Duel at Araluen

by John Flanagan

  “Maybe the Red Foxes plan to starve them out. How much food do they have?” Stig asked.

  Maddie inclined her head uncertainly. “Not a lot. They took rations for maybe fourteen days. So they must be running short by now.”

  “They could always eat their horses,” Thorn put in.

  Maddie raised an eyebrow at him. “They’ll never do that. Try telling a cavalryman to eat his horse. That’d be like telling you to eat your ship,” she said. She hesitated as she realized how ludicrous that sounded.

  Hal grinned. “It’s not quite the same thing,” he said. “But I see your point.”

  “Stig here could probably eat a ship if he was hungry enough,” Thorn said, straight-faced.

  Stig looked sidelong at him. He was used to the old sea wolf’s teasing. “I’d need a lot of salt,” he said.

  Seeing that Thorn was about to reply, Hal cut short their banter. “The question is,” he said, “what do you want from us?”

  Maddie hesitated. This was the crucial point. Her mother had been confident that the Herons would throw in their lot with Horace and Gilan’s men. But Cassandra had known them for years. If she were to ask for their help personally, they would almost certainly give it. But Maddie had only met them once before, and she wasn’t so sure.

  “As things stand,” she said slowly, “there’s no way for my dad and Gilan to break out of the fort without the enemy seeing them coming and being ready for them. They might win the ensuing battle. My dad is a very capable warrior.”

  “Gilan’s no slouch either,” Hal said, and his companions grunted their agreement.

  “But even if they did win, they’d lose a lot of men in a straightforward pitched battle like that. They’d be outnumbered and they’d have no advantages on their side. On the other hand . . .” She paused, looking meaningfully at the three Skandians. “If we could launch a surprise attack from the rear, just as Dad and Gilan attacked down the hill, that might tip the battle in our favor.”

  She paused to see their reaction, and her spirits rose as she saw them nodding.

  “I know there are only a dozen in your crew,” she said, “but Mum said one Skandian is the equivalent of three normal warriors.”

  Hal smiled lazily at her. “Why, Ranger Maddie,” he said, “are you trying to influence us with exaggerated compliments?”

  She flushed, feeling her cheeks redden. “No. I just . . .” She stopped, searching for words, and he touched her arm, letting her off the hook.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Your mother is right. One Skandian is the equivalent of three ordinary warriors.”

  “Four if the Skandian is me,” Thorn averred.

  She smiled at him gratefully. “I can believe that.”

  “And there’s something else,” Hal added. “There’s not a dozen of us. There are over thirty of us if we count Wolfbiter’s crew.”

  “Would they join us?” Maddie asked. She knew her mother and Gilan were old friends of the Heron’s crew. But Jern and his men were a different matter.

  Hal shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “After all, as the duty ship, they swore an oath of loyalty to the legitimate rulers of Araluen.”

  “And I’ve never known a wolfship crew who would refuse the opportunity for a good fight,” Stig said.

  “And I’ve never known a wolfship crew who’d pass up the opportunity to wallop a few Sonderlanders,” Thorn added.

  “Let’s ask them,” Hal said. He rose from his crouched position by the tree stump and started toward the two ships’ crews, who were waiting expectantly, relaxing on the grass nearby.

  “Listen up, lads,” he said, raising his voice. “Maddie here has asked a favor of us. Her father and the Ranger Gilan are surrounded in a hill fort to the north of here by a ragtag group of Sonderland mercenaries and some locals.”

  There was a growl of subdued anger from the Skandians. As Thorn had intimated, Sonderlanders were not their favorite people.

  “How many Sonderlanders?” asked one of Jern’s crew.

  “About one hundred and fifty. And there are forty Araluens inside the fort. Maddie has asked us if we’ll help them. The plan is for us to launch a surprise attack on the rear of the mercenaries while the Araluen troops attack downhill. I’ve already said my crew will help.” He looked at Jern. “And I’m assuming the Wolfbiter crew will join us.”

  Jern chewed his lip thoughtfully before replying. “You’re asking us to commit ourselves to a battle on the word of a mere girl? She’s hardly more than a child.” Some Skandians, regrettably, were conservative in their attitudes as to a woman’s place in the world.

  Hal’s eyes narrowed. “This ‘child,’” he said, “is a Ranger. A fourth-year apprentice.”

  The Herons nodded their heads approvingly. They had dealt with Rangers before. The Wolfbiter crew were more doubtful. They had been the duty ship in Araluen for some months, but in that time they’d had little to do with the Ranger Corps.

  “So she’s an apprentice,” Blorst Knucklewhite said. He was one of the rowing crew on Wolfbiter. “That means she isn’t fully qualified, doesn’t it?”

  Long on muscle, short on brain, like all rowers, Hal thought. He could see that a demonstration of Maddie’s abilities might be called for. He turned to the young Ranger. “See that alder tree yonder?” he asked.

  Maddie looked in the direction he indicated. The tree was a good hundred meters away.

  “There’s a black mark on the bark,” Hal continued. “Could you put two arrows into it for us—”

  Before he had finished the sentence, Maddie had unslung her bow, nocked an arrow and let fly without seeming to aim. A second arrow hissed away while the first was still in the air. Both of them slammed into the mark Hal had designated.

  The crew of Wolfbiter looked suitably surprised and impressed. The Herons smiled with an I-could-have-told-you expression. But before anyone could speak, Maddie had dropped the bow and whipped her sling from under her belt, fitting a shot into the pouch in one deft movement. She pointed to the Heron, nosed up on the bank forty meters away. The shields of the two crews lined the sides of the ship.

  “The shield with the red X,” she said. “On the right-hand edge.”

  Then she stepped forward and whipped the sling up and over her head. The shot flashed away and, seconds later, struck the shield with a resounding CRACK! As she had forecast, it struck on the right-hand edge of the shield, setting it rocking back and forth. By sheer chance, the shield happened to belong to Blorst Knucklewhite.

  “Orlog’s ears!” he said. “This girl is downright dangerous!”

  His shipmates muttered their agreement, while the Herons laughed at the startled expressions on their faces.

  Hal knew that Skandians valued skill at arms highly, and Maddie had just demonstrated her ability—and her worth. He turned back to Jern. “This ‘mere girl,’ as you call her, is the daughter of Princess Cassandra and Sir Horace. And she’s apprenticed to the Ranger Will Treaty. If you know your recent history, you might recall all three of them had a lot to do with the defeat of the Eastern Riders when they tried to invade our country some years back. I think we owe them, don’t you?”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the Wolfbiter crew.

  Jern held his hands out in surrender. “We’ll fight for her,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing.”

  7

  Horace was sitting in his tent out of the heat of the noonday sun, sharpening his sword, when Gilan poked his head around the open entrance.

  “Isn’t that thing sharp enough already?” he said, as Horace rasped away at the gleaming blade.

  Horace studied the sword as he worked. It had been made by the famed swordmakers of Nihon-Ja and had been presented to him many years before. The blade was not only sharp, it was incredibly hard. It would put a not
ch in the blade of a normal Araluen sword. The steel was slightly blue, with wave-like patterns running along it, showing where the separate rods of iron had been beaten together to form it.

  “A sword can never be too sharp,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve had an idea,” Gilan said.

  Horace looked up with interest, the whetstone pausing in its rhythmic back and forth stroking of the blade. “Of course, that’s what you Rangers do. You have ideas. You think. You plan. Whereas simple warriors like me just look for their next opportunity to whack someone with a sword.”

  “If you’ve quite finished,” Gilan replied.

  “I take it this idea of yours is a brilliant plan to break out of here and send that rabble down the hill packing?” Horace continued. “If so, it’s taken you long enough to come up with it.”

  “It’s not exactly that,” Gilan said, and Horace feigned a look of disappointment. “But it is related. Come with me.”

  He turned and stooped under the entrance to the tent, moving out into the bright sunshine. When Horace followed, a few seconds later, the Ranger was already striding toward the north wall.

  Horace lengthened his stride to catch up. “So this idea of yours concerns the back of the fort?”

  Gilan said nothing. He mounted the rickety stairs that led to the catwalk inside the north wall and climbed to the top. Once there, he moved to the parapet and turned to face Horace.

  “It strikes me,” he said, “that there may come a time when we want to leave the fort, and possibly launch an attack on the enemy camp.” He gestured with his thumb toward the south wall, where the main gate was placed, and the camp that lay downhill beyond it.

  “Since we’ve discussed that idea several times, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Horace replied. “All we need is a plan—a typically sneaky, underhand, Ranger type of plan.”

  “And if we were to do such a thing, it would be better if the enemy didn’t see us coming—at least not immediately.”

  Horace nodded. “That would make sense. I’m assuming you’re thinking that we might leave the fort via the north side. But, as you can see, there is no gate in this north wall. And not a lot of room on the pathway below it. Certainly not a lot of room for our horses.” He gestured down to the track that wound around the fort. At its highest point, it was barely a meter wide. Chances were, if they tried to take horses out onto that narrow dirt track, they would stumble and fall.

  Gilan nodded. “I noticed that. My idea is that we build a ramp.”

  “A ramp?” Horace said.

  “A sloping timber walkway that we could lead the horses down,” Gilan explained.

  Horace gave him an exasperated look. “I wasn’t asking for a definition of a ramp,” he said. “I was expressing surprise at the idea. Perhaps even admiration.”

  “We’d have to make a hole in the wall, of course. A hole that we might call a gateway,” Gilan explained further. “That wouldn’t be too hard.”

  “And where would you see this ramp going?” Horace asked.

  Gilan pointed to the next level down on the sloping path. “Down to the next level,” he said. At the point he indicated, the pathway was several meters wide, with plenty of room for mounted riders. “We could ride down the ramp to the path, then work our way around the hill and emerge on the other side of the fort, two levels down. We’d be that much closer to the enemy before they saw us.”

  Horace leaned on the rough timber wall, visualizing such a ramp. “It’s a good idea,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Gilan said, with just a trace of smugness.

  Then Horace continued. “But there are two problems. One, where will you get the timber for this ramp? There’s not a lot lying around.”

  “You’re standing on it,” Gilan told him. “We could tear up this walkway, and the stairs, to build the ramp.”

  “But then we’d have no defensive position if the enemy attacked this side of the fort,” Horace pointed out.

  Gilan nodded. “On the other hand, if they did attack this wall and made it to the top, they’d be faced with a four-meter drop into the compound below, wouldn’t they?”

  Horace smiled. He hadn’t thought of that. He visualized the surprised look on the attackers’ faces as they swung themselves over the top of the parapet and found nothing below them but thin air.

  “In addition to that, my archers could engage them from the walkways on the west and east walls, and shoot down any who didn’t fall.”

  “Ye-es,” Horace said slowly, now picturing this further concept.

  “You said there were two problems with my plan?”

  Horace reluctantly abandoned his thoughts of Sonderland mercenaries tumbling to the hard-packed earth below, riddled with arrows. “So I did. The other problem—or problems, to be more exact—is down there.”

  He pointed down the hill, where the winding path formed a series of steep terraces, to a small group of tents at the bottom. They could see smoke from a cooking fire rising into the air and a figure moving from one of the tents to the fire.

  “Unfortunately, our enemy isn’t completely lacking in intelligence,” he said. “Those lookouts are there to raise the alarm if we do try to leave the fort from this side.”

  “Actually, I had thought of that,” Gilan said.

  Horace looked at him. He wasn’t surprised to hear it. Gilan wasn’t the type to overlook such a basic hole in his plan. “And did you think of a solution?”

  “By the time they make their way around the base of the hill to raise the alarm, our cavalry will be in sight anyway.”

  “You’re right,” Horace said thoughtfully. “We wouldn’t achieve total surprise, of course. They’d still see us coming down the last two-thirds of the hill. But we’d be a lot closer to them than if we were to sortie through the main gate.”

  “Exactly,” Gilan said. “And I can lead the archers out the main gate and down the south side of the hill, while you lead the cavalry at a canter around the track. It won’t be a complete surprise, as you say, but it might be enough to panic and confuse them when they see us coming.”

  “And panic and confusion are our allies in this situation,” Horace agreed. He came to a decision and slapped his friend on the shoulder.

  Gilan, who was slight of build like most Rangers, staggered a pace or two. “I’m glad you like the idea,” he said sourly.

  * * *

  • • •

  “A trebuchet, you say?” Duncan asked Cassandra. He was sitting up in his bed, which had been placed against the window of his room, affording a view over the parkland below the castle.

  Since they had taken refuge in the tower, Cassandra had made a practice of visiting her father and keeping him abreast of events. She valued his comments and advice. After all, he was an experienced commander and one of Araluen’s foremost tacticians. She, on the other hand, was new to the business of commanding men in battle.

  She nodded now at his question. “That’s what it looks like. I’ve never seen one in real life, but I’ve seen pictures of them.”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “And where is it now?”

  “It’s in the courtyard. Dimon’s men abandoned it when our archers started shooting. I can hear them hammering and sawing on the other side of the keep. I assume they’re building some kind of timber shield to protect the crew from our arrows.”

  Duncan started to throw back the blankets covering his legs. “Well, let’s take a look at it.”

  But she held out a hand to stop him. “Dad, you’re a sick man. Don’t try to get up!”

  “Nonsense!” Duncan said emphatically, brushing aside her protests. “Lying here with nothing to do is making me sick. I feel useless and inadequate. Best thing for me would be to have something to occupy my mind.”

  He swung his legs out of bed, moving carefully to favor the inj
ured leg, and pulled on a pair of breeches, stuffing his nightshirt into them. Cassandra regarded her father curiously. He seemed to have a new energy about him; he was different from the pale, wan figure she had become accustomed to. There was color back in his cheeks, and although he was still thin, he definitely seemed to have regained some of his old vigor. Perhaps he was right, she thought. He needed a challenge. He needed something to do. Most of all, he needed to feel useful. She helped him rise from the bed. He swayed uncertainly for a moment or two, then recovered his sense of balance.

  “Been lying there too long,” he said brusquely. “Hand me my stick.”

  There was a blackthorn walking stick leaning against the wardrobe, and she passed it to him. He leaned his weight on it and took an experimental step toward the door. He swayed again, then beckoned to her.

  “Better let me lean on you to start,” he said, and she moved quickly to him, letting him put his arm around her shoulders. He beamed at her. “Now lead on.”

  They made their way to the door leading to the balcony, followed by the curious and delighted looks of those they passed on the way. The soldiers were heartened by the sight of the King on his feet once more, and they murmured greetings and touched their knuckles to their foreheads as he passed. Duncan paused at the door and looked back at them.

  “The old dog still has some life in him,” he told them, grinning.

  He was answered by smiles, and one anonymous voice that called, “Good on you, Bandylegs!” It was the army’s private nickname for him, referring to the fact that, after a lifetime in the saddle, he was a trifle bowlegged. He pretended to frown angrily, even though he had been aware of the nickname for many years.

  “Insolence!” he snorted, then turned toward the doorway. “Let’s take a look at this machine, shall we?”

  On the balcony, he released his grip on Cassandra’s shoulder and they leaned on the balustrade together, peering down into the courtyard. He was silent for several seconds.

  “Yes. It’s a trebuchet, all right,” he said. “And it looks rather well made. Dimon obviously has an engineer among his men.”