by Ulff Lehmann
The boulders had cut a swath of bloodied, splintered wood through the depot that had stored his ammunition. Why the Scales had it been this important to attack at the onset of winter? He closed his eyes and turned away from the carnage.
Again, missiles from Dunthiochagh bounced across the field, this time tearing down a few of the horses tethered off to the side, beyond the pits. If this went on, the Danastaerians would beat his army by mere chance. “Drummers.” Mireynh turned to the lads standing to his left. Their faces were ashen. “Signal the advance.” Best to face the enemy head on, otherwise those bastards would, by luck, eventually manage to beat the army’s confidence.
Now, as the drums rang across the field, Duasonh and his band of bastards would have to quickly adjust their artillery if they wanted to slow them down. Mireynh allowed a grim smile to cross his lips when he saw clusters of soldiers rise in the trenches. Some heaved up planks that lay hidden in the holes, creating makeshift bridges across the ditches. From behind the tor, on either side, veritable streams of wooden barricades were pushed to the front. As each of the contraptions reached the timber crossings, double lines of thirty warriors stood and joined the men already pushing the shelters. Their pace increased.
Every second fighter pushed a handle that was attached on one side to a long pole fastened to a thick, uninterrupted, wooden roof, and on the other to a wheel taken from the disassembled wagons. Crossbars running from pole to pole gave the construction a minimum of stability, but it was enough. A third of the warriors carried between them ladders long enough to reach the merlons on top of the wall. Nailed to each side were shields to protect against missiles. Behind this vanguard came smaller bands of thirty each, again with a roof shared between them. If he hadn’t miscounted some of the artillery, they were facing a half-dozen ’throwers, far too few to stop all the advancing columns.
And should Duasonh’s pet wizard join the fray, the woman—Farlin had confirmed seeing a woman above the timber before it exploded—was in for a surprise; those pushing the wheels were equipped with bows. If the woman showed herself, she would be greeted with arrows. History had its uses, and if Trileigh’s research was correct, a wizard could not concentrate on too many things at once. The assault was unusual, but so was the situation. He felt confident that southern Dunthiochagh would fall at dusk.
One of the wooden roofs splintered as a boulder struck, spilling mangled corpses left and right. A lucky hit, for his army was too quick a target for the enemy to effectively strike from afar.
“Distance?” he asked Trileigh who stood to his right.
The scholarly Lord Commander looked at the leading column and then at a chart in his hand. A moment later, he said, “Hundred and fifty yards left, sir.”
The Danastaerians knew the distance as well, because as the slowing companies crossed that invisible line, arrows flew from Dunthiochagh. The missiles swarmed at a high angle across the sky, lodging themselves in roofs and shields. Some even slipped through the defenses. Mireynh saw a few groups falter then resume their advance, picking up speed once more. It was grueling work, but it had to be done.
Another roof caved, sending splinters and people flying as an enemy stone smashed through. Thankfully it wasn’t one of the ladder carriers. The groups behind the shattered shelter veered off and closed ranks, just like he had ordered. Mireynh looked at Noel Trileigh. “Thank you for your assistance, milord.”
“You already had the plan well in hand, sir, I only made a few suggestions,” the nobleman replied. It was obvious Trileigh was grateful for the compliment. The Lord Commander looked at his chart and back to the advancing columns. “Less than a hundred yards now, sir.”
The enemy’s fire increased. Another line faltered. This time it was a ladder warband that stopped, but only briefly. In a matter of anxious heartbeats, they resumed their advance, leaving behind a few dead or wounded. And still the enemy fire came. Joining the mostly ineffective barrage of arrows were the tower-based ballistae. The shields and roofs offered little protection against those, and it was only thanks to the long reloading time that the damage wasn’t as devastating as it could have been.
With a twang the engines on top South Gate began to fire, and the missiles went through the shields as if they were paper. Again, the advance paused, if only for a moment. With spears still embedded in walls and, most likely, people, the survivors pushed on. His warriors were determined to take the city, and angry with the arrogant defenders who hadn’t had the decency to surrender beforehand. Mireynh smirked. He would show the bastard Duasonh what it meant to fight.
The first ladder-bearers had reached the wall and were immediately greeted by oil raining down on them. Unperturbed, the mobile roof behind halted, opened the front shields, and released a group of archers. The Bows took aim and fired before the torch-wielding defenders could throw. They had only been able to practice the maneuver in theory, and he was amazed to see it executed to perfection. Now the shields would close again, and the soldiers pushing the cart would lift the contraption and rotate it until it stood perpendicular to the wall. At the same time the next unit in the column would take their place, again opening the front shields and shooting at Danastaerians who dared to throw either oil or torches. He had expected some of the movable roofs to go up in flames despite the tactic, and was, in a way, not disappointed. It seemed, however, that Duasonh’s troops had not prepared enough oil to douse every ladder-band, or maybe there wasn’t that much oil to keep the walls supplied. Either way, now that the second wave had established their parallel position, they would open the shields facing the wall and begin to return selective fire, whereas the subsequent units would attach to the lead roofs.
The first ladders were pushed up under cover of the archers. Now that the corridor had been established, the remaining companies pushed their shield-wagons up to the leading, perpendicular carts and set up a good score of yards behind them. Then they began to shoot as well.
In addition to a few blazing shield-wagons, it seemed as if the Danastaerians had managed to pour oil down a couple of ladders, for now there were also human torches falling to the ground. Still, his troops were scaling the walls.
Mireynh turned to Trileigh. “Nothing will go wrong now.”
The noble shrugged noncommittally.
The sun was setting slowly and his soldiers were on Dunthiochagh’s walls. Lesganagh was with them, the invasion of Danastaer would come to an end tonight, he was sure of it. Allowing himself a moment of self-indulgence, Urgraith Mireynh grabbed the skin of mead tied to his saddle and took a long pull. He felt good about himself and the world. Dunthiochagh would fall, his family would be safe, and his troops would be able to billet in the city’s houses by midnight. Life, he felt, was good to him once more.
The escalade had not stopped by nightfall, but the fighting atop the walls hadn’t subsided either. Mireynh dismissed another of Sir Duncan’s messengers, turned to a runner, saying, “Relay this to Killoy: send in five hundred of the reserves, they’re to bolster the center.”
The young man gave a brief salute and departed. The High General was now less pleased with the day than he had been when the attack had started. It was almost evening and still Duasonh defied him. What was worse was that the escalades planned for the eastern and western parts of the wall had been repelled numerous times, and now the main attack had to do without the additional support from the flanks.
Pulling his cloak tight, he stared at the city’s stony silhouette. The wall was packed with combatants. From a distance, even with fires burning within and without town, it was impossible to make out whose troops were whose. “Damn those Danastaerians,” he grumbled.
“Sir?” Trileigh asked.
“Bastard Duasonh’s good.”
“Aye, sir, so it seems. But we can count ourselves lucky,” the Lord Commander added.
“Why’s that?” His eyes were back on the battle.
“The Baron’s Wizard hasn’t acted, yet.”
He glar
ed at the nobleman. “Don’t you dare fucking jinx it!” He wasn’t superstitious, but his initial confidence had soured while the escalade dragged on. “Don’t fucking jinx it!”
Trileigh was about to reply when two things happened at once: the first was that an entire section of Dunthiochagh’s wall, the part where his troops were thickest, or so he had hoped, was wiped clean as if someone had taken a broom and swept away dirt. And the second was the arrival of a blood-covered rider on a tired looking horse coming up their hill.
Mireynh didn’t know where to look. Openmouthed he stared at the empty portion of the battlement, and then glanced back at the rider who barely managed to leap free of his collapsing steed. It was Braddan Kirrich, leader of the force meant to take the crossing at Ondalan.
CHAPTER 2
“Rise and shine, Princess.” Briog’s voice sounded louder inside the Palace’s chamber. Rhea yawned, and stretched, blinking away last night’s sleep.
“What?” she asked, not hiding the second, longer yawn, as she twisted her head toward the voice. Her sight fell upon him and in a heartbeat she was wide-awake.
Her fellow Rider stood beside her bed, wearing his plate-reinforced chain armor, the half helmet in the crook of his arm. His sword was already belted and his left hand rested comfortably on its pommel. “Nerran’s called a meeting,” he replied. “Get your ass out of bed, we’re going to battle.” Having said his piece, Briog headed back out.
She sat up, the pile of warm blankets slid into her lap and immediately the chill greeted her. “The Chanastardhians are moving?”
Inside the door her friend turned and shrugged. “No idea, but I doubt he wants to hold a prayer session for all of us.”
“Where?” she asked, stifling another yawn.
“In Lesganagh’s temple, where else?” He stepped out, adding, “Get ready and be there soon.”
“Battle-ready?” Gods, she still was tired and her brain hadn’t caught up with her wakening.
“No, Princess, wear your best gown,” Briog retorted, winked at her, and then he closed the door.
“Bloody Scales,” Rhea swore, then reminded herself which deity she served and added, looking to the hidden sky, “Sorry.” The instant her feet touched the cold floor the last traces of sleep were purged from her body. She had to remember to wear socks even if her nights were not spent in the countryside. She doubted the Palace’s staff would appreciate her wearing boots in bed. The rushes strewn about hardly kept the cold at bay, and this chamber was sparsely furnished, as were those of her fellow Riders—with the exception of Nerran’s, of course. Maybe, she told herself, having cold feet kept the mind alert. At the very least it made waking up very easy.
A few hops later—she didn’t dare to slowly walk to the sideboard—she stood before the basin and pitcher. Thankfully a servant had replaced last night’s ice with something that actually resembled water. The rationing of firewood compelled most people to rely on fewer and fewer commodities that were essential to everyday life. Washing was one of those things people could very well do without for a while. The fires that still burned were mostly used for cooking, although rumor had it that Baron Duasonh’s study, at least, was still well heated. No one really begrudged Lord Duasonh this small luxury, and considering that his own bedchamber was also freezing, it was a small enough exception. Hopefully other nobles were following his example. Rhea poured water into the basin and dipped her face in.
Spraying droplets of ice water, her head lashed back up. “Damnation! That wakes you up in the morning,” she hissed. As if the cold tiles hadn’t already done that. She washed hands and arms, and then she toweled herself dry. Would the servants heat water for her to wash her hair? No, this sort of thinking had been appropriate for little Princess Rhea, not for the woman she had become. Sometimes she could go days without reminiscing about the past; at other times, like now, the old reflex to ring for a servant when anything was amiss returned almost instantly.
Scowling and berating herself, she tied her hair into a knot, slipped into her stockings, and began to don her armor. “You’ve been a Rider for almost twenty years,” Rhea said as she plunged her legs into the quilted hose. “An Upholder for even longer!” Next on came the chain leggings. “You haven’t been the little, spoiled brat for a long, bloody time.” Each of the last three words was accompanied by either a tug or a jump to make the armor fit snugly but comfortably about her legs. “Don’t complain, Priestess!” She let the quilted tunic slide down her head and chest, wriggled her arms inside. By now the knot had come undone and strands of hair tangled with the tunic’s strings. “Bloody Scales!” she hissed again, this time not apologizing. If Lliania didn’t understand the need for venting one’s anger, so be it. Careful not to tear any hair out, Rheanna freed her head from the tunic and removed the underwear from the chainmail. Maybe she was still not as awake as she had thought, despite the cold water.
Or maybe her fumbling hands were due to the lack of morning conversation between herself and the other Riders. The meaningless banter, the snide remarks, she missed it.
Determined not to be the victim of her hair’s betrayal again, she first retied her blonde mane and then pulled on the cloth cap that went underneath the chain coif. Then, finally, she slipped into the quilted tunic with far less bother than before. Her struggle into the mail shirt reminded her of another reason why she missed camping with the Riders. Here, in this chamber, there was nobody to help her get into the damned thing, and she was too stubborn to shout for assistance.
Finally, after a much longer time than anticipated, Rhea was fully suited up for war. If Briog had played her for a fool and the Chanastardhians were digging as happily as they had the past week or so, the bastard would pay. Shouldering her shield, she extinguished the lamp, and left the room.
The news of a coming battle hadn’t been a joke. Throughout the Palace she encountered armed men and women, Swords, Pikes, Bows, troops of every denomination seemed busy on one errand or another. It wasn’t only warleaders hurrying to and fro, but also wardens requisitioning additional supplies from the master-at-arms. No one paid attention to her, which was just the way she liked it. She had left behind the tabard identifying her as an Upholder on purpose; the last thing she wanted was to be asked to settle some dispute while her friends were fighting.
“Looks like they’ll try an escalade,” someone said.
“First, they invade in late autumn and now they try to take our wall?” another replied, snorting with derision.
“An escalade,” scoffed a third, a woman. “Bloody likely. We’ll mow down every bastard that gets within a hundred fifty yards.”
“You Bows always bite off more than you can chew,” the first speaker chuckled.
“You watch…” Rhea passed out of earshot into the inner bailey.
Today all the gates were open, even the drawbridge was down, the Baron and his staff obviously more concerned with a steady flow of traffic than security. She couldn’t blame them. The password nonsense had taken up more time than anything else when entering the Palace.
A few moments later she was on Trade Road, dodging a cart laden with bushels of arrows speeding southward. Maneuvering through the rest of the traffic was easy, as it was almost nonexistent, with the exception of columns of warriors marching toward Old Bridge. Most of the troops were billeted south of the Dunth, but things had gotten so crowded down there that the warleaders had finally been forced to requisition chambers, even entire buildings, from the people in the old part of town. Some of the richer citizens, she knew, had complained about the military taking over their property, and it had taken respectable nobles, like Úistan Cahill, to convince the others that this was indeed in their best interest.
Rhea chuckled, shaking her head. Some people would never know what was good for them, even if it whacked them in the face.
Lesganagh’s Temple was still little more than an empty husk. In times of war the pragmatic followers of the Lord of Sun and War knew very well wher
e to focus their energies, and, unlike certain Eanaighists, maintaining or restoring the crumbling façade was of no importance. The doors stood open, and echoing from the interior she heard Nerran’s voice, distinctive and commanding as usual, talking, no preaching, in a way she had last heard him speak when addressing the fool Danaissan and his gang.
“… we will not yield, none of us. Lesganagh is with us, standing tall, burning strong, strengthening our shields and swords. You…”—Rhea entered and saw the Paladin standing before not only the Riders but a host of people—“… you all know that He is Lifegiver and taker, He shines upon our fields, makes our crops grow. He protected this city…”—not only warriors were listening, she saw craftsmen, dockworkers, housewives, freeborn and villeins—“… and He has not turned His eye away from us. As long as we people of Dunthiochagh are strong and firm in our belief that it is us, not them, who deserve to be here as we have for generations, who will do everything we can do to keep the enemy out, He stands behind us, guiding our hands, searing those who stand in our way!”
Rhea found herself as entranced by the speech as the others. She saw a carter share a solemn nod with a richly dressed merchant. The pair weren’t alone in this, all over the place, men and women of disparate backgrounds locked steely, determined gazes onto each other. Somebody placed a firm hand on her shoulder, squeezing it. Surprised, she turned her head and saw the toothless smile of an old man, a beggar most like, his walking staff held like a lance. “We’ll get them, lassie, eh?” he said, and despite the gummy mumble she heard the man’s resolve. A resolve she shared.
“Aye,” she replied, returning his smile. “We’ll get them.” Whether the old beggar would be of use on the wall or not, she could hardly tell, but she was certain he would do something to harass the Chanastardhians.
Never before had she heard Nerran speak with such conviction, such force. He had always been mouthy, arrogant, a sarcastic remark never far from his lips. Sure, she knew about his faith and calling, every Rider knew, though their loyalty had never been based on his eloquence.
