†
The cavalry escorting the supply train took the bait and followed the Diné scouts into a trap, leaving the wagons undefended. Don gave the order and the guns fired, blanking out the view of the road below them by clouds of gray smoke. A flock of crows flew up from trees below, scolding in chorus.
“That brought down the thunder,” said Colin.
When the view cleared, Don scanned the winding procession below with his binoculars. A cloud of dust hung in the air over the leading block of pikemen, and a number had fallen. One team of horses had dropped in their traces, and a wagon farther back lay on its side in splinters, one wheel still turning.
A dozen wagons began wheeling around and retreating to the west, only to see five hundred Sonora Lancers galloping down to block the road. The supply train had no way out, and it did not take them long to realize that their mounted escort was not returning. Three enemy riders bearing a white flag cautiously approached the guns.
Philip smiled at Don as he lowered the binoculars. The supply train was theirs, and the cost of life was light. The day had begun well.
†
Ramos sat his horse next to Colin and Don. “Thank God our enemy put a troop with each supply train,” he said. “Had he kept them together, they could have been a problem.”
“It was a mistake,” said Don. “He must have thought he would only have to counter small raids like we did before, so he divided his forces.”
“As it is, we can take them one by one,” continued Ramos, shifting his weight in the saddle. Snap stretched his neck and stole a bite of grass. “It does mean a nearly bloodless campaign. The number of prisoners is the problem, now.”
Don nodded. They had taken three complete supply trains of about sixty wagons each. The prisoners were being herded to a valley camp, about twenty miles to the south. Ramos’ plan had proven itself. They certainly had no shortage of supplies. They had enough food, fodder, and gunpowder to keep themselves in the field for a year, already, and enough left over to feed the prisoners, besides. Sparing men for guards, however, was taxing them more than he liked.
“What we really need is several companies of foot soldiers to guard the prisoners and the supplies,” said Colin. “The Diné scouts grumble when we ask them to guard. The lancers like it even less.”
“It is a problem” said Don, after a long moment. “But it is a good problem. The enemy desperately needs these supplies. I will order Hamway to march a company of pikemen to guard the prisoners.”
“May I ask a question?” asked Philip.
Don looked at him. His helm was a bit too big, and his nose was peeling. He looked like a boy playing soldier. Don wanted to smile, but kept a serious expression. “Of course,” he answered.
“Why couldn’t the enemy march four or five thousand back down the supply line and recover the supplies?”
“They could try,” answered Don, “if they knew where our camp is. With pikes we couldn’t simply run over them with the lancers. But they would have to mass in tight formations, and we could cut them to pieces with the guns.”
“Jenkins says that we have plenty of gunpowder, but our supply of balls and shells are limited.”
Don looked at the lad closely. The boy has a point. We should have brought more cannon balls. “Don’t worry,” answered Don, after a minute. The others were giving him full attention. “We have enough to stop them, should they try that.” But then what?
†
The Prophet’s army surrounded Stonegate with a ring of steel. For two full days, the marching soldiers gradually took positions all around the city, a half-mile from the walls. Then they began to dig trenches. They obviously intended to prevent any access in or out. The city was besieged.
Rachel dreaded the coming of the night. She knew that Carla had been given a post at the Gate of Weeping on the north wall. She wished that she could stand by her side but knew that it was not possible. She was part of the city leadership. The marshall had allowed her to take a tour of the defenses but ordered her to be off the wall by nightfall and to remain in a place of safety.
With her red hair and distinctive hunting coat, Carla was recognized everywhere. The city archer company had made her as much their emblem as their banner. Stories of her skill with the bow and her defeat of the Raiders had grown in the telling. She was not the only woman helping in the defense, of course. Many were being used to shuttle supplies to the fighters, to staff the aid stations, and to serve in the fire brigades. Not many, though, had weapons training.
Rachel, if she was recognized at all, was only known as a council member. Somehow, her part in the skirmish with the Raiders had been forgotten. Rachel knew that she was good with her bow and could certainly be a help. She also knew that she was no match for Carla, whose skill was uncanny.
Rachel climbed the gatehouse stairs to the wall accompanied by four bodyguards. She had no trouble finding Carla. Everyone knew her name. She found her standing by one of the catapults on top of the tower. They greeted each other with a hug.
“I think they will attack tonight,” said Rachel, leaning against gray granite. She stared at the enemy lines, well beyond bowshot. They seemed to be throwing up a long berm. She could see the tips of shovels throwing soil.
Carla gave her a tight smile in response. “I think so, too. That is what they did at Steamboat. Wheel up their cannons after dark, knock down the gates, and then a mass charge.”
“I want to be here with you,” said Rachel. Guilt clung to her like a clammy shroud.
“No. The marshall would never allow it. You have your part to play, and I have mine.”
They had discussed this many times before. Rachel felt a hot tear at the corner of each eye.
Carla continued, “He only allows me to be here because he says I am good for morale. He won’t admit that I can hold my own with any archer here.”
“I know. At least, I have persuaded him to allow the women to do more than comfort the children and tend the wounded.”
“Women and children are the hope of the future,” said Carla. “Men are reluctant to risk them except as a last resort.”
†
The prophet’s army certainly tried to duplicate their success at Steamboat. They concentrated their ten remaining cannons against the north wall. With an almost-unlimited labor force, they were able to dig deep firing pits within easy range of the wall to protect their guns. Stonegate defenders harassed them with stones from catapults and darts from ballistae, but the enemy accepted their losses and kept digging.
Marshall Allen held his fire from the town guns and other gunpowder weapons. He wanted the full force of the Stonegate defenses to hit them in an overwhelming shock. But they had plenty of catapult stones.
Rachel waited in the lore-house for night to fall, talking to Deborah and Samuel. The common room was the command post, and a stream of runners brought in reports and departed with orders. They were even able to receive word by messenger pigeon from Donald and his forces in the field, but could only respond by heliograph, and that depended on a sunny day.
“I hate waiting,” said Rachel.
“That is always the hardest part,” agreed Samuel. “Moonrise will be late, so it will be a dark night. I expect that they will attack in a few hours.”
Samuel was noticeably stronger and was able to walk without help. He had gradually taken much of the load of overseeing the command post which allowed Lore-master Duncan to grab a few hours’ sleep. He still used a stick for support, but he had color in his cheeks and was gaining weight, though still very thin.
“Steamboat had town guns,” said Deborah. “And they did no good.”
“Yes,” said Samuel. “Thank God we can benefit from their mistakes. We had planned to do what they did, and we would have failed.”
Charles stood nea
rby and joined the conversation. “The town guns are going to use direct fire. That will be much easier to do. The catapults have hundreds of gunpowder bombs. It won’t be the same as Steamboat. Don’t worry.”
Rachel gave a smile, though it was hard to do. She breathed a silent prayer for deliverance. Whatever happens, tonight will be remembered.
†
The last glow of sunset faded, and the moonless sky turned black. Even starlight was blocked by scattered clouds. Bowmen on the gate strained to see any sign of movement. “It’s like the inside of a black cat,” someone said. A mirthless chuckle responded.
Carla could see nothing, even though she had carefully protected her night vision by not looking at the lanterns. A catapult on the other gate-tower triggered, giving forth a distinctive thud-crash. A fiery ball arched through the sky, leaving a curving trail of sparks behind. It flared in a blaze of red and yellow light, then came the crack of the explosion a moment later. For an instant, the field before them was visible.
They could see several large cannon being wheeled forward. The area between the gate and the enemy guns was free of charging soldiers, but a wave of enemy were moving on the flanks, carrying ladders, spears, and crossbows.
Then the ground shook, and concussion buffeted them as if they were children’s toys. The town guns were firing at last. Catapults joined in, and fireballs arched up in a beautiful and deadly display. The lights of their aerial bursts produced a flickering light over the battlefield. Carla stood, frustrated, since she had no target. Then a flash came from before them, and a ball crashed into the wall, just below. The tower shook like a dog coming out of water.
Then a row of muzzle flashes answered the city’s guns. The Prophet’s cannons had finally come on line. Carla heard balls go over her head with a whish like a horse snorting in her ear. They crashed into buildings behind her as the echoes rolled. They must be aiming at our guns.
†
Rachel remembered talking to the gunners. They had showed her how they put two cords in an ‘X’ position over the muzzle and aimed by looking though the bore. “This is how we confirm that the optical sights are in alignment,” they explained.
When the guns began to thunder, she knew they were in for an artillery duel. It would have been an easy win for Stonegate if the ancient powder was consistent or the shells always worked, but many were expected to be duds. She stood in the courtyard with her hands over her ears as the muzzle flashes lit the sky and concussions rocked the very earth. One enemy cannon ball struck the inn across the street, and bricks flew like frightened pigeons.
The barrage went on for what seemed like an eternity. Yet the night was not nearly half over when the fire from the big guns began to taper off. In its place, the occasional crack of gunpowder bombs began to swell into an almost-continuous crack-crack-crack.
She finally turned toward the door. Deborah met her there. She carried a white bundle and seemed to be in a hurry. “Where are you going?” Rachel asked.
“I have to go to the Quill and Sword,” she answered. “They are bringing wounded there.”
“But a cannon ball just hit there,” said Rachel.
“It’s still standing and no more dangerous than anywhere else.” Deborah swept across the courtyard, the way visible in the flickering light of a burning shed.
The command center was a scene of organized confusion. Orange lantern light cast garish pools of color across maps, and messengers hurried in and out. Samuel looked up from parchments and gave her a weak smile. “We are holding,” he said.
“What are our losses?” she asked. The table was covered with a diagram of the city walls, and a scatter of colored blocks arranged in patterns gave the look of a children’s board game.
“They destroyed one of our guns. Direct hit. No serious damage to the gates or walls. Not yet, at least.”
“What about the enemy?”
“Not sure. We definitely destroyed three of their cannons. They have all stopped firing, but I suppose that’s obvious.” He pointed to wooden blocks placed beside the map, like pieces removed from a game of chess. “We have driven off three assaults. So the reports are good.”
“Deborah left to help with the wounded.”
“Yes, we have been hurt. But reports say it looks like a slaughter-house outside the walls. God help us! This is such a cruel business.”
†
Carla was still standing by her post atop the tower when rosy dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. Her arms and shoulders trembled with fatigue, and she was massaging cramps in her forearms. She had no idea how many arrows she had fired, but she knew that she had emptied quiver after quiver.
The stones beneath her feet were sticky with blood. An arrow had glanced off her helm at one point and splinters from another had flown up and cut her cheek. An hour earlier, a young archer standing next to her was struck in the throat. He was one of dozens being treated below.
As daylight revealed the battlefield, a spontaneous cheer began and swept the length of the walls, growing in volume. Carla’s heart seemed light as air, and warmth filled her being. “Thank God!” she shouted, teeth flashing in a smile.
Young archers crowded around her, patting her shoulder, as the cheering went on. The commander of their unit arrived at the top of the stairs and promptly embraced her in a rough bear hug. Then he pulled her around to face a row of dirty, smiling faces, standing in relief above their dark mail armor.
“You lads did well. You made them fear the walls of Stonegate,” he shouted. Then he gestured toward Carla. “But this lass has lived up to her fame. What an archer!” He raised her arm high, to renewed cheers as more archers streamed from the battlements to join in. Carla felt her face getting hot.
Then a man approached and tried to speak to the commander. The older man cupped his ear, then waved for silence. He listened, then whispered to Carla, “Thad, the healer, says that the young archer with the neck wound wants to tell you something.”
Carla followed Thad down the winding stone stairs. “He is very weak,” said Thad. “The arrow almost severed his artery. He has lost much blood…”
Carla was confused and she realized that she did not know his name. “Does he want me to comfort him? Pray for him? I hardly know him.”
“His name is Teddy,” said Thad. “The chaplain has prayed for him. He is at peace. But he asked for you.”
They entered a large alcove at the base of the tower. A dozen forms lay on the floor; most had their faces covered, and a few moaned in pain. Thad led her to a lad at the end of the row. His armor had been stripped off, and his tunic was black with blood. But his face and neck were clean, and she could see stitches on the side of his neck. His eyes were open, and he gave her a shy smile as she approached. He raised an arm in greeting, as if it were a heavy weight. She knelt beside him, hardly knowing what to say.
“Don’t try to talk, Teddy,” she said, finally. She took his hand. “I am here.”
“I just wanted to tell you that I was proud to have fought with you,” he whispered. He spoke slowly, forcing each word out as if he was solving a difficult puzzle.
“And I with you,” she answered, trying to smile. “I could not have asked for anyone braver.”
“Did we beat them?” he asked.
“We did,” she answered. “You did well. You can sleep now.”
“I won’t be waking in this world,” he answered. “But I wanted to say goodbye…”
“Nonsense,” she said, “You will be up and around before you know it.”
He did not answer, but closed his eyes as if in sleep. She stayed there until her knees began to ache. Then she noticed that his faint breathing had stopped. She gestured to Thad, who came and felt his wrist.
“He’s gone,” said Thad. “Lord bless him”
Carla said n
othing as she released his hand and stood. Her throat was tight and she felt wet tears on her cheek. “Amen,” she said.
“He had an easy death. Thank you for being here.”
Carla could not answer. She turned and made her way back up the stairs.
†
The general’s headquarters was a farmhouse near the Cash River. It formed the epicenter in the midst of the sullen activity of the occupying army. The senior staff stiffly sat around a polished mahogany dining room table. Their faces were drawn and dark shadows clung beneath their eyes. A few half-empty wine glasses held down the corners of a map of Stonegate and its environs. A sour smell hung in the air.
“Wait!” growled General Roundy. “Are you telling me you have issued all the rations for the men? I thought I ordered half-rations one week ago.”
“You did, sir,” replied Colonel Gardner, the supply officer. His face was slick with sweat. “But that did not solve the problem. It only delayed matters, you see.”
“I don’t have time for this. Have General Blacklock send supplies from the field camp. Don’t tell me that Balek Brown has not opened the supply line for that short distance.”
The nervous colonel answered in the negative, and tried to explain, but he was interrupted by an explosion of vile oaths. Spittle flew in an ugly spray from the general’s lips.
“General Logan,” said Roundy, after he had regained control of himself, “I thought you had this under control. Why didn’t you send a few thousand infantry north to open the lines, if Brown’s Raiders could not do the job?”
The False Prophet (Stonegate Book 2) Page 35
