The Red Fox Clan

by John Flanagan

  Gilan scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Yes. It’s two for none, isn’t it? D’you think they’ll change tactics next time? Frontal assaults don’t seem to be working too well for them.”

  “I’m not sure what else they can do—not if they want a quick ending to this.”

  Gilan frowned. “Maybe they plan to starve us out. We don’t have enough provisions for a lengthy siege.”

  “We’ve got plenty of water,” Horace said.

  Gilan shrugged. “But not food. A couple of weeks would see us starving. Even worse, the horses won’t last without proper fodder. So we’re stuck here. We can’t go anywhere. We can’t break out. They still have us well and truly outnumbered, and if we try to attack them, they’ll see us coming and they’ll be ready for us. We’ll be out in the open. They’ll be behind their shield wall, and we’ll be fighting at a disadvantage.”

  Horace nodded. “Exactly. They may send a few skirmishers up the hill from time to time to keep us on our toes. But I think they’ll be perfectly happy to sit back and watch us watching them.”

  For a minute or so, the two friends were silent. Then Horace asked, “Do you think you could sneak out through their lines?”

  Gilan nodded emphatically. “Of course I could. But then what? I can’t sneak Blaze out with me. Traveling on foot, it’d take me a week or so to reach Castle Araluen, and then what? Dimon only has twenty or thirty men there. That’s hardly enough to help us break out. And I couldn’t bring them all back. We can’t leave the castle undefended.”

  “That’s true,” Horace replied gloomily. “So I guess all we can do is wait and see what they have in mind. Unless,” he said with a rueful grin, “you can come up with a brilliant strategy. I hear Rangers are good at that.”

  Gilan rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard that too,” he said. “I’ll let you know if anything occurs to me.”

  “I wish you would,” said Horace.

  * * *

  • • •

  Maddie reached the clear ground below the castle around mid-morning. Bumper was already there, back in his hidden glade, and he greeted her enthusiastically.

  I was worried about you.

  “I was fine,” she told him. “I was just a little lost in the forest.”

  Fine Ranger you are.

  “That’s what I told myself.” She unsaddled him and rubbed him down, then filled his water bucket and poured more grain into his feed bag. He munched gratefully, grinding the food noisily with his big teeth the way horses do. Once she was assured that his needs were taken care of, she started toward the edge of the trees to survey the castle.

  Everything seemed normal. The drawbridge was down. There were two sentries keeping guard at the outside end, and she could see more moving on the battlements. There was no sign or sound of any fighting, which she might have expected if Dimon was attempting to take the castle. Perhaps he’s already done it, she thought dismally. After all, if his plan had worked, he and his men would have simply walked in across the drawbridge. Any fighting would have been over in a matter of minutes, with the castle’s defenders, and her mother, taken by surprise.

  Perhaps, she thought, her mother was already dead, and she felt tears pricking her eyelids at the thought.

  She leaned against the trunk of a tree while she considered what she was seeing. Everything seemed normal. But something was different. She sensed that there was one slight detail that had changed since she had last looked at the castle. But for the life of her, she couldn’t work out what it was.

  She scanned the castle, eyes slitted in concentration as she studied the walls, the towers, the battlements, trying to realize what it was that had pricked her attention.

  Not the keep. Not the battlements along the outer wall. Not the massive gatehouse. Was it one of the towers? She studied the north tower, then the south. Completely normal, with a flag fluttering over it.

  A flag? There had been no flag on the south tower last time she looked. She strained her eyes and could see a trace of red on white—a red stooping hawk.

  Her mother’s banner!

  Looking more closely, she realized that the banner was flying upside down—the universal distress signal.

  And in that moment, she knew what had happened. Dimon’s coup had been successful—at least partly so. But her mother had obviously had time to retreat to the south tower—the point of last defense. With the realization that her mother was safe, at least temporarily, Maddie’s spirits lifted. She looked up the slope to the small clump of bushes that concealed the entrance to the tunnel. They were undisturbed. She started forward, ready to move out of the trees, then hesitated.

  It was full daylight and the battlements were manned with sentries—enemy sentries. Skilled as she was at moving without being seen, it wasn’t worth the risk. The parkland was kept open and well mowed for precisely that reason—to prevent attackers from approaching unseen. If her mother was safely ensconced in the south tower, another few hours wouldn’t make any difference. Maddie would wait until dusk, then make her move. In the meantime, she thought, she might as well get some rest. She’d had a long, sleepless night and an exhausting day.

  * * *

  • • •

  The hours dragged by. Tired as she was, sleep came fitfully. She dozed, waking frequently, with her mind racing as she considered the situation. She was reminded once more of Will’s dictum: Most of our time is spent waiting. A Ranger’s best asset is patience.

  At last, the sun sank below the horizon and shadows crept over the parkland. This was probably the best time for her to move, while the light was fluky and uncertain. She went back into the trees to say farewell to Bumper, and then, wrapped in her cloak, stole out onto the short grass of the park, moving in a crouch, matching her rhythm to that of the wind and cloud shadows flitting across the grass. She held the cloak tightly to keep it from flapping in the rising breeze. Movement like that could attract the eye of one of the sentries.

  She ghosted up the slope as the evening grew darker. When she finally slipped into the shelter of the bushes concealing the tunnel entrance, there had been no outcry from the battlements, no sound of alarm.

  She found her lantern still at the tunnel entrance where she had left it. She shook it experimentally and heard the splash of oil inside its reservoir. There was still plenty there, she thought. Enough for two passages through the tunnel. Mindful of the watching eyes on the battlements, she moved several meters into the tunnel before she struck her flint and lit the lantern wick. The yellow light flared out, wavering over the rough clay walls. She checked that she had her sling and her saxe, then set off.

  She was familiar with the tunnel now, and she made good time, passing under the moat, then feeling the tunnel climbing upward. Stumbling from time to time on the uneven footing, she made it into the hidden room in the bottom cellar and moved toward the secret door.

  Then stopped.

  As her hand stretched out to trip the lock, she heard a murmur of voices from the other side. She put her ear to the stone and listened. She still couldn’t make out what was being said. The voices started again, then one of them, raised higher than the others, came through more clearly.

  “. . . how you like a night in the cells. You might . . . more friendly tomorrow. Good night!”

  A door clanged shut. One of the cell doors, she thought. Then she heard the clack of boot heels on stone. Someone was crossing the cellar and mounting the steps. She waited, her ear pressed against the stone. Her pulse was racing. That had been a near thing. Accustomed now to the fact that there was never anyone in the lower cellar, she had nearly blundered out to be discovered by one of Dimon’s men. Yet it stood to reason that he might have put some of the castle staff in the cells. Mentally, she rebuked herself. She should have thought of that.

  Her mother and the remaining members of the garrison might well have made it to the safety
of the south tower. But even with the skeleton staff in the castle at this time of year, that would have left behind a handful of servants, cooks, messengers and other members of the castle staff—the noncombatants. Some of them may well have been cowed by Dimon and his armed men. Others would have refused to serve them. It was probable that these people had been confined to the cellars below the keep. She pondered the situation for a moment or two. She could release them, of course, and lead them to safety through the tunnel. But that would only reveal her presence to the usurper. They would be safe enough for the time being, she decided, if a little uncomfortable.

  She realized she had been crouching with her head against the door for several minutes, with no further sound from the other side. But from this hidden room, she had access to two other tunnels. One led to the gatehouse. The other would take her to the hidden staircase leading up to the top of the south tower.

  And that was where she wanted to go now.

  42

  Turning away from the door to the cellar, Maddie moved to the left-hand entrance, which, from her previous reconnaissance, she knew opened into the tunnel that would take her to the south tower.

  She was accustomed now to moving through the tunnels, with their uneven footing, low headroom and dim light, and she made good time, following the pool of light thrown by her lantern. She shook it again, checking the level of oil left in the reservoir. Satisfied that there was still plenty remaining, she continued on through the tunnel.

  “Wouldn’t want to be in here if the light went out,” she muttered. Just to be sure, she lowered the wick a little, so that it would burn less fuel.

  The tunnel was relatively straight and undeviating, and she soon felt it sloping upward and knew she was close to the base of the south tower—and the wooden ladders that led up to the top floors. Eventually, they loomed out of the dimness ahead of her. She paused at the base of the first flight, studying the rungs to make sure they were solid, and then she began to climb.

  The flights weren’t vertical, but they were steep, angling up at about seventy degrees. Each one consisted of fifteen rungs—steps, actually, as they were constructed from stout boards some twelve centimeters across. At the top of each flight, she could step across to the next fifteen steps, angling back in the opposite direction. Two flights took her up one story in the tower, so she calculated she would have eighteen flights to climb before she reached the top. She grimaced at the thought. She was fit and young and she’d manage the climb easily. But eighteen flights of steps? Luckily, her hip was only a problem if she sat still for a long period.

  “That’s something to be grateful for,” she muttered to herself.

  At first, she moved steadily, not rushing, checking each step before she trusted her weight to it. One or two creaked and moved slightly, but for the most part they were solidly set and in good condition. As she continued without finding a problem, her confidence grew and she began to climb faster.

  Which, inevitably, nearly brought her to disaster. One tread on the fifth flight had rotted at the point where it was set into the upright section of the ladder. As she put her weight on it and began to step upward, it crumbled and splintered and gave way. She grabbed at the side rail desperately as her foot dropped into empty space. For a moment she hung, nearly losing her grip on the lantern. Then she recovered and, setting her teeth, hauled herself up past that broken step to the next above it. This time, she tested it carefully before committing her full weight to it.

  And this time, it held.

  But the near accident made her more careful, and she slowed down again, testing each step.

  Ten flights. Eleven. Twelve. She was counting each stage as she went, saying the words in a whisper. Six flights to go, she thought, stopping at the small platform between flights to stretch her leg and work her knees. She looked up, seeing a few faint rays of light above her where ventilation or observation holes were let into the outer walls of the tower. She looked down. Below her was only a black void, and for a moment her head swam.

  Halfway up the thirteenth flight, she paused, sniffing the still air inside the stairway. She could smell smoke.

  Not wood smoke, she realized. It had an oily smell to it—like pitch. She felt a moment of panic. Had Dimon managed to set fire to the tower? Had her mother and her troops been driven out and captured? Or worse?

  There was only one way to find out. That was to continue upward. She started climbing again. On the next flight, she became conscious of a banging sound echoing down the stairway. The regular rhythm sounded like hammers hitting wood.

  Someone’s building something, she thought. The sound comforted her. If there was activity above, then it indicated that her mother was still secure in the tower and that her fears when she smelled the smoke were unfounded.

  The hammering grew louder the farther up she went. The smoky smell was still evident, but she could see no flicker of light above her that might indicate that something was still burning. And there was no physical evidence of smoke itself—no fumes or choking clouds. Whatever it was that had been burning, it was no longer alight.

  Fifteen. Sixteen. The hammering was louder now. Halfway up the seventeenth flight, she stopped and pressed her ear to the stone wall. The hammering was coming from the other side, almost level with her current position. She continued until she was at the top of the eighteenth flight, facing the stone wall.

  Holding the lantern high, she stopped to catch her breath and study the wall. She could see the rectangular outline of the door, and the simple handle halfway down. There was no need for concealment or secrecy inside the hidden staircase. Just above her eye level, there was a small hole, made obvious by the gleam of light showing from the other side. She raised herself on tiptoe and peered through.

  Her heart leapt as she saw Cassandra sitting not five meters away, her back to the secret door where Maddie stood. Her mother was talking to a gray-bearded sergeant in the uniform of the palace guard. His arm was in a sling, and they were seated at a wooden table in the big, well-lit room that took up most of the ninth floor.

  She reached out for the door handle.

  * * *

  • • •

  Cassandra was sitting at the large table on the ninth floor, drinking a cup of coffee, when Merlon entered.

  “The barrier is almost ready, my lady,” he said, indicating the hammering that came from below with a jerk of his head.

  Cassandra nodded. “Good. That’ll stop any further attempt to burn us out. Sit down, Merlon. Pour yourself a cup of coffee.”

  Taking a leaf out of Dimon’s book, she had set her men to constructing a wooden wall at the edge of the gap in the stairway. That would prevent their attackers from hurling more of the clay pots filled with burning pitch up at the defenders. The pots would hit the wall and fall harmlessly into the stairwell below. The timber wall itself would be doused regularly with water to forestall any attempt to burn it.

  She leaned back and stretched. She was tired, and her shoulders and neck ached with tension.

  “Well, I suppose there’s not much—”

  She stopped as she heard a loud click from behind her. As she was turning to see what had caused it, a familiar voice spoke.

  “Hello, Mum.”

  Cassandra gave a cry of shock, rapidly turning to delight. Maddie, dressed in her Ranger cloak and uniform, stood by the wall, in front of an open doorway. Merlon grunted in surprise, and Cassandra, recovering quickly, rose to her feet and dashed to her daughter, folding her in a bear hug.

  “Maddie! Oh, Maddie! You’re safe, thank goodness!”

  Maddie laughed with a combination of relief and joy, half smothered in her mother’s embrace. Finally, she managed to break free, just a little. No too much, just a little.

  Cassandra held her back at arm’s length, satisfying herself that her daughter was unharmed, tears of happiness coursing down her cheeks.r />
  “Where on earth did you spring from? Where have you been? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine, Mother. I discovered a whole network of tunnels and secret stairways inside the walls and under the castle itself.” She stepped aside and indicated the dark opening behind her. “This leads down to the cellars.”

  “The cellars? What were you doing in the cellars?” her mother wanted to know.

  “The tunnels all start from down there,” Maddie explained. But the explanation left a lot unanswered.

  “Tunnels? Stairways? Secret passages? What have you been doing?”

  Maddie took both her mother’s hands in her own to calm her. The sudden shock of seeing her daughter, of realizing she was safe, after wondering where she was, was too much for Cassandra. She began to sob. Merlon, horrified at the sight of his calm, self-assured princess losing control of her emotions, stood awkwardly, wanting to help but not knowing how.

  Maddie reassured him with a glance. “Maybe you could make us some more coffee, Sergeant?” she suggested. And, as he hurried away to do so, she led Cassandra back to her chair. “Now, Mother, sit down. Calm down. And I’ll tell you everything.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It took fifteen minutes, with constant interruptions and questions from Cassandra, for Maddie to describe the events of the previous few days. When she heard that Horace was safe—although besieged in the hill fort north of the Wezel River—Cassandra felt a huge weight lift from her shoulders.

  “Dimon tried to tell me he was dead,” she said, her voice full of venom.

  Maddie shook her head. “He’s safe. But he’ll find it hard to break out. He’s outnumbered, and the enemy can see everything he does. He can’t surprise them. I thought if I could get some men and stage a surprise attack on the enemy from the rear, that would give him a chance to break out.”