they would be planning a raid—to see if they could catch the garrison unawares or with their guard down. There were forty-five men in the garrison, all trained warriors and skilled archers. And the fort was well built and well sited—all but impregnable to bows and swords and lances. An attacking force, without the advantage of surprise, would need siege engines and scaling towers to make an impression.
Or an overwhelming number of men.
The question hung in the air. Raid or full-scale attack?
She checked once more, making sure the rider was well out of sight by now, then glanced along the valley to the north.
“Well,” she said, “that’s where you came from. I guess that’s where I’ll find the answer.”
* * *
• • • • •
The east-side platform was finished before its western counterpart. The ledge was wider on the east side, as Hal had noticed, and there was less need for supporting structure underneath it.
He assembled the second mangler. The first was still on the ramparts, where Damien’s selected shooters and their assistants were practicing with it—getting the hang of cocking and loading the big weapon as well as improving their accuracy and judgment of range. The loud SLAM of the weapon releasing had echoed around the narrow valley at intervals through the afternoon. Hal was relieved that the shooters spent a lot of their time practicing the loading and aiming drills as well as simply shooting. He’d brought a large number of bolts, knowing that the men would need a lot of practice to achieve the high level of accuracy that he wanted, but the supply wasn’t infinite. Ammunition economy was important. It would be no use having the two manglers in place if they had nothing to shoot with, and there would be a need for more practice when the weapons were sited on the shooting platforms. Once that happened, the shooters would have to reassess their ranges and elevations. The manglers would be shooting from a high position on the wall and the bolts would travel farther as a result.
He and Ingvar carried the weapon and its tripod down the valley, setting it below the completed platform. Hal scrambled up the rock face to the platform. Ulf and Wulf, who had been working on this site with Edvin and Stefan, made room for him as he scrambled onto the rough wooden planks. They watched anxiously as h
e paced back and forth, testing the platform’s solidity by occasionally stamping heavily and at other times jumping half a meter in the air to come down with both feet. After a few minutes, he nodded in satisfaction and they heaved a discreet sigh of relief. With Hal, you never knew how good your workmanship was until he had tested it.
“Good work,” he said briefly, and the three exchanged grins. Then he whistled to Ingvar and let a coiled rope down, so that the big youth could attach the mangler and its tripod.
“Haul it up,” he told the twins, and the ungainly bundle soared up the cliff face. As it was coming, Damien scrambled up the rope web that had been installed and surveyed the shooting position. He frowned and jerked a thumb up the valley toward the ground beyond the fort.
“You’re still in range here, you know,” he said. “And those horsemen are excellent shots.”
Hal nodded. “The platform will have a solid timber wall facing them,” he said. “And there’s a timber shield that attaches to the front of the crossbow itself, protecting the shooter.”
“That’s as well, then,” Damien replied. He watched with interest as Ingvar, who had now joined them, busied himself setting the tripod’s legs into the sockets provided for them. Then he mounted the big weapon on the tripod and moved it experimentally back and forth to make sure it was properly set. Stefan clambered down the cliff and began assembling bundles of ammunition, tying them in groups of ten, then attaching them to the rope so that Ulf and Wulf could haul them up and stack them ready.
“Your boys know their job,” Damien said.
Hal smiled at them. “They’re a good crew,” he admitted. The four workers overheard him and smiled to themselves. They enjoyed it when their skirl appreciated them.
“Damien!” They were interrupted by a shout from the valley floor. One of Damien’s crew was peering up at them. When he saw he had their attention, he beckoned them down.
Return of the Temujai Page 5
