The Red Fox Clan

by John Flanagan

  A deep voice intoned from the space underneath Maddie. “All stand and hail, Vulpus Rutilus.”

  Vulpus Rutilus. She recognized the form of the words as being in the ancient Toscan language. Before she had been recruited into the Rangers, she had studied it at Castle Araluen, hating every minute of it.

  Now, however, she recognized those two words from her long-distant lessons.

  Vulpus Rutilus. Red Fox. The leader of the cult was obviously assigned this title. There was a general shuffling of feet as the men below her stood. The leader remained unmoving at the lectern while they rearranged themselves. Then, in a loud chorus, they spoke.

  “Hail, Vulpus Rutilus! Hail, leader of the Red Fox Clan!”

  There was a rustle of movement, and through the spyhole, she saw the group all raise their right arms, held straight, above shoulder level, in the traditional ancient military salute of the Toscans. Their leader raised his own right hand in reply.

  “Hail, members of the Clan. Hail Red Foxes.”

  His voice was muffled by the cowl, but her heart froze as she recognized it. Then, after a few seconds, he swept back the heavy cowl so she could see his face in the torchlight, and she knew for sure who he was.

  Vulpus Rutilus, leader of the Red Fox Clan, was none other than Dimon, her mother’s trusted commander of the guard.

  Stunned by the realization, she dropped back from the spyhole into the narrow space between the gallery's front pew and the balustrade, leaning against the rough stone wall of the abbey for support. Vaguely, she heard the sound of shuffling bodies as the Foxes took their seats once more, waiting for their leader to address them. How could Dimon, of all people, be a traitor? He was a trusted officer in the castle guard. He was even said to be a distant relative. Maddie had a deeply ingrained sense of loyalty and honor, and it simply made no sense to her for such a person to be a turncoat—to abrogate his position and his responsibilities so badly.

  Then, as he spoke further, she began to understand.

  “For some weeks now, you’ve been gathering here with your men, traveling from all corners of the kingdom,” Dimon said. “Now the time for action has come. Tomorrow, we will launch our attack on Castle Araluen.” There was a murmur of surprise from the assembly. They obviously hadn’t been expecting this. She put her eye back to the tiny hole drilled through the balustrade and saw him holding up his hands for silence. Gradually, the voices died away.

  “I know. I know. This is sooner than we had planned. But conditions for the attack are favorable, and I believe we are ready.” He looked around the faces before him, making sure that everyone was paying attention, then continued.

  “The plan to lure Sir Horace and the Ranger Commandant away from the castle has been more successful than we had expected,” he said.

  Maddie felt her heart skip a beat. The plan to lure them away? So it had been a ruse to remove Cassandra’s two most experienced and renowned warriors, and half the garrison, and prevent them from playing a hand in the defense of the castle against the Red Fox Clan.

  “They are currently trapped in an old hill fort on the northern banks of the Wezel River. Our Sonderland allies have them surrounded. They are effectively out of action.”

  “Lord Vulpus, how long can the Sonderland mercenaries hold them?” a voice asked.

  The tone was respectful, and Dimon nodded at the speaker, acknowledging it as a fair question. “Indefinitely. But knowing Sir Horace and the Ranger, I expect they will try to break out. If they do, they will almost certainly be overwhelmed and killed by our superior numbers. But it would be a bad idea to underestimate those two. On the slim chance that they might survive, I want to have occupied Castle Araluen. We all know what an impregnable stronghold that is. They can destroy themselves against the walls of Araluen while we sit safely inside.”

  He paused, his gaze traveling round the room. “Of course,” he continued, “we won’t have to assault the castle. You will all be disguised as members of the garrison. I have uniforms outside for you and your men. You will form up under my command and we will simply march into the castle. Nobody will try to stop us. Once we’re inside, we’ll have the remaining garrison outnumbered. We’ll kill them, and the Princess Regent, and take control. Then we’ll spread the rumor that the princess was murdered by assassins from the Red Fox Clan, in spite of our efforts to save her. Once we’re inside the castle, I’ll remain masked so that the staff and servants don’t recognize me.

  “With Duncan and his immediate family out of the way, I will be the next in line to the throne. I am related to the royal family, as you all know. It’s a distant relationship, but a perfectly legal one—and one I can prove. Best of all, from our point of view, I’m a male heir. The people will accept me. After all, I will be seen as the heroic victor over the Red Foxes. Then, once I am in power, I will rescind the law passed by my ancestor and restore the law of male succession to the throne of Araluen. Male succession only,” he added with grim emphasis, and there was another murmur of agreement.

  “What if the Ranger Corps rises against you?” It was the same voice that had spoken before, and Maddie had the sudden realization that this conversation had been orchestrated to raise and then demolish any possible objections to Dimon’s plan.

  “Why should they? They won’t know of my association with the Clan, and I will be the legitimate heir to the throne. There’ll be nobody to tell them otherwise. We’ll simply claim that a loyal group remained trapped with me in a section of the castle, and we eventually broke out and defeated the Red Fox members—unfortunately too late to save Cassandra.”

  “There’s always the young princess.” This was a new voice, and several others called out, agreeing.

  “Madelyn? She’s a flighty young girl. And she’s in the palace with her mother. I expect she’ll suffer the same fate.”

  Maddie smiled grimly. Without her willing it, her hand touched the sling coiled under her belt. For a moment, goaded by his derisive reference to her, she was tempted to rise from her hiding place and place a lead ball between his treacherous eyes. Then sanity prevailed. Throwing away her own life wouldn’t help matters.

  “What about the King?” another voice called.

  Dimon made a contemptuous gesture. “He’s weak and sick. I’d say he doesn’t have much longer for this earth.”

  Maddie felt a prick of tears at the description of her grandfather. And at Dimon’s scornful dismissal of him. The leader of the Red Foxes was going to pay for this, she told herself.

  “We heard there were Skandians in the castle. Will they take a hand in all this?” This was yet another voice.

  Dimon replied with a nod. “They’ve gone,” he said. “That’s why I want to act now. They’ll be gone for at least four or five days, maybe a week. They might have helped Cassandra—but if we act now, we’ll be in control of the castle by the time they return. And, like Horace and Gilan, they’ll have no idea that we were behind the princess’s death.”

  Maddie found herself nodding slowly. This explained Dimon’s antipathy toward the crew of the Heron. He had seen them as a possible obstacle to his revolt. A dozen tough, battle-hardened Skandians under the command of a resourceful leader might well throw his carefully planned coup off balance.

  “Are there any more questions?” Dimon was asking. He looked around the room, searching the faces before him. There was no reply. “In that case, we’ll adjourn this meeting. We’ll assemble tomorrow at noon in the forest below Castle Araluen. Collect your uniforms outside. We’ll simply march up the hill, across the drawbridge and into the castle. Kill anyone who shows any resistance.”

  There was a stir of movement from below, and Maddie rose carefully, intent on getting one more look at the conspirators before the meeting broke up. It might be handy to be able to recognize some faces the next day, she thought. Dimon, of course, she would know. But she might need to be able to identi
fy the other ringleaders.

  As she cautiously drew herself up to peer over the balustrade, she supported herself with one hand on top of the wooden rail.

  But the old timber was rotten and worm ridden, and as she put her weight on it, a piece broke away beneath her hand with a splintering crack. Two dozen pairs of eyes turned toward the sound, and she dropped back out of sight. In the sudden panic of the moment, she forgot her training, forgot the need to move slowly. And the sudden movement betrayed her presence.

  Below her, she heard Dimon shouting.

  “The gallery! There’s someone up there! Get him!”

  32

  They had been in the old hill fort for three days before the Red Fox Clan launched their attack.

  An hour after dawn, Gilan was patrolling the walls, as was his custom each morning, when he heard the sound of whistles and bugles coming from the enemy camp. The Fox troops had set up tent lines at the bottom of the hill. Now their men were pouring out of them and forming up on the open space between their camp and the beginning of the winding track that led up to the hill fort.

  “So they’re moving at last,” said a voice from close behind him.

  He turned quickly to see that Horace was there. “Looks like it,” he replied. He glanced around the walkway and saw a group of archers a few meters away, watching the preparations below with interest. His senior archer was among them.

  “Nestor!” he called, and as the man looked up, he said, “Over here, please.”

  The grizzled archer walked smartly to him, knuckling his forehead as he drew close.

  “Looks like they’ve made up their minds, Ranger,” he said. The small garrison of the hill fort had been wondering when the Foxes might gather sufficient courage to attack.

  “Indeed it does. Deploy your men, Nestor. My guess is the enemy will use the spiral track until they’re close to the top, then try to come up the grass slope for the last of the climb.”

  Nestor nodded. He’d come to the same conclusion.

  Gilan continued. “Problem is, we won’t know which part of the hill they’ll choose for the final assault until they’re committed.”

  “Makes sense for them to attack here at the main gate,” Nestor said, jerking his thumb toward the gateway before them. “It’s a shorter climb up the grass slope here, and there’s no way through the wall on any of the other sides.”

  “You’re probably right. But let’s put five archers on each wall, just to keep an eye on them. If they try to come up the grass slope, they’ll be sitting ducks. Rapid shooting from five men should slow them down until reinforcements arrive. And if they make their way round to this side, the men from the other walls will have time to reinforce us here.”

  “I’ll get on it right away,” Nestor said. He touched his forehead again and turned away, calling orders to his men and shouting down into the courtyard below to summon the remainder of his small force.

  “That’s good thinking,” Horace said. He had been listening while Gilan issued his orders. “I’ll put two troopers with your men on each wall as well.”

  He turned and walked away, calling for the lieutenant in command of the cavalry troop. As word of the impending attack spread among the garrison, the yard below became full of men hurrying to their stations on the wall, or buckling on armor and weapons. There was almost a sense of relief among the garrison now that the fight was finally about to start. The uncertainty of waiting for the enemy to attack had been grating on their nerves for the past two days.

  Gilan smiled grimly as he remembered an old saying: Waiting for the fight is worse than the fighting itself.

  He checked his own equipment, making sure his quiver was full of arrows and his saxe and throwing knife were loose in their scabbards. Then he set the end of his bow on the planks and, using his foot as a brace, bent the stave while he ran the string up to slip into the notch at the top of the bow. He flexed the bow once or twice, making sure the string was securely set and that the string itself was in good condition, with no sign of fraying or unraveling.

  It was an automatic reaction and quite unnecessary. Rangers were trained to keep their equipment and their weapons in perfect condition at all times. Still, he remembered Halt telling him many years ago, It’s the time you don’t check when something will go wrong.

  Satisfied that he was ready, he moved up to the wall once more. He heard the sound of running feet and felt the vibration through the planks of the catwalk beneath him. Glancing round, he saw the small groups of archers and troopers running to take up their positions on the other three walls, spacing themselves out to cover the widest area possible.

  On the south wall, where he stood, was the largest concentration of defenders. Five archers and himself—that should provide a suitably lethal storm of arrows—and the remaining cavalry troopers formed a strong defensive line along the wall. As he watched, he saw Horace detailing six of the latter to empty the ready water barrels down the drains by the gate. The men ran to do his bidding, and several minutes later, Gilan saw jets of water spurting out of the hidden pipes under the track and showering down to wet the grass on the steep slope.

  “That should slow them up,” Horace said, grinning, as he returned to Gilan’s side.

  There was a trumpet blast from below them, and the two ranks of enemy troops turned right and began to march toward the beginning of the spiral trail. Gilan noticed that they were all carrying body-length shields, made from timber, and a group halfway along the column were burdened with long ladders, made from roughly trimmed saplings, with the rungs lashed in place with leather thongs and creepers. Obviously, the delay in their attack had been caused by their constructing the ladders and the new shields. They had learned their lesson about the deadly accuracy of the Araluen archers.

  He counted five ladders and estimated their reach. They looked long enough to scale the wall of the hill fort. He checked along the length of the catwalk, where Horace had organized work parties over the past two days to pile up stocks of large rocks every couple of meters, ready for use.

  Glancing round, he studied the men on the other three walls. Their numbers were depressingly thin, he thought. If the attackers were well led and persistent, they had a good chance of getting inside the fort. It would depend on where the attack was focused. The defenders simply didn’t have enough men to cover all four walls.

  “How many do you think?” he asked Horace, who had been watching the column through slitted eyes.

  “Maybe eighty,” he replied. “They’re not committing their full force.”

  “They’re not being led by their commander, either,” Gilan replied. He had seen no sign of the officer with his arm in a sling who had been so vocal several days previously. The man leading the column was younger—more of a warrior than a talker, he thought. He was mounted, and he urged his horse up the steep, uneven track, casting constant glances at the defenders above him, waiting for the onslaught that he knew would come eventually.

  The head of the column had passed around the hill, out of sight. The rest of the attackers straggled after it. There were gaps in their formation, and they were making heavy work of the uneven ground of the trail—particularly the ladder carriers in the middle of the column.

  The spiral trail wound clockwise round the hill, and as the tail of the column passed out of sight, the leader of the men on the west wall called a warning.

  “They’re in sight now! Still staying on the trail!”

  A few minutes later, the north wall repeated the cry. Gilan nodded quietly. They were still several levels below the top of the trail, faced by steep and slippery grass slopes. They wouldn’t attempt to leave the trail yet.

  “In sight! Still coming!” That was the east wall.

  A few minutes later, the column appeared, rounding the hill, on the next tier of the spiraling trail they were following. He sensed someone moving to stand besi
de him and glanced round to see it was Nestor.

  “Try a few shots, Ranger?” he suggested.

  Gilan considered the idea, then shook his head. “Save your arrows,” he said. “When they’re on the next tier, we’ll hit them with a volley, then rapid shooting.”

  Nestor nodded. He could see the sense in waiting until the enemy were well within range before hitting them with a concentrated rain of arrows. By that stage, they’d be mentally preparing themselves for the final uphill assault. The sight of half a dozen of their comrades tumbling backward, transfixed by arrows, would be a demoralizing one—all the more so because they would have been expecting it for some minutes.

  The column went round the hill again, and the warning cries from the other three walls rang across the empty courtyard. Then the marching men appeared once more, now on the penultimate level below the gate.

  “Ready, archers!” called Gilan, and the five archers assigned to the south side stepped forward to the palisade, nocking arrows to their bowstrings. Gilan did likewise.

  “Troopers, stand to!” Horace called, and the cavalrymen stepped forward as well, each holding his long lance upright. Designed for use from horseback, they would be well suited to repelling men climbing up the assault ladders, catching them on the iron points before they could use their own close-range weapons—axes, swords and clubs.

  The attacking force hesitated. Suddenly, the wall high above them seemed to be filled with armed men. The early sunlight glinted on the steel heads of lances and the helmets worn by the troopers.

  “Archers!” Gilan called. “One volley, then four shafts rapid! Ready!”

  Six bows groaned slightly as the shooters drew back their shafts, each picking a target in the mass of men below. The attackers saw the movement and brought up their shields to cover themselves.