Duel at Araluen

by John Flanagan

  “Save your arrows,” the corporal in command of the sentries told him.

  Reluctantly, the archer agreed and stepped back.

  The corporal peered cautiously around the gap, then rapidly jerked back as another crossbow bolt flashed through, catching the edge of the gap and ricocheting wildly inside the eighth floor.

  “Get back out of range,” he said, gesturing to the men nearby.

  Those bolts that did penetrate the gap tended to fly wildly, skidding and skittering off the walls and spinning end over end in all directions. Cassandra, summoned by a messenger, arrived to see what was going on. A soldier handed her a long shield and she slipped it over her arm before she approached the doorway to the stairs. The corporal, crouching behind a shield of his own, waved a hand warning her to come no farther.

  “What’s happening?” Cassandra asked, flinching as another bolt shrieked off the stonework and spun away into the stairwell. She raised her shield a few centimeters higher.

  “A couple of crossbowmen,” the corporal told her. “They’re making a nuisance of themselves, shooting through the gap here, as you can see.”

  They both ducked as another bolt flashed through the gap. This one struck no obstruction and continued across the room, eventually thudding into the door of a weapons cabinet.

  “Anyone hurt?” Cassandra asked.

  The corporal shook his head. “Not so far. Jeremy got a nasty fright when the first shot came through the gap, but they’re shooting at random and as long as we stay well back, we should be safe enough.”

  Cassandra was silent for several seconds, wondering what Dimon was up to. There seemed to be no point to the current attack, other than the vague chance that one of her men might be struck by a random shot. She shrugged. As the corporal said, the attack seemed to be of nuisance value only. Perhaps it was a measure of Dimon’s frustration at his inability to winkle her out of her retreat, she thought. All the same, she felt an uneasy stirring in the pit of her stomach. Dimon usually didn’t do anything without a good reason. But for the life of her, she couldn’t see what that could be in this case.

  Ten minutes passed and there were no more shots. She ventured a quick look around the edge of the barricade. The stairway below was empty. The crossbowmen had withdrawn, presumably frustrated that their shots had had no effect on the defenders.

  “Put the sentries back in position,” she told the corporal.

  He nodded, then turned to call to two of his men. Their view through the narrow gap was restricted and they couldn’t see the extreme outer side of the stairway. But they’d be able to see any major attack forming up.

  Cassandra waited a few more minutes, her suspicions unresolved. Then she decided she was achieving nothing by remaining here. “Stay sharp,” she cautioned. “Let me know if you see or hear anything unusual.” Then she turned away and headed for the stairs to the eighth floor above them.

  Neither she or the corporal was aware that, in addition to their seemingly wild shooting, the crossbowmen had shot eight bolts into the woodwork of the barricade, at varying heights and widths across the timber.

  * * *

  • • •

  In the small hours of the morning, working in darkness, four of Dimon’s men placed a narrow plank bridge across the gap in the stairway. The plank was on the outer edge of the stairwell, where the defenders’ vision was limited. The two sentries on duty were taking it in turns to keep watch through the gap, but neither of them noticed the plank inching its way across nor did they see the four men who crossed it, moving almost silently. Any noise they might have made was drowned by the raucous singing of their comrades farther down the stairs. It had been going on for hours.

  “They sound happy enough,” one sentry said to the other, yawning prodigiously. He had been on duty for three-and-a-half hours now. His relief was due in half an hour. He was tired, cold and hungry. As a result, his concentration was lowered—which was why the attackers had chosen this time of the early morning.

  Pressed hard against the rough timber of the barricade, with the yawning drop into the stairwell at their backs, the four men inched their way across the stairway, using the deeply embedded crossbow bolts as handholds. Each of them was burdened with two oil bladders, similar to the ones that the trebuchet had flung at the tower a few days before. The contents gurgled as the men moved across the barricade.

  When they were in position, they hung the oil bladders from the crossbow bolts, setting them carefully in position, making sure the bolts were firmly embedded and wouldn’t pull loose under the weight. Then, when all eight oil sacks were in position, hanging against the barricade, they made their way back to the plank bridge, crossed to the lower side and hauled the bridge back after them. One at a time, they withdrew back down the stairs to the lower levels. Shortly afterward, the singing died away.

  On the eighth floor, the sentries yawned. “Where’s our relief?” one of them asked.

  “Late—as usual,” his companion replied. He shrugged himself into a more comfortable position, then leaned forward to peer through the gap between the barricade and the stone wall.

  “Nothing happening out there,” he said morosely.

  * * *

  • • •

  Born out of desperation, and his mounting frustration at his inability to dislodge Cassandra from her tower retreat, this would be Dimon’s most determined attack to date.

  He had recruited an extra thirty-five men from members of the Red Fox Clan—fresh troops from the surrounding countryside who so far had not been involved in the attack on the castle. He called them together now in the vast hallway on the fourth floor.

  “This time,” he said, “we will drive Cassandra out of her tower. Or we’ll kill her in the attempt. I’m not going to pretend that it’ll be easy. She’s a wily enemy and she has some good men with her. But I will pay a sum of five thousand royals to the men who win this battle for me.”

  He paused for effect, listening to the murmur that ran around the room. It was a huge amount, more money than most of them could dream of or even imagine. But it was worthwhile. It would keep them motivated, keep them forcing their way upward and forward as the men around them fell and died.

  And while it was a massive amount, it didn’t matter to him. If they succeeded, he would have the throne—and access to the vast riches that went with it.

  “In a few minutes, we’ll ignite the bladders hanging on the barricade wall. We’ll set them alight with fire arrows. Once the wood is well alight, we’ll put our new bridge in position and attack across it. Some of you won’t survive this attack . . .” He saw his troops looking round at one another, wondering which of them would die in the next few hours. With the sublime confidence of fighting men, none of them expected to be among those who fell.

  “But for those who do, it’ll mean fewer to share those five thousand royals.”

  There were wolfish grins at those words. Every man there knew that he would be among the survivors. And every man there knew that he would be rich. Who cared how many of the others died? That simply meant more for those who lived.

  “All right. Get yourselves ready. Full armor. Shields and helmets. They’ll try to stop us before we get a foothold on the other side. Don’t let them. Keep moving. Keep thrusting forward. Those behind, shove the man in front of you to keep him going. If he falls, take his place. Once the barricade has burned through, shove it out of the way. No quarter. No mercy. We need to get this done. Questions?”

  One man raised his hand and Dimon pointed to him.

  “Will you be leading us, lord?” the man asked, with a sardonic grin.

  Dimon had been half expecting the question. He raised an eyebrow at the man. “I’d be entitled to a commander’s share if I did. That’d be a quarter of the money. Do you really want to share with me?”

  There was a rumble of laughter from the ass
embled men. “I thought not,” Dimon said when it died down. “Anything else?”

  Another man spoke without raising his hand. “Won’t Lady Cassandra be able to flood the burning barricade from the upper-floor cisterns?”

  Dimon shook his head. “The water from the cisterns would flow down the steps at floor level. There’s no provision to divert it over the top of the barricade.”

  The man nodded, along with several of his companions. Dimon waited a few moments to see if there were more questions. There weren’t. The men were already spending those five thousand royals in their minds.

  “All right,” he said, pointing to the door that led to the stairway. “Let’s get moving.”

  * * *

  • • •

  On the eighth floor, the men on sentry duty heard the sound of heavy boots on the stone stairs below them—a lot of heavy boots.

  “Stand to!” called Merlon, who happened to be taking his turn as commander of the sentries. “Jerrod! Go fetch Lady Cassandra.”

  The young lad he pointed to nodded and sprinted toward the stairs leading to the ninth floor. The others hastily gathered their weapons. The measured tramp of feet on the steps grew louder as the enemy approached.

  “Ready, lads,” said Merlon. “Spearmen to the front.”

  With the barricade in position, there was little for the archers to do. Merlon expected a straightforward attack across the gap in the stairs and, to counter that, spears were the better choice.

  Then the crossbowmen were back, standing well down the stairs, concealed by the curving stone wall. They began shooting, sending their bolts slamming into the oil sacks, so that the sticky mixture of oil and pitch flooded out and saturated the timbers of the barricade. Once all eight bladders were split, the crossbowmen switched to bolts with oil-soaked rags wrapped around their heads. Men on either side of them leaned in with flaming torches and ignited the rags, and the crossbowmen shot into the glutinous oily mix on the barricade.

  The flames flickered, then flared wildly as the oil and pitch took fire. Within seconds, the barricade was a wall of flames, and thick, choking black smoke boiled up over the top of the timber wall, filling the stairwell behind it.

  The crossbowmen ceased shooting, standing ready to counter any move from the defenders above them. As they waited, men began to swarm up the stairs below them, carrying sections of a new bridge that would completely fill the gap in the stairs.

  It was in three pieces. Under cover of the thick clouds of smoke, they placed them side by side across the gap, linking them together so that they formed one solid floor.

  Merlon covered his face against the choking smoke. At that moment, Cassandra came running from the ninth floor. She took one look at the barricade, where flames were visible, licking hungrily through the gaps in the timber. She touched Merlon’s arm.

  “What’s happening, Merlon?”

  The grizzled old soldier met her gaze, then pulled away. “I’ll take a look,” he said, pushing through the narrow gap at the side. Cassandra reached out to grab him and pull him back.

  “No!” she shouted. “Don’t—”

  At that moment, a freak eddy of wind cleared the smoke clouds from the barricade for a few seconds. One of the crossbowmen, standing ready down the stairs, saw the gray-headed sergeant leaning out through the gap between the barricade and the stone wall, raised his weapon and shot.

  “They’ve got a bridge across the—”

  Then the crossbow bolt hit him and he reared back, falling dead at Cassandra’s feet.

  26

  Gradually, the cavalrymen returned to the site of the battle, their horses weary and streaked with sweat and foam, their swords and axes red with the blood of their fleeing enemies.

  “A few of them got away into the woods,” the lieutenant in charge reported to Horace. The commander had dismounted after sending his ten men to join their comrades in pursuit of the defeated enemy.

  “How many?” Horace asked.

  The lieutenant beckoned to an orderly nearby for a water canteen. He drank deeply, then shrugged. “Hard to tell,” he said. “Maybe twenty. But they were broken up and disorganized. They ran in all directions once they made it to the trees.”

  “And the others?”

  The cavalry officer grimaced. “They didn’t make it to the trees.”

  Horace nodded, understanding. Infantry fleeing before mounted cavalry had little chance of survival, he knew. He made his way through the dead and wounded enemies who had fallen before the triple assault. He could see Thorn’s massive form, standing with Hal and Stig. The old, one-armed sea wolf looked inordinately cheerful, he thought. But then, Thorn always loved a battle. He and Stig were talking eagerly, describing to each other the deeds they had performed during the fight.

  Hal, by contrast, was somewhat pale and grim faced. No matter how many battles he fought, he could never become totally accustomed to the dreadful bloodshed that ensued. Horace dropped a hand on his shoulder, and the skirl turned, recognized him and smiled.

  “Thanks,” Horace said. “You arrived in the nick of time. I owe you. We all do,” he added, indicating his men, standing in small groups talking or resting on the ground. Their small number of troops designated as healers were moving through the ranks of wounded Red Fox warriors, giving them what aid they could with their limited resources.

  “There are no debts between friends,” Hal said simply.

  Stig and Thorn pounded Horace on the back enthusiastically. “Nice charge, your knightship,” Thorn said. He delighted in mangling the correct titles of Araluen nobility. “You scattered them like ninepins.”

  “There weren’t many left to scatter after you wild men got among them,” Horace told him. He looked with interest at the massive club fastened to the stump of Thorn’s right arm. He had heard of the weapon before, but had never seen it in action. “I wouldn’t like to face that thing,” he said.

  Stig grinned. “Very few people do,” he told the tall knight. Then Gilan joined them and they all called greetings to him. The Ranger Commandant had sailed with the Herons on several occasions in the past and they knew him well.

  “Glad we could pull your irons out of the fire,” Thorn told him cheerfully. “What do we do now?”

  “Now,” Gilan told him, “we head back to Castle Araluen and twist Dimon’s tail for him.”

  Thorn smiled wolfishly. “I think I’d enjoy that,” he said. He had met Dimon when they visited the castle some weeks prior, and he hadn’t been impressed by the garrison commander then. Now that he had learned of his treachery, and his betrayal of Cassandra—a person Thorn held in high esteem—he thought even less of him.

  Gilan was looking around the battlefield. “Did anyone see what became of their leader?” he asked. He wasn’t concerned with the fact that twenty or so of the enemy had escaped into the forest. But if their leader was at large, there was always the chance he could rally them, and the idea of leaving twenty organized armed men behind them didn’t appeal.

  “He ran,” said a voice from behind him. He turned and saw Maddie threading her way through the crowd, greeting the men from the two wolfship crews as she came. They seemed to be quite fond of her, Gilan thought. One of them, Ingvar, the giant warrior with black tortoiseshell circles over his eyes, stepped forward and, towering over her, engulfed her in a hug.

  “I’m told you shot two of them who got behind me,” he said.

  Maddie smiled. “My pleasure to do so,” she told him. “You seemed pretty busy tearing a great hole in the enemy line.”

  “Well, if I can’t have Lydia here to watch my back, I’m delighted to have you to take her place.”

  She stepped forward and embraced her father. “Hullo, Dad. Are you all right?” She leaned back and looked with concern at the bloodstains on his chain mail and surcoat. “None of that is yours, is it?”

  H
e smiled reassuringly. “No. I’m fine. Are you all right?” He still wasn’t used to the idea that his daughter was a seasoned warrior and was quite at home risking her life on a battlefield like this.

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t in any danger. Hal kept me well back behind the main fighting.”

  Horace nodded his gratitude to the Skandian commander, who smiled in return.

  “She wasn’t that far back,” Hal said. “And she saved Ingvar’s life twice.”

  Maddie shrugged diffidently. “If I hadn’t, someone else would have swatted them,” she said. She realized her father was looking at her with a mixture of awe and nervousness and pride. She wished someone would change the subject. She was accustomed to looking up to her father, not the other way around.

  “What about Trask, their leader?” Gilan repeated. He had questioned some of the surviving enemy soldiers to find the man’s name.

  Maddie switched her gaze to him. “As I said, he tried to run. He deserted his men and rode up the hill there.” She indicated the slope where she had been stationed.

  Gilan frowned. “So he got away?”

  “Not quite. He thought it would be a good idea to ride me down.” She paused. “It turned out it wasn’t.”

  “You shot him?” her commandant asked.