The Witch of Torinia

by Clifford Beal

  “He may need our aid,” said Volpe urgently as he turned and trotted off towards the palazzo. Acquel cursed and ran after him. Strykar turned to Demerise. “I suggest you leave your men here and come with me. You will either have an apology to make or another man to kill. I’m not sure which yet.”

  Demerise nodded to Bero and they crossed the square and headed uphill to the palazzo. When they entered the great hallway it was quiet, candles guttering in the draught. They proceeded up the wide staircase and entered the apartments, Strykar with drawn sword and Demerise with an arrow nocked. They walked down a long tapestry-lined corridor smelling of oak and lime-plaster, and as they slowly reached the end they heard voices coming from one of the apartments. When they reached the room they found Acquel and Volpe attending to Marsilius, who lay propped in his bed.

  Volpe turned at their arrival and held aloft a small glass phial. “Voltera was administering this to the Count. It is a solution of night jasmine. It would explain this.” He gestured to Marsilius. The Count, listless and pale, was speaking in a rambling whisper, spittle dribbling down his lower lip. Volpe jiggled the phial. “Over time this will kill.”

  “Will he live?” asked Strykar, scabbarding his blade.

  Volpe shrugged. “I can attend to him, but I don’t know for how long Voltera was poisoning him.”

  “Brother Volpe,” said Acquel. “do what you can for him. I must go back to the wall. And try and find the rest of his household, unless they’ve already run off.”

  “Looks like now you’re the ruler of Livorna, brother monk,” said Strykar. Acquel felt a tug in the pit of his stomach as that realization sank in. “Come, Magister,” Strykar said quietly, “I will accompanying you back to the barbican gate.”

  Outside, Acquel approached Demerise. “Mistress, I owe you thanks for stopping what could have happened. I know you did not expect such grim work when you came here. I’ll see that there are no repercussions against you and your men.”

  “Repercussions?” she laughed. “I should hope not. You might be hanging by your neck over the walls by now had I not loosed that arrow. But,” and she gave a little nod of her head, “I acknowledge your thanks.”

  “I will see that you’re paid.”

  “Nay, save your money. I’ll accept no coin for taking a man’s life even if he was so base.”

  “You should get some sleep,” Strykar said to her as they resumed walking back towards the square and the gatehouse. “I imagine you and your men will want to be out of the city at first light.”

  “About that, Strykar,” she said, slowing. “I think we might stay a bit longer. Maybe lend a hand or two. Up on the walls.”

  Strykar turned. “Stay? Elded’s balls! What’s changed your heart, huntress? I thought this was not your war.”

  “I’ve thought upon what you said about oaths. And of the honour implied. It seems there’s precious little loyalty left in this kingdom. After what the castellan of Livorna tried doing tonight, I cannot give up on an oath I’ve sworn to uphold. Even if it is to a dead king.”

  Strykar smiled. “A mercenary giving lessons about loyalty to a forester of Valdur. Who could have sung that tale, eh?”

  “No,” she said, slinging her bow over her shoulder and nodding to herself. “You were right when you told me that my seal would be worth candlewax if Ursino usurps the throne. That is the truth. I just needed to hear it from someone, maybe from a mercenary like you.”

  “A dozen more marksmen on the walls could help the odds. But I’ll tell you honest, Demerise. If the Boar and the Whites breech the gates I don’t know that we can beat them back. What with these monks that barely know one end of a sword from the other and militia hardly any better. But the choice is yours.”

  “I’ve made the choice. The others will follow me.”

  ACQUEL DREAMT OF serpents that night. A hundred serpents winding past him on either side as he lay upon cold ground, their hissing seeming to grow in intensity. He found he could not move a muscle, a hapless victim as the snakes roiled around him, tongues flicking. In unison, the writhing reptilian knot would suddenly quiet only to then hiss again.

  He opened his eyes, still half asleep. He was propped up on his back on the parapet, a straw-filled mill sack for a pillow. Blinking, he heard a hissing sound streak overhead, and then another. A small fiery flash soared across his view, trailing a tail of black smoke. Then Poule was leaning over him.

  “Brother monk! Get up. It’s started.”

  He rolled over onto his knees and stood gingerly. Having slept in his armour, his body was a ball of pain.

  “Steady there,” cautioned Poule. “Don’t get too close to edge or you’ll end up with an arrow in you.”

  Acquel watched as the fire arrows arced overhead, flashing over the walls and falling into the town. “For the love of God! The roofs.”

  Poule nodded. “Livorna’s greybeards had the good sense to use clay tiles and not thatch. The constables have womenfolk down there to douse anything that catches. Our worry is keeping the bastards from coming up the walls.” Acquel watched as militia and Templars alike crouched like bent old men as they scuttled along the parapets, arrows and crossbow bolts whizzing past their heads.

  An aged brother came past bearing an enormous brown canvas sack and Poule tapped him roughly. “Come on then, you have the Magister to feed over here!” The monk reached in and pulled out two round loaves of black bread and handed them to Poule then blessed himself and carried on down the walkway. Poule handed a loaf to Acquel. “Now, if we’re lucky mind you, we might get some cheese to go with this before the enemy throws the ladders up.” Acquel smiled thinly. He found it remarkable, if somewhat calming, that these mercenaries could remain so unaffected given that the odds of repelling a massed attack were almost laughable. Poule was accoutred as when he had first met him more than a year ago: a velvet-covered, brass-studded breastplate that looked like it had mange, a rusty gorget and a barbute helm that had more than its fair share of dents. Underneath, he wore a long chain mail hauberk, hole-shot with broken links, extending over his thick biceps and protecting down to his thighs.

  Acquel, on the other hand, had benefited from the largesse of Count Marsilius in a moment of the unfortunate man’s lucidity. His shining breastplate, pauldrons, cannons, couters and vambraces were a sharp contrast to Poule’s battle-worn and bedraggled attire. Steel cuisses and tall leather boots had been thrown in as well, and except for the tabard he wore, no one would know he was a monk. He felt as awkward as he probably appeared, although Strykar had remarked that he was lucky to have been a good match for the pieces in the armoury. But now in the dewy morning, he could feel the dampness of his quilted arming doublet sticking to him as he clanked along the wall.

  “I want to have a look at them,” he said to the lieutenant, his voice quiet.

  “Look through the arrow loop there—no, not between the crenels.”

  Acquel stooped to peer through the long narrow slit of the stone merlon, the front of his visor-less sallet helm ringing as he bumped the wall. It was an astounding sight that met his eyes. Far below, and out to a distance of perhaps a hundred yards, dozens of wicker screens had been erected. Interspersed, long wooden shields leaned at an angle, supported by soldiers behind. It was from behind these barriers that the rain of arrows was being thrown at them. A soft whisking sound floated to his ears as each shaft was loosed. Soldiers were cautiously darting from wooden shields to the wicker screens and then re-emerging with more arrows and pails of pitch with which to set them alight.

  Further behind this hidden army of bowmen stood serried rank upon rank of soldiers, large shields at the front. They were waiting for the order to advance. The glint of steel helms sparkled across their lines. But there was no sound and more importantly, no griffons.

  Acquel turned and leaned his back against the merlon. “Hundreds, you reckon?”

  Poule chuckled and tore off a chunk of the heavy bread. “At least. And that is just one division
. There is another army down in front of the east gate. And another further along below the Ara. But... there is one thing in our favour.”

  “Which is?” Acquel cautiously moved along the wall, away from the ledge. As he did so, two arrows struck the top of the battlements and bounced inwards, clattering off the stone. Acquel ducked and reached Poule again, somewhat alarmed at his first experience of coming under fire.

  “Which is,” repeated Poule, “they have yet to bring up any siege cannon to the gate below us. Either they ain’t got none or they haven’t arrived yet. Let’s pray for the former.”

  A much thicker cloud of fire arrows whispered overhead, arcing high into the city. He could hear distant screams and shouts somewhere off between the rooftops and stone towers behind them, random pain and death playing upon Livorna. Strykar’s plan of defence seemed simple and though he was no soldier it seemed hardly a plan at all. Poule would lead the men on the far western flank to the main gate, Volpe and himself would lead the Templars and militia in the centre from the main gate east, and Strykar would command the defence of the eastern wall and barbican gate. The latter point the Coronel had deemed the weakest though Poule cautioned how low the walls were opposite the Ara plateau and the Temple. Strykar had replied laconically that was why he wanted him there. Simultaneous attacks would be the biggest threat.

  Acquel watched as their own crossbowmen, near to a man all newly trained, fumbled with their bows and windlasses, arguing with each other as to the best way to wind them. He saw militiamen with little clay pots slung in a shoulder satchel, the burning match in their hands protected by a tiny hood of chamois leather lest they accidently touch off their petards and set themselves alight. But the waiting for the real attack was killing him. He thought of Timandra; of her ghost that had walked towards him along the very spot he now stood. Had she been trying to warn him of this moment? He imagined her alive, with him on the wall, carrying arrows and fire and pitch, encouraging the men with her rough cutting tongue. And he suddenly felt like weeping at the loss.

  Two hours passed, the volleys of arrows and bolts having stopped once the enemy had realised that the city would not burn. Someone gave a yell and drew their attention to a new development below outside the gate. Acquel carefully peered through an arrow slit and saw a strange contraption on cart wheels being pushed forward towards the ramp of the gatehouse. Those pushing were sheltered behind a wooden wall of hoardings, covered in cow skins. The wooden tent-like structure concealed something. Acquel angled his head downward to get a better view of the front of the machine and could just spy the tip of a large tree trunk that was suspended inside on chains or ropes.

  “Shoot them!” he ordered, his voice breaking. Three bowmen made ready and lit their arrows which had been dipped in pitch. Leaning over the parapets, they loosed, but the arrows fizzled harmlessly on the cow skins. One of the petardiers had better success, managing to drop a lighted pot just in front of the machine, splattering it with burning pitch. But then the Torinians returned the favour, their crouching archers loosing arrows upwards towards them. The petardier jumped back as a bolt whizzed past him. Acquel grabbed a clay pot and got a militiaman to light the fuse as he handled it gingerly. The saltpetre wick sparked and he wasted no time in flinging it over and down. But the ram was still inching forward towards the wooden gates. He could smell the burning pitch below now, hear the yells of encouragement of the Blue Boar soldiers as they strained to move the machine.

  “Keep at them!” yelled Acquel to the men above the gate. “Aim for the bare wood! Aim for them!” He had no idea what he was doing and his stomach sank. A petardier cried out and fell back as a crossbow bolt bounced off his breastplate before he could throw his pot. Undeterred he crept forward again, shot a glance through the crenel, and then hurled his weapon overhand. A scream this time as the flaming pitch covered a soldier below. It wasn’t enough to slow the machine. It was still making its tortuous way up the inclined earthen ramp. Once it reached the wooden gates underneath them, they would not be able to engage it except through the murder-holes on top of the barbican. He looked up to see a soldier tearing across the parapet towards them, shoving aside Templar and militia alike. It was Poule.

  “I see ’em!” he yelled as he reached the barbican. “Sneaky bastards were quicker than I gave them credit for!” He looked around him. “Right, you and you!” he said, pointing to two Templars. “Down to the loopholes below on the stairs. Fire at those men pushing the ram.”

  Acquel’s eyes fell to the smoking caldron of black pitch tar bubbling on its brazier. “Poule!” he shouted, pointing to it. “We can pour it down the murder-holes as they reach the gate!”

  The lieutenant nodded. “Aye, but we’ll set our own gate afire. Got to do it before they reach it.” He jumped to the long forked pole lying against the wall. “You lot! Out of the way!” The nine foot pole he put through the wire handle of the cauldron. “Brother monk, take the other end!”

  Together they lifted the entire cauldron—a good sized cooking pot—the pole bending precariously under the burden. “Sneaky bastards,” repeated Poule, spitting out his words. “Managed to cobble together a war engine in a day. They shuffled the few feet over to the gap between the merlons on the battlements and luckily the iron pot just fit in the space, scraping loudly as they pushed it on the ledge with their gauntleted hands. “Get me a taper!” shouted Poule. Arrows were whizzing past over their heads as the attackers took aim at them. There was a scramble as a crossbowman found a lighted stick and brought it to Acquel. The two half-crouched, cheeks pressed against the cold stone of the battlements as the cauldron rested on the ledge. “Now brother monk, as soon as I tip this up, you reach over and light it. Understood?”

  Acquel nodded vigorously, his heart pounding in his chest. He could see Poule’s greasy brown leather gauntlet gently smoking where it rested on the cauldron’s lip. The lieutenant looked at him again and grinned broadly. “Ready? Then...now!” Poule grunted as the cauldron tipped up and Acquel rose up slightly and threw his arm over, touching the tow-covered burning stick into the pitch. Poule threw the whole cauldron over the edge as the waterfall of black liquid and dancing blue flame cascaded over the barbican. “And you can have that too!”

  The screams rising up were terrible as the burning liquid spattered and covered the ram and its crew, instantly setting alight the tree and its hoardings despite the protection of the still bloody animal hides. The men on the parapet let out a roar of triumph and defiance. Acquel moved down the barbican to get a sidelong view of the havoc below. Through the arrow loop he could just see the machine gently rolling backwards down the incline of the ramp as its crew abandoned the burning wagon. His own men wasted no time, bringing their spanned crossbows to bear on the fleeing men of the Blue Boar, the clunking sound of the bow trigger nearly simultaneous with the whisking noise of the bolt as it flew.

  A beaming Bartolo Poule clapped Acquel hard on the shoulder, rattling his armour. “There’s one for us, eh, brother monk.”

  Acquel felt exhilarated as the thrill of the little victory coursed through him. He grinned back at Poule and turned, nodding at his Templars, sweating faces grinning back at him. A runner came towards them from the east, his chain mail shirt jangling rhythmically. He reached the barbican parapet and halted, staggering and almost breathless.

  “Magister! They have a gun—a big gun—coming up to the East Gate!”

  Poule craned his head skyward, his gloved hand rubbing hard against the bristles of his unshaven face. His eyes accusingly scanned the cloudless lapis sky overhead. “You couldn’t even answer that one prayer, could you!”

  Twenty-Five

  JAW CLENCHED, STRYKAR watched as the men of the Blue Boar moved their siege cannon forward under the cover of wicker screens, wooden mantlets, and oversized pavise shields. They had advanced past the line of scattered trees, hedge and thorn and into the clear open ground before the city walls. Now they were close to firing range of the gatehouse, the bra
vest and fastest of their soldiers hunkered down out in front to set up the mantlets while the others tugged the thick ropes to pull the gun along on its carriage. Demerise stood up on the battlements next to the Coronel of the Black Rose with her arms folded across her chest, an unconscious display of self-protection.

  “Having second thoughts?” said Strykar.

  “Not yet,” she replied calmly. “But that is likely to do some damage, I’d venture.”

  Strykar grunted. They had few options. It was at long range for the bowmen on the walls and the hand-cannons would not have the accuracy at this distance. A surprise sally might work to storm the enemy and spike the gun but with barely trained militia the odds were poor. Crossbowmen around him were cranking their windlasses, setting their weapons on the wall, and loosing their bolts, but the Blue Boar were well protected. Their wooden mantlets soon resembled hedgehogs from the number of protruding arrow shafts and quarrels.

  “Fire arrows,” said Strykar. “We’ve got to burn that gun.”

  Demerise nodded. “But not at this range.”

  “Don’t worry, they’ll be coming closer.” Two hundred yards further west on the wall, they could hear a rising chorus of alarm. Strykar moved along the battlements, instinctively dodged his head at the whisper of an arrow, and tried to get a view of what was happening. He could see a few hundred of the enemy—rondelieri and bowmen—making a dash for the wall, scaling ladders in hand. “Elded’s holy bollocks!” he whispered to himself. Demerise was again at his elbow and straining to get a view herself.

  “Bastards! Aretini knows we’re stretched thinner than a sausage skin up here. He must reckon he’ll get lucky and break in at least one point along the walls.”

  “Is that where the Magister commands his troops?” asked Demerise.

  “Aye,” replied Strykar rather flatly. “That’s where the Temple priests hold the wall. God help us.”