‘We have no timbers, sir. We’ve used every one long enough to brace the gates. If we strip them away, the gates are going to weaken.’
Geoffrey’s mind was numb from lack of sleep and the stress of repulsing three breach attempts over the last two days. He stood, looking around the city as if seeking inspiration. Down the central boulevard he could see the harbour. After a second, he said, ‘I want you to send runners to every gate, and have them bring one timber here now. Then send a crew into the harbour and start cutting down masts. A dozen of the stoutest you can find and when they are done, bring them here!’
Captain Garton relayed the orders and said, ‘A good idea, sir.’
‘If Salador gives us enough time to use it.’ He saw his own exhaustion reflected in Captain Garton’s face. ‘If this breach fails, I want every other man off the wall and here.’ He pointed to a choke-point in the street behind him. ‘Shield wall with archers on the roofs above. If they get inside the wall and we don’t break them here, the city falls.’
He pointed first one way then the other. ‘Have the men start building barricades at the corners of those buildings; if Salador breaches here I want them funnelled into this street and under the fire of the archers. If they spread out, the city falls.’
He glanced around and said, ‘And find some more arrows. If the archers have nothing to shoot, the city falls.’
Garton said, ‘Boys are out gleaning for arrows now, sir.’
‘How are they getting in and out?’
‘We have a rope over the wall on the east side. No enemy watching there and the boys fill a bucket and we pull it up. The boys have orders to flee to the bay and dive in if they see enemies. They can swim over the harbour chain and get back into the city through the harbour gate.’
‘Good plan,’ said du Gale. ‘Now, let us see if we can hold out for two more days.’
‘Two more?’ asked Garton.
‘I was promised relief would be here in no more than two weeks. That is two days hence.’
The exhausted commander saw things were relatively quiet as Salador was retreating from the wall, no doubt to resume its relentless pounding with stones from their siege engines. ‘I’ll be in my quarters.’
‘Get some sleep, sir. We’ll keep the city safe for you.’
‘Thank you, Garton.’
Geoffrey du Gale made his way back to the bakery that had been converted to a makeshift command post. He motioned his aide away and fell face first across the small bed in the back, next to the cold ovens. In his full armour with his sword and scabbard splayed out to one side, the Knight-Marshal of Silden was sound asleep in seconds.
Geoffrey awoke with a start as his aide shook him. ‘The attack is resuming, my lord!’
‘What’s the time?’
‘It’s dawn, sir. You slept all night. I managed to get your sword and boots off, but …’
Du Gale sat up and motioned for his boots, which he put on. He had cotton in his head and his eyes felt as if he’d had sand behind his lids. As the sounds of battle were rising, he dressed quickly and rushed out. Hurrying to the failing breach, he saw that his orders had been carried out and a dozen new timbers had been set to brace the failing wall. A massive shudder caused rock dust to fly off the back of the wall as a boulder struck the other side.
Captain Garton saluted and said, ‘It seems their engineers have noticed the failing wall here, as well, sir.’
‘How long can we hold here?’
‘Perhaps until midday if they keep pounding.’
Geoffrey hurried to the nearest stairway up to the wall, taking the stone steps two at a time. He reached a vantage point and saw three trebuchets on top of a hillside half a mile away and saw them unleash their rocks. The first landed short and bounced into the wall, most of its momentum eaten by the damp soil, and the second sent a boulder hurling over the wall, to crash into a building a short distance away, causing screams of pain and fear to erupt. The third boulder struck within yards of the weak point and Geoffrey turned to Garton, who had followed him.
‘I want those barricades finished.’
‘Almost finished, sir,’ answered the captain.
‘Form up a flying company and place them at the other end of the street, near the harbour, so they are out of reach of those damned stones. If the enemy breaches, I want them to hit the invaders hard and fast until we can pull more men from the wall.’ He pointed to the choke point he had indicated the previous day. ‘We will take a stand there, if we must.’
‘Understood, sir,’ said Garton, running off to carry out his orders.
Geoffrey looked at the three massive war engines and wished he could sally out with a company and burn them … Might as well wish for an extra two hundred heavy cavalry while he was at it.
He turned and gazed out over the city and the harbour beyond. One more day, he thought, and help will arrive. He rejected any thought that Jim Dasher would not live up to his promise, for in that event, Silden would die.
Geoffrey felt his stomach knot as he saw two more trebuchets being moved into place next to the three already there. He could tell from the sounds in the city that the attacks on the western and north-western walls had ceased. Garton was right; Salador’s engineers had seen signs of the failing wall and had interpreted the signs correctly. They were now shifting their attack to the north-eastern section of the city.
Geoffrey judged it would be two more hours before the oxen pulling those heavy machines of war into place would get them situated, their crews would get them locked down in place, and the intensified bombardment would begin.
He hurried down to the street behind the wall, wishing there was a real bailey so that he could stop them at the wall. He might as wish for those two hundred heavy horse again.
He motioned for a messenger, who came and saluted. He was a boy no older than eleven. ‘Orders to the wall. One man in two to stand down and find a place to rest. Rest for two hours. Then they’re to report to Captain Garton down at the harbour end of this street. Is that clear?’
‘One in two,’ repeated the boy so he was sure he got the orders right, ‘then rest for two hours, then report to Captain Garton at the harbour end of Broad Street, sir.’
‘Right. Now run off.’
The boy would get word spread and within two hours Geoffrey wanted as many men ready to come up that avenue as he could spare. He looked around and judged how better he could prepare the battleground, for here, he was certain, the fight would be determined, the outcome decided.
Throughout the day the five war engines cast massive stones at the wall, two out of five hitting close enough that the wall began to falter at sundown. Throughout the night the stones rained down and men died, and throughout the night Geoffrey du Gale kept his men ready. Five hundred soldiers waited at the far end of the boulevard, out of harm’s way from misguided stones and shards of ricocheting rock and masonry. When it was clear that the wall was going to fail near dawn, Geoffrey ordered the remainder of his men off the battlements. He had the rested column brought up, ready to bolster the point of attack for the invaders. Two companies of men took positions behind the makeshift barricades which du Gale had refortified constantly. Any man of Salador who rushed those overturned wagons and bags of sand would die before he cleared them, so the only point of attack was down Broad Street.
There a wall of shields and swords waited.
Suddenly, the wall collapsed in a burst of masonry and dust, and stones came rolling down the streets. As the dust cleared, Geoffrey could see through the breach that soldiers from Salador were advancing.
Men died as archers on nearby rooftops fired blindly through the clouds of dust and the defenders waited with weapons ready. Then, abruptly, with shouted prayers to various gods and cries of victory, the breach was flooded with invaders.
Geoffrey cried, ‘Hold!’
Archers rained death down on the invading surge of the yellow-tabarded enemy as the men of Silden answered the insult done to the
ir city. Battle was joined.
As a boy, Geoffrey had worked with his family’s properties, one being a camp in the mountains to the north, where he worked a season as a wood-cutter. They had a device, powered by a mule, much like a miller’s grinding wheel, but instead of grinding grain it shredded wood, branches and small saplings, reducing it to chips and pulp to be used by the paper-makers. This struggle reminded him of feeding a branch into that shredder.
The men of Salador hurled themselves bravely though the gap, to be greeted by a fusillade of arrows. With their shields raised above their heads, most made it through the gap, only to be confronted by a wall of shields and swords. Still they came.
And they died. The men of Silden responded with a vicious counter charge, pushing back the invaders, once, twice, three times before Geoffrey realized they were at an impasse.
Then he heard the sound of a distant trumpet and the men of Salador withdrew.
From the rooftops came the shout of Captain Garton for a ceasefire, and Geoffrey turned to see an exhausted soldier behind him barely able to stay upright. ‘Stand down,’ he commanded, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded in his own ears.
A boy appeared with water-skins, one under each arm, and passed them around, only to vanish as another boy turned up. Geoffrey finally allowed himself to take a drink, finding himself so parched he was almost unable to let go of the skin as he gulped, but at last he released his hold and passed the skin to the next man.
He heard Captain Garton shout, ‘Herald approaching!’
Knight-Marshal Geoffrey du Gale walked toward the breach, having to make his way over the bodies of the fallen. Occasionally someone in the pile would groan or whimper and soldiers would instantly set about getting the wounded out from under the bodies of the dead.
There was an odd border between the bodies inside the wall and out, a rising portion of the wall’s foundation, six inches high and six feet across. He stepped up on it and found another carpet of dead men spread before him, mostly those wearing the tabard of Salador or mercenary auxiliaries, with only the occasional man of Silden who had fallen from the parapets above. There he waited. The two horsemen, the herald and the soldier with him carrying a white flag, pulled up about twenty yards away, as the horses were unwilling to step on the corpses. The herald shouted, ‘I seek your commander!’
Du Gale shouted back, ‘You have him. I am Knight-Marshal Geoffrey du Gale. What do you seek?’
‘My Lord, Arthur, Duke of Salador, seeks parlay. Are you willing?’
Geoffrey glanced at his exhausted men up on the wall or massed behind the breach, then saw the huge army of Salador to his right reforming on the hill, and weighed his choices. His men needed respite, but that also gave Salador time to reorganize for the next attack.
He glanced skyward and tried to judge the time of day. It appeared to be mid-afternoon, but what hour he could not tell. Finally he said, ‘Very well. I shall come under a flag of truce to that tree!’ He pointed to a lonely elm perched on the side of a hill to his left.
‘My lord Arthur invites you to his pavilion where you may speak in comfort and share a cup of wine.’
‘I thank His Grace for his hospitality, but I must decline. I have much to attend to here, so if he wishes to parlay, that’s where we will meet. In one hour!’
The herald hesitated, then said, ‘Very well, my lord. I will carry your request to my duke.’
The two horses turned and started back up the hill. Geoffrey returned to the breach, where he found Captain Garton waiting. ‘I’d have taken the wine, myself,’ said the captain.
‘If things turn ugly, which I expect they will, I prefer a short sprint back to my men.’
Garton inclined his head. ‘Just as well. I would prefer not to discover I’m in charge while you’re held hostage.’
‘I thought of that. Truce? From a man who betrayed his oath to the Kingdom and makes war upon another Kingdom city?’
‘These are ugly times, my lord,’ said Garton.
‘Get men to clearing the dead. We have an hour or so, but I think we’ll be fighting again before sundown. Feed and rest as many as you can; and pray.’
‘I’ve been praying since dawn.’
Geoffrey decided to make an inspection of the other areas of the city, knowing that the truce would only last until he spoke to Duke Arthur. From that moment on, peace would be a fragile thing doomed to shatter; the only question was when.
An hour later, Knight-Marshal Geoffrey du Gale rode out with a single companion, a cavalry corporal bearing a white flag of truce. As he trotted leisurely up the hill, he saw a pair of riders approaching downhill from the crest. The herald was the same, though this time he carried the white banner. At his side was a man whose flowing blonde locks and ornate armour proclaimed him to be Arthur, Duke of Salador, and the vain dandy his reputation proclaimed. The armour was of polished steel with gold decoration at the shoulders and neck, and his helm rivalled that of the king’s, complete with a golden plume.
Reaching the agreed-upon location, Geoffrey saluted. ‘My lord,’ he said in neutral tones.
‘I’m here to offer terms, sir,’ said the duke contemptuously.
‘Your terms, sir?’
‘You will surrender the city by nightfall. Your men will lay down their arms and muster upon the field over there.’ He waved vaguely in the direction of the field to the north of the western gate to the city. ‘All arms and armour are to be confiscated and all men of fighting age will be conscripted. All stores and goods are to be rendered up to my quartermaster.’
‘And in exchange?’ asked du Gale.
‘Why, I let your citizens live, of course. They may go where they wish, or stay under my governance, but they will be alive. Either way, Silden will be annexed to Salador and my edicts will be law. Resist, and every man under arms dies, and I will permit the sack of the city: the women and children left alive will wish they had not survived. Any further questions, sir?’
‘I see,’ said Geoffrey, looking out over the city.
‘You seem distracted, sir,’ said the duke. ‘Have I your answer?’
Geoffrey rose up in his stirrups and stared at something in the harbour. A ship was sailing in, a large green banner snapping in the wind from the top of the main mast.
He sat back down in his saddle. ‘My answer is to offer my own terms, my lord duke.’
‘You’re hardly in a position to offer terms,’ said Arthur with a sneer.
Geoffrey replied, ‘I’ve bled your army, my lord, and your men are hungry, your mercenaries are demanding payment or booty, and time is on my side. If you come against us we will grind you some more, and you know it, or we would not be having this conversation. Each hour you fail to take Silden is an hour closer to having a full-blown mutiny in your ranks. You expected a short battle and a quick surrender, so you did not come prepared for a full siege. If I may be frank, Your Grace, you were under-prepared for this siege.’
Before Arthur could voice umbrage, du Gale pressed on. ‘You may yet take Silden, but when you do you will have little left to call an army. Your men may sack, loot, rape, and kill, but you will not have enough of a force left to occupy and govern. Your mercenaries will be the first to desert and your remaining men will hole up during the night and only go where ordered during the day. In short, you will be here, but you will not rule.’
The duke’s eyes widened: he did not expect to be spoken to in such a way.
‘Here are my terms, Your Grace. You will lay down your arms and organize your forces to march back to Salador, where you will prepare to offer up your defence against the charge of treason against the person of Prince Edward and the Kingdom of the Isles.’
‘Preposterous!’ shouted Arthur. ‘I was ready to offer you and your officers a special place in my new commands; you’ve acquitted yourselves admirably in defending this city, but I see you’re intractable. Marshal, if you don’t surrender at once, I shall see you in chains and you’ll answer to the r
ightful king, Oliver.’
‘Well, my lord, that is likely to prove problematic. I will almost certainly be dead, and this city, once it is sacked, will provide you little protection, and it’s a long journey back to Salador. Moreover, you won’t enjoy what you find when you get home.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your city’s been taken, my lord. If you’d care to hold this truce for, say, another day or two, I believe you’ll receive word that Lord Charles of Bas-Tyra arrived with the bulk of his army a few days ago and has seized your city in the name of Prince Edward.’ He glanced at the forces of Salador arrayed on the distant hillside. ‘I wonder how your lads will react to the news.’
‘You lie, sir!’
‘I do not, Your Grace. You have three choices. Attack, surrender, or wait. May I suggest you wait. My lads are tired and could use a hot meal, and it would be a bother for them to have to round up and guard your army until they’ve rested a bit. When you receive word from home, let us speak again.’
He turned his horse and rode back, leaving the duke near-speechless in his wake. Reaching the gates, he rode through and said to Garton, ‘What do we see?’
‘Nothing. Their forces are just sitting there.’
Hurrying back to the breach, he called up to the wall. ‘Are they moving?’
‘Yes, Marshal, but not towards us: back to their camp.’
With a grin, Geoffrey du Gale, Knight-Marshal of Silden said to his senior captain, ‘Garton, feed the lads and tell them to get ready to oversee some prisoners.’
‘Prisoners?’
‘Arthur has lost his city. That was a ship from Roldem flying that green banner. It means Salador belongs to Edward.’
Some of the men nearby overheard that remark and started spreading the word. A cheer erupted and was picked up by the rest of the city’s defenders.
‘If you find Arthur trying to steal a boat down there, let him. He’ll be trying to find a way to Rillanon and Oliver’s protection, if he can. He knows that if he stays here, he’s going to hang.’
Magician's End Page 29
