by Lyndon Hardy
Morwin looked about the chamber, awaiting what they should do next, but Alodar stood fixed, deep in thought.
“What, speechless? A rare day for one so glib,” Morwin finally said mockingly. “What affects you thus?”
Alodar was silent for a few moments more, then replied. “Your remark betrays a boy’s heart still beating in that lanky frame of yours, Morwin.”
“And what kind beats in yours, most august journeyman?”
“Oh, enough. Let us be off and do the queen’s bidding.”
CHAPTER TWO
Craftsman at War
THE next morning Alodar awoke with a stab of pain. He grabbed his side and blinked up into the predawn light. He heard the familiar noise of the courtyard: treading feet, clinking mail, and the barking of orders as the castle sprang to life to begin another day of defense. He squinted up at the figure standing at his side, fully armed from steel-tipped boots next to his now sore ribs to a head encased in mail.
“Up and present yourself, journeyman. You serve me and my men today. Their first barrage is but minutes away and I want you ready.”
Alodar rose to sitting from the straw on the bailey floor, his head groggy from lack of sleep, and his heart heavy from the lack of success in his labors the night before.
“Come on, man, make your preparations. Wake your apprentice and get up on the high platform,” the armed man persisted. “As soon as we ferret your master out of the keep, we will place him there as well. I fear we will have need of much healing today.”
Alodar stood up and looked the man in the face. The features were familiar and the red surcoat confirmed his guess. “You are lord Feston, Festil’s son,” he said, “marshall of the west wall.”
“Yes, today I am that,” Feston replied curtly, staring back from deep-set eyes. He had his father’s narrow face and high cheeks, but his brow jutted forward with rough angles, giving him the appearance of a perpetual squint. Beneath shaggy brows like woolly caterpillars, a large nose hooked down over a wide gash of a mouth pulled into a grim line. “Now see to your task,” he said as he turned and in great haste sprinted off in the direction of the keep. Nimbly jumping and sidestepping still sleeping forms, he rapidly covered the distance, his mail a-jingle with his erratic motion.
Alodar finally cleared his head and turned to wake Morwin. Together they dragged the two-wheeled cart, near which they had spent the night, to the base of the stone steps near the western gatehouse. From the large trunks lashed to the rough sideposts, they unpacked the crucibles, sacks of starch, slabs of wax, and other paraphernalia they would need for the day. Swinging the heavy loads across their backs, they slowly mounted the stairs to the high platforms jutting out from the wall above. As their heads poked through the opening in the first level, Alodar paused, deeply inhaling the aroma of a morning meal simmering above a small firepit.
“On to the top, thaumaturge. There is no work for you here,” one of the men stirring the broth growled. Alodar shrugged his shoulders and resumed his upward tread. He and Morwin climbed on past a second level, which, like the first, supported archers who would fire through the narrow rows of loopholes encircling the castle. Then, panting from their exertion, they arrived at last at the top of the wall.
Alodar glanced down the line of merlons and crenels. They ran straight and true to the southwest tower some three hundred feet away and then continued on at right angles to the east for another six hundred. All along the length, knots of men were making ready for the day, stringing bows, nocking arrows, and watching the activities in the fields beyond. The tower to the southeast was the smallest of the four that marked the corners of the fortress, but it also soared into the sky, like a double-length lance, seemingly too tall for such a slender shaft.
From the corner, the wall swept back to the north, but Alodar’s view of the east gatehouse was obscured by the massive keep that sat in the center of the bailey. Although already high off the courtyard floor, he had to crane his neck upwards to see the bartizan from which he had launched the air gondola the day before. Behind the huge stronghold, the wall continued on to complete the square between the two corner towers of the north and the western gatehouse next to where Alodar stood. He looked into the bustle of activity among the ramshackle of temporary huts and timber buildings in the bailey below, and the near chaos contrasted sharply with the cold symmetry of the gray stone.
“Make ready, here comes the first,” rang in Alodar’s ear as he hurriedly dropped his load and knelt up against the protection of the wall. His heart began to race as he heard the crack of the siegecraft’s release. In an instant, the walls rang with the sharp contact of stone on stone.
The archer next to him leaped from his crouch and drew his longbow. “They start early today,” he said to no one. “They must be anxious to feel our sting.” He loosed three shafts before ducking again beside Alodar’s gear to await the next onslaught. The second crack was faint and distant. Although Alodar could see rocks ricochet and splinter off the other walls, the stone he pressed against remained quiet and firm, not reverberating from any direct hit. Seconds passed, and the tenseness grew. Alodar held his breath, wondering why no volley came from the west in synchronization with the rest. What could disrupt the precision that had bombarded them so incessantly the many days before? Finally he could stand it no longer and slowly extended himself to squint over the capstone.
“The belfries,” he shouted. “The belfries are in motion towards the wall.”
All along the west, the throwing engines were idle, but the men-at-arms hid behind their shields no longer. They ran at full tilt, carrying their long scaling ladders and pulling the tall leather-and-steel-covered belfries towards the defenses. Three slender towers rocked and swayed like giant metronomes as they joggled over the rough terrain, but they stayed upright and closed with alarming swiftness.
As the word of the assault propagated down the line, the defenders sprang to positions to fire at the now exposed targets rapidly approaching them. The archer next to Alodar released one shaft and was drawing another when he suddenly yelled and was thrown backwards, his bow hurling high into the air. Alodar quickly reached out and grabbed his legs tightly as the heavily armed man nearly tumbled over the platform down onto the bailey floor. The shaft of a blue-feathered arrow quivered in his shoulder through split rings of mail. Alodar glanced back through the crenel to see doors at the top of the belfries thrown open and archers within answering the volleys from the castle, shaft for shaft. Along the wall he heard additional screams as more missiles found their mark.
“Quickly, Morwin,” he shouted. “Start filling the molds.”
The next archer in the line, several crenels away, saw his stricken comrade and slowly began to crawl to him, well aware of the swish of arrows that now sailed with deadly regularity through the openings in the wall. When he arrived, he pinned the wounded man firmly, and Morwin, with one mighty heave, yanked the arrow free. The soldier cried with pain as he passed into unconsciousness, and the ragged hole in his arm disgorged a flood of deep red blood and bits of flesh.
Alodar blotted a bit of the blood onto a piece of cloth and tossed it into the small crucible he had ready, simmering nearby. He added some starch and said the incantation quickly, with no elaborate subterfuge of words. In a few moments the starch began to thicken into a gel and Alodar turned his attention to the wax, not bothering to check that the bloodflow was stopping as well.
“Which one is the coolest, Morwin?” he asked as he looked over the apprentice’s growing collection of limbs, torsos, and heads that he dumped from small lead molds. The apprentice pointed to his left and then resumed filling the empty molds from the bubbling vat and lining the solidified forms in a row.
Alodar selected a waxen arm and twisted a deep gouge near the shoulder joint with his thumb. Returning to the archer, he broke the connection of the spell and then cut the mail and underjersey away from the wound. He stabbed the scraps of cloth and ringlets into the soft wax of the
model and began a second incantation. When he was done, he held the limb over his small fire. Then working with steady strokes he slowly filled the gouge, returning the wax to its original smooth shape.
To all external appearances the man now seemed well; the blood had stopped and the wound was neatly closed. But from the furrowed and sweating brow Alodar knew that the pain was still there. The soldier would recover much more quickly than if unattended and with no risk of infection, but it would be some time before he again drew a bow.
“Thaumaturge, over here and hurry.”
“On the second level, two men down.”
“Quickly man, stop the bleeding.”
Cries for Alodar’s assistance rang out along the wall and from the platform underneath. He bundled up what gear he could carry and scurried toward the nearest call for help. He quickly patched up two men and moved on to a third, too intent upon his tasks to watch the progress of the approaching attack.
He attended three more on the second level in as many minutes and then climbed back up to Morwin for new supplies. As his head popped through the platform floor, he heard several ragged hurrahs and the sound of sword on shield. Down towards the flanking tower, he could see that two belfries had made contact with the wall. The blue-surcoated troops of Bandor poured from the openings onto the walkway and into the press of defenders converging upon them.
Two separate mêlées formed on the small confines of the narrow ledge. Alodar squinted at the swirls of activity but could not guess the outcome, since neither side could maneuver many men into striking position.
“By the laws, Alodar, look,” Morwin shouted. Alodar ripped his gaze from the fighting to the wall immediately behind him. A third belfry thudded against the stone, and men began to jump out over the merlon onto the platform. Alodar quickly looked beyond the men to the gatehouse and then back over his shoulder to the south. No one else was near; all the men-at-arms along the wall had rushed to defend against the first two onslaughts.
Six men bounded onto the walkway, with swords drawn, and began to move towards Alodar and the ladder to the courtyard. Alodar looked wildly around the paraphernalia for some weapon to aid him. He saw the still reclining form of the first man he had tended. With a deep breath, he stooped and withdrew the unused sword from its scabbard.
The cold steel felt surprisingly heavy and unbalanced, and he clasped his left hand over his right around the thick hilt. He advanced one step and grimaced with the effort of remembering the meager instruction he had received as a boy. The advancing men seemed to pay him no heed and rapidly closed upon the point of the blade he held before his chest.
As they met, the lead man raised his sword to strike, and Alodar jarred himself into action, pushing his own blade up with arms extended. The blow landed near the hilt and the edges grated along one another until the guards locked with a dull clank. Alodar felt his elbows begin to bend from the downward pressure and struggled to push them straight.
He drew his thoughts away from the others immediately behind and looked into the eyes staring back from a face ringed with mail. He saw the beginning of a smile as his arms trembled and bowed even more. With a sudden wrench, he twisted his sword free and danced aside as his opponent’s blade flew past his shoulder to strike the ledge with a numbing clang. Alodar slashed down on the exposed arms and, though it did not break mail, the force of the blow pitched his adversary forward, sprawled at his feet. Hastily he glanced back upward at the other five who collapsed upon him.
“Stand aside, journeyman,” he heard suddenly over his shoulder. Before he could react, he was knocked from his feet. In a blur he saw the red surcoat of Feston streak by and several more heads bob up through the platform opening.
Feston did not hesitate. Lunging low with the impetus of his initial charge, he speared the first man he encountered with the point of his sword. He raised his shield to ward off a blow from a second on the left and slammed his steel-capped knee into the groin of a third on the right. Freeing his sword, he slashed savagely down on the neck of the man as he stooped in reflex and then pirouetted to drive his blade into the face of the next. The blue surcoats hesitated and Feston sensed his advantage. Yelling loudly, he raised his sword overhead and, with swift right and left slashes, tore through their ranks. The men just exiting the belfry saw their comrades in front fall and hastily climbed back inside. The others on the platform, sensing the desertion behind them, turned and ran for the protection of the tower and shut the doors, Feston laughed a deep booming laugh as the followers ran up with opportunity to strike only at Alodar’s foe still sprawled on the walkway.
“Quickly, the rocker,” Feston commanded as additional men rose to the top level, carrying barbed iron spikes and long coils of rope. The men spread out into two lines on either side of the belfry, uncoiling the rope as they went; while Feston strutted, guarding the doors, each line was tied to a spike driven into the belfry’s frame. Then one group pulled the rope taut with a sudden jerk, rocking the tower a little to the side. As it swayed back the other team pulled in synchronization and added to the magnitude of the swing.
“And heave, and heave,” Feston marked the cadence. With each thrust, the belfry rocked with greater amplitude upon its base.
Alodar picked himself up from his dazed sprawl and glanced over the wall to the ground below. “Of course, Morwin,” he exclaimed. “The wheels move it forward and back. We could but push the belfry from the walls with a direct thrust but not topple it. But from the side, it sits firmly on the ground and cannot compensate for the motions we force upon it.”
As he spoke, the top of the tower oscillated in wider and wider arcs. Finally it tipped over in a huge swing and continued on, to crash upon the hard ground, like the last tree logged from a forest. With a sharp wrenching growl, it splintered into several parts, throwing men, steel, and dust high into the air.
The defenders down the wall gave a shout and increased the vigor of their thrusts. The knots of men started to grow smaller as the attackers now began to inch back slowly under the intensified assault. A second shout went up as Alodar saw the other belfries also begin to rock, pushed by beams thrust through the archery loopholes one platform below. As with the first, each shove swayed the belfries more and more from a stable footing. Bandor’s men gave back more ground to the press, casting anxious glances over their shoulders.
In a moment, a trumpet sounded on the plain, and the disciplined circles of blue and silver dissolved into masses of fleeing men. Swords, shields, and fallen comrades were abandoned in the rush, as if they stung to the touch. From the distance, Alodar saw the confusion as they raced for the belfries, leaping from the wall into the open doors as the towers tore free and began to pull away.
As the belfries withdrew, a third shout, the loudest of all, coursed along the wall. “We are thin,” Feston yelled waving his sword above his head in defiance, “but not so thin that we cannot stand against a mere three belfries. Thus be the fate of whomever tries the walls of Iron Fist.”
As quickly as they had come, the surviving siegecraft rumbled back to the precise line of mangonels and trebuchets. The scaling crews, who had never got a chance to plant their ladders, scurried alongside, shields on their backs to protect against the renewed rain of arrows from the wait. All was quiet for a moment; but once the formation was reestablished, the throwing engines resumed their bombardment.
The missiles again filled the air, but Alodar felt the tension of the morning dissolve away; the downward crash of rock seemed less potent a threat than enemy towers at the very edge of the wall. He looked about him and reassembled his gear. Ducking for cover during the volleys, he made his way methodically back and forth along the three levels of the walkway, repairing injury from the abortive thrust as he found it. Morale was high with the first success of the entire siege. The sergeant’s dire prediction of the day before was nowhere to be heard. The men babbled away about the tower’s great crash, and Feston’s feat grew larger with each retelling. As Alod
ar trudged along, the day fell into the routine of the many that had proceeded it. The exchange of stone and arrow continued, but the men laughed and sang, choosing to ignore that the ring grew still tighter, and that on the morrow many more than three belfries would come.
Alodar worked his craft in reverie, wearily unmindful of the passage of time. With the setting of the sun, he and Morwin returned their gear to the cart and fell into line for their daily meal. His stomach growled, his muscles ached, and his fatigued mind had had enough of siege. As the ladle was pouring its watery contents into Alodar’s bowl, he saw again the red surcoat bounding across the courtyard.
“Father, have you heard?” Feston boomed. “Hero of the day. Vendora herself pinned the ribbon on my sleeve. Ah, would that every day might present such opportunity. Then there would be no doubt as to who is most worthy to be hero of the realm.”
“Well done, my son,” Festil replied, matching stride and pounding him firmly on the back as his group merged with Feston’s. “Surely you distinguish yourself above all others here. If only the fair lady would choose now, there would be no other choice but you.”
“Yes, a virtual demon of swiftness,” one of the accompanying retinue broke in. “Seven men felled with but one mighty blade.”
“Only seven?” Feston turned to stare at the praise-giver. “I distinctly remember nine.”
“Oh, nine surely,” the man quickly amended. “Nine men down and the tide of the attack turned. A tale for the sagas with no doubt.”
The group marched for the northwest tower, cutting through the queue in which Alodar stood. The line parted in deference and reformed as a throng, lining the course of the men-at-arms. Alodar heard murmurs of admiration and girlish giggles as they passed through with purposeful tread and clink of mail.
