The Torinian foot, rondelieri shields protecting the long spears of those behind, were coming into range. All along the lines he could not see a single cannon. Now that was arrogance—or stupidity. He may have only had nine rounds with myrra but he had plenty of plain stone shot as well. “Carafa! Are you awake down there! Raise the port on gun two and fire on the enemy centre!” His order was answered by the cries of men below and the slamming of wooden planks as the shutter was raised and the mouth of the cannon pushed out. A moment later the orichalcum gun sang out and he watched as the fist-sized shot ploughed into the front line, sending men crashing to the ground and juddering the entire formation.
He wanted Aretini and the witch to know that the giant wooden machine he was in was more than a big barrel on wheels. Now they did. And he needed them to come and see for themselves. “Well placed, Carafa! Give them another!” The land-ship dipped and rose again over the uneven ground and he clutched at the rail next to him. His own forces were now advancing, cautiously, from the right. The centre, commanded by Cortese and Malvolio, remained firmly planted and he could see that they were trying to draw the enemy in. Turning to get a view behind the land-ship, Strykar saw hundreds of the Black Rose gathered in his wake like so many chicks behind a fat hen. He looked forward again to scan the left of the battlefield and saw the enemy lines beginning to part like a rippling curtain in a breeze. The beasts had arrived. They moved slowly, enormous heads shaking in anticipation; the Torinians were far faster in their haste to avoid being trampled.
No sooner had the pair of griffons emerged from the Torinian lines then the excited burble of a thousand voices of the Maresto force rose up, carrying surprise, wonder and fear. The survivors of the debacle a few weeks before would not have soon forgotten what the creatures could do. Nor had he. He managed to get down the ladder without falling, avoiding the enraged and deafened oxen, and moving to where Acquel and Volpe stood on the circular perimeter of the machine.
“They’re coming. From the left.” He moved to open the hatch on the first gun, yanking hard on the rope and securing it in place around a wooden cleat. “We’ve got to get them to come to us.”
“She knows where I am,” said Acquel darkly.
“Let’s just make sure of that shall we?” replied Strykar and he whistled to the gunners to load. He saw that Ugo Volpe wielded his wooden sword, a small buckler in his left fist. He prayed that Acquel knew what he was doing. Wooden blades and brain-rotting myrra leaf seemed the measures of desperate men but then again he had seen that cold steel did no hurt to the griffons—or vivernas—as the old monk claimed they were underneath their enchantment.
The master gunner grunted and hefted a piece of stone shot while his assistant rammed a powder bag into the cannon. “We aren’t likely to hit them at this range...”
“Plenty of targets behind them if you miss, friend!”
Brother Volpe, dressed in a leather brigantine, his sun-emblazoned tabard belted and cinched over that, leaned out of a gun port. “She follows, behind them, on horseback.” He turned towards Strykar. “They will cover the ground fast. You should load the myrra rounds in both these guns... now.”
Carafa touched his match to the touchhole and the gun erupted, sending a yellow cloud of powder smoke spilling back into the land-ship. Volpe hunched, hand over mouth and withdrew. “You heard him, Carafa,” said Strykar, his ears still ringing. “Load the iron rounds next and may God help us.”
From the rear of the land-ship, eye to a loophole, Bero let out a long whistle. “Light horsemen coming across from their right flank.” Strykar bounded up to the platform and pressed his cheek to a viewing port. “Shit. Well, I would have done the same thing.” He turned to the others. “They are going to try and get underneath us. I need swordsmen down on the ground. Demerise, you and your men could be of good service here.”
At the front of the machine, Acquel’s timorous voice rang out. “Strykar!”
They watched as four knights of Maresto, lances couched, rushed past them at full tilt, clods of earth flying off their horses’ hooves. The griffons, standing side-by-side, stopped and waited. “Valiant fools,” muttered Strykar as the knights drew near the beasts. The first two were scattered like skittles in a tavern by the swinging head and neck of one griffon as it batted them away. Acquel said a prayer aloud as he watched the men tumble and spin through the air, hit the ground, and roll to their deaths. The horses screamed as claws raked. The second griffon twisted to avoid a lance and with lightning speed snatched a rider in its jaws, the man’s legs kicking in his death agonies. The fourth knight’s lance shattered as it hit the flank of the same beast. Acquel could see him hunker down in his saddle, pass behind the griffon, and then ride hell for leather back towards his own lines.
Strykar and Acquel looked at each other for a moment, both thinking the same. Thinking that the guns, the myrra, and prayer were all they had now. Strykar turned to the master gunner. “Carafa, get that second gun loaded! I will manage this one! Brother Acquel, lend me a hand.” They pulled the gun back on its carriage and Strykar reached into a nearby suspended wicker basket for a powder bag. As they worked, a commotion broke out below. Strykar soon heard the twang of bowstrings; Demerise and her men taking aim through the loopholes and loosing their arrows. The enemy must have reached them, dismounting to make their approach.
Glancing up towards the open port of his gun, Strykar could see golden brown fur obscuring everything. His heart skipped a beat. Enormous yellow talons reached inside, scraping against the wooden planks and trying to swat him like some cat at a mouse hole. The oxen had caught the scent of the beasts and stopped in their tracks; the creeping land-ship came to a halt, creaking and groaning. Volpe, still upon the platform, rushed to the gunport and lashed out with his wooden sword. A screech like a thousand eagles in unison erupted and the smoking claw was withdrawn. Strykar’s jaw dropped as he watched. Volpe hefted the sword, nodded to him and then gave himself a quick blessing, head to chest.
Another great screech split the air outside and the land-ship was rocked on its twisted-rope and beam frame, sending men on the platform to their knees. Strykar shoved a bag of powder down the mouth of the gun, then pulled back on its carriage. “Acquel, hand me a round!” The monk picked up a cannonball, a large wax scab hiding the precious myrra inside. “Let me,” he said, his shaking hands pushing the ball down the barrel.
“Stand back,” warned Strykar as he shoved in the short wooden rammer. They both pushed the gun forward on it ropes and pulleys, stopping short of the opening. Strykar called for a match and the burning rod was thrust into his hand. The blows of the griffons had stopped now and Strykar held his breath as he waited. Carafa had finished loading the second gun, his scarred hands now held the rope that would raise the second forward-facing gun port. The land-ship rocked anew as one of the griffons brushed against it. Its shining fur again obscured the gun port and Strykar touched match to cannon. It jumped on its carriage with an ear-splitting detonation quickly followed by a scream of agony from the beast. Through the smoke, daylight again could be seen. Strykar cautiously peered out. The creature was thrashing upon the ground, its movements shaking the land-ship as the giant writhed and rolled.
Acquel pushed in to get a view. “Look, it’s changing!”
The griffon’s head and long neck were raised to the sky as it uttered another screech, this time weaker, and its companion withdrew from the far side of the land-ship to come to its aid. It was indeed changing. The golden fur shimmered and grew even lighter. The creature became a sickly, maggot-like yellowish-white. Fur turned to scales, its head elongating into a lizard-like snout. Its wings had vanished, having never really been there. The enchantment was undone. Where the iron shot had struck it, a black and red wound gaped, tendrils of decay spreading out from its dark centre. It shuddered, the poison taking hold, its head drooping as its demise approached. Acquel saw that its companion was also losing its colour, transforming back to its true nature, a fable
d great worm of the northern pools of Valdur, a viverna.
Acquel looked beyond the beasts and saw Lucinda. She was trying to control her mount which pranced and side-stepped. She was too far for him to tell if she was panicked but surely she had not seen this coming. Strykar stood and called over to Carafa. “Fire your gun at the other one!” He turned to Acquel, grasping his shoulder. “You and Volpe reload this one!” An orichalcum gun rang out behind Strykar and they both craned for a view outside. Carafa had missed, the precious myrra bouncing its way towards the Torinian centre formation. The unwounded beast began to make its way back to them, belly dragging on the churned-up muddied field, forked-tail lashing.
Strykar dropped to the ground and hurried to the back (if there was such a thing in the circular land-ship) just as Demerise released another arrow. He clambered up next to her and looked out an adjoining firing slot. The enemy cavalry had pulled back under a hail of crossbow fire from the Maresto line, aided by some well-aimed shots of Demerise and her hunters. Two dozen bodies lay on the ground, riderless mounts aimlessly nosing them. The remaining Torinian light horse were already riding back, their gambit a failure.
“We took one down, Demerise,” said Strykar, grinning like a mischievous boy. “I don’t know if it was the iron or the myrra but it goddamned worked!”
She lowered her bow. “And the other?”
Strykar suddenly looked back. Volpe and Acquel were tugging at their gun with no success as it had jumped its wooden running board. Carafa had just opened his gun port again, leaning in to secure its rope. The land-ship shuddered top to bottom amid cracking timber as the viverna’s horned head bulled through the gun-port, exploding the oak planks to kindling. Carafa threw up his arms but in an instant the creature, its red eyes rolling up into their sockets, had clamped its jaws upon him, dragging him outside. He had not even a chance to scream. For a moment, everyone froze where they were, all eyes turned to the gaping hole in the machine and the remains of the dangling trap door of the gun port. And then a tremendous impact sent the land-ship nearly sideways, groaning and cracking. The axle of the oversized front wheel snapped and Master Elanordo’s machine collapsed, its lower part juddering into the soft earth. They were immobile, and worse, one gun now pointed down and the other up towards the sky. The oxen began a high-pitched moaning, thrown and driven down under their skewed yokes. Strykar reached for the ladder to the cupola even as Acquel and Volpe managed to stagger to their feet again.
He reached the lookout platform and took in the scene around him. Both armies appeared to be hanging back, hundreds of armoured men transfixed by the duel between the viverna and the land-ship. Strykar’s eyes moved to the woman on horseback, her long blonde hair flying now in the strange breeze that whipped across the open plain. If she was guiding the viverna it was obeying. Hurling its great bulk against the sloped planks of the land-ship, its great pointed teeth gnawing at the opening it had already made. Lucinda della Rovera raised her arms as if imploring aid. Strykar knew that if he couldn’t traverse the cannon, they were finished. Done for. They’d have to make a run for it: underneath and out of the back of the machine and pray they weren’t run down.
A sudden movement at the corner of his eye startled him. As he swung his body around he had a glimpse of grey feathers, huge yellow bird-like claws and flaring membraneous wings. A second later a kick to his chest sent him backwards, slamming into the platform’s railing and knocking the wind out of him. Before he could recover, the thing had climbed into into the cupola from the outside, a scream of rage on its purple lips. The hag-like monster jabbered away as it went for him again, a spindly withered arm wielding a black dagger. Without a thought, he reached to block the dagger, leaning in to throw his weight against the creature. The harpy kicked outwards, its great taloned foot again thumping him and sending him crashing through the railing. He tumbled down inside the land-ship, dropped onto an ox, and rolled off onto the churned up ground.
He was on his back, gasping, still conscious but stunned rigid. His breast and backplate had saved him but his leg was in agony. Above him, he saw the nightmare launch itself down, black wings spread, renewing its attack with a terrible scream. Strykar tried to raise himself, crying out with the pain that ran up his broken leg. The harpy dropped to the top of the great wooden wheel and tensed to pounce upon him. The arrow caught it centre-square in its chest between its pendulous breasts. As it reared up and clutched, a second shaft took it in the neck. In the dim light Strykar could see the wisps of smoke coming off the thing and a stench of rotting flesh immediately filled the already fetid air. The harpy crumpled like a rag doll and fell backwards to land in front of the terrified, twitching oxen.
Demerise leaned over Strykar, cradling his head.
“Are you whole? Sweet Lord I thought it had gutted you like a mackerel!”
Strykar blinked and winced. “Elded’s beard, am I still alive?” The land-ship was rocked again by the viverna, its roar filling the air.
“You are for now, old man.” Demerise hooked her arm around his neck and back to raise him up, their faces close.
Strykar reached for her shoulder and looked at her, her scarred face covered in sweat. He stretched his neck and kissed her full on her lips. She started, her brown eyes widening, but in an instant she returned his kiss, if only for a moment.
“Leave off, you fool! We’ve got to get out of this wretched coffin.”
Strykar nodded and swallowed. “Take the men, make a rush for our lines.” His eyes fell to the quiver on her back. He could see two arrowheads covered in bright green paste. “Myrra?” he said, his head falling back.
“Yes. The little priest thought it good insurance.” Demerise gave Strykar a tender smile. “Bet you’re glad of that now, aren’t you?”
ACQUEL AND VOLPE came around the wheels and reached his side, falling to their knees. Strykar tried to haul himself up on his elbows. “The huntress here bagged herself a harpy in the bargain.”
Acquel, pale as death, felt his amulet burning against his chest. “Strykar, we must get a gun shifted before this machine collapses. Before Lucinda can summon something more!” As if the great worm outside was listening, it then gave the land-ship another shove, the trusses above them creaking and drooping precariously as the machine contorted.
Ugo Volpe reached out for Acquel’s arm. “Brother, fetch my satchel hanging over there, so I may tend to the Coronel.” He thrust the point of his sorbo sword into the ground next to the mercenary. As Acquel moved, Volpe reached out and grabbed him again. Acquel saw that the old monk was almost smiling, his face filled with something he had not seen before—a peace of inner grace. The wine-besotted, impish holy man he knew seemed to have become someone else. “Acquel, all will be well. Elded is with us. He is with you.”
Acquel shot a confused look to his friend and then gave a nod. He stood up and spotted the satchel and dashed around the back of the oxen. Daylight poured in through the hole at the front of the land-ship. A great scaly claw thrust in as he watched, curling about the planks and scratching as it tried to make purchase. The boards squeaked as nails gave way and soon another plank was ripped free of the frame. He reached the satchel and yanked it, his head spinning. Strykar was down, the land-ship finished, its guns unusable. He returned to where Demerise and half a dozen men now surrounded the wounded commander. But Volpe was gone. His wooden sword was still thrust into the earth. Acquel whirled around, and caught sight of the old monk, or rather his sandaled feet as they disappeared under the edge of the land-ship.
“Sweet God!” Acquel reached the spot and dived down onto the trampled grass. Sprawled underneath, his lungs took in fresher air as he turned his head to look for Volpe. The monk was walking, calmly around the land-ship towards the viverna. In his hand was a silver drinking flask.
Thirty-Five
URSINO, DUKE OF Torinia, stood on the raised platform of his carroccio, his gauntleted fist rhythmically tapping the wooden railing, his body rigid as he surveyed the
unfolding battle; the retainers near him hung back for fear of his coiled rage.
“Why is our centre not moving?” he snapped to Messere Iago, a young knight who waited upon him.
“Why, my lord, the griffons are tearing apart their war tower as we speak. When the beasts advance again so will the centre.”
Ursino growled in acknowledgment and looked again to the left wing which was pushing slowly forward, a hedgehog of spears and pole weapons. The steady crash of steel and the crack of wooden hafts was distant but clearly audible. He was unconvinced of the wisdom of sitting out the battle when he knew in his heart he should be in the saddle, commanding from the front. Lucinda had told him to let her forces roll over the enemy, leaving the mercenaries to sweep up the field after Maresto had collapsed. That had not happened yet and worse, he could not see her or what was transpiring ranks ahead of where his lonely carroccio sat at the rear, safe but impotent.
“And why are Aretini’s cavalry sitting on their arses over there! We could roll up the Maresto flank now, griffons be damned!”
“Should I send a rider to him, my lord?” Iago reached out tentatively for the railing next to the Duke.
“Order him forward. Now.”
Iago saluted and turned, grateful to be gaining his leave. No sooner had he departed than a rider came pounding up to the wagon, reining in and shouting for the Duke.
“Your Grace! It is the High Priest.”
Ursino leaned over the railing. “The High Priest? What of him?”
The messenger worked to control his excitable, slightly maddened mount. “He has awoken, my lord. Regained his wits as if he had just woken from a nap. He’s asking for you.”
Ursino pulled off his helm. “Asking for me.”
“Yes, your Grace, he says he has urgent words for you. Something about the Faith and how the battle can be won, that he recants his Decimali heresy. You must hurry.”
The Witch of Torinia Page 39
