She withdrew into the small chamber at the top of the ladder and beckoned the three Skandians closer to her.
“Ten men in all,” she said softly. “One close by.” She pointed to where the man stood greasing the chain. “Maybe four meters away. Two more men a few meters farther on.” Again, she pointed in their direction. “Both armed but their swords are in their scabbards. The rest of them are across the room, either sitting at a table or looking out the arrow slits.”
“All armed?” Thorn asked, his face only a few centimeters from her ear.
She nodded. “Swords. Spears. Chain mail. But none have their weapons drawn.”
Thorn looked at his two companions. “I’ll take the one closest,” he said. “You two look after the other two. Then we’ll sort out the others. Our boys should be up here by then,” he added.
Stig and Hal nodded. They had done this sort of thing many times before.
Thorn looked at Maddie. “Where will you be?”
“There’s a small platform off to the left, about two meters up,” she said. “Probably an overseer’s position. I’ll get up there and cover you all.” Unconsciously, she touched the tip of her bow where it stood out above her shoulder. It would be easier to leave it slung while she climbed the ladder to the platform she had seen, and once there it would take her no more than a few seconds to have it ready for action.
Thorn nodded, then flexed his right arm, moving the massive club in a small circle. “Ready, boys?” he asked.
Hal and Stig answered in unison. “Ready.”
“Then let’s get ’em!”
34
The door flew open with a crash as Maddie hurled her weight against it. She went through first, angling off to the left to clear the way for the three Skandians.
Quickly, she mounted the timber stairs to the small platform, unslung her bow, selected an arrow and nocked it.
The men in the room reacted with shock and surprise at the unexpected intrusion. Fear struck their hearts as they recognized the newcomers as Skandians. It was that fear and sense of panic that initially saved the man Thorn had targeted. He was crouched by the massive chain, paintbrush in one hand and a leather bucket full of thick, lubricating grease in the other. He jerked upright in alarm and the paintbrush went flying one way, the bucket another. He turned to reach for the ax leaning close by, but he was too slow. Thorn was almost upon him, the massive club hand ready to strike.
Then it all went wrong.
Thorn’s boot came down on the discarded paintbrush, thick with grease. His leg shot out from under him and he crashed over onto the floor, the breath coming out of his body in an explosive gasp. Stig and Hal were already heading for the two spearmen close by, who were moving to intercept them, and had no time to turn back to Thorn’s aid. As the old sea wolf scrambled to regain his feet, he saw the painter seize the ax and swing it diagonally down at him. He threw up his right arm, with the massive club on its end, to parry the blow.
The blade was deflected from its downward trajectory, but it bit deep into the wooden head of the club, driving it to one side. The head of the club lodged in the framework of the timber gantry, and with Thorn’s elbow on the floor also trapping it at its base, the shaft of the club shattered in the middle.
The former painter withdrew the ax and readied it for another blow at the old sea wolf, who was now rolling desperately away to escape the ax. Maddie drew back an arrow, but the timbers of the gantry were obstructing her shot and she hesitated.
Then a figure bounded from the doorway and into the control room, sword drawn and a snarl of fury on his face. The axman saw him and turned to face him. But Jesper’s sword shot forward and took him in the center of the chest. With a startled cry of pain, the axman dropped his weapon, straightened up, then crashed over backward to the floor. As he fell, Jesper withdrew his weapon, then turned to face one of the soldiers who had been at the table and was now charging across the room to finish the helpless Thorn.
Jesper parried two desperate sword strokes, then swept the other man’s blade to one side with his own. The man was left wide-open to the saxe that Jesper held in his left hand. Jesper struck swiftly, then stepped back as his opponent went down.
At the same time, Stig and Hal were engaging the two spearmen. Stig swayed to one side, avoiding a low thrust, then arced his battleax up and over. The spearman withdrew his weapon and held it in both hands above his head to parry the stroke. To his horror, the ax sheared through the stout ash shaft of the spear, then continued down, almost without pause. His last sound was a strangled cry of terror.
Hal was more clinical. Where Stig relied on brute force and the smashing impact of his ax to break through his opponent’s defenses, Hal used speed and precision. He trapped the spearhead that came at him, deflecting it to one side, then stepped inside the long weapon and lunged with lightning speed at the spearman’s unprotected body. His sword bit through the chain-mail shirt his opponent was wearing, almost as if it weren’t there. Another of Dimon’s men fell, with the same surprised and horrified look on his face.
Now more of the Herons were pouring through the door and into the gatehouse control room, yelling as they echoed Thorn’s war cry of “Let’s get ’em!”
Led by the massive, terrifying figure of Ingvar, they stormed across the room as the soldiers at the table desperately tried to draw their weapons and defend themselves. Ingvar stabbed at one man with the spearpoint of his voulge and, almost in the same motion, caught the back of another’s mail collar with its hook and jerked him forward. As the man stumbled, off balance, Ingvar smashed him in the chest with a flat-footed kick and sent him flying.
Ulf and Wulf were close behind him, identical in appearance, and both spreading terror and confusion as the startled defenders thought they were seeing double. The gatehouse garrison began to throw down their weapons and hold up their hands in surrender. First one man, then two more. Then the swords and axes fell to the floor in a clattering shower as the men begged for mercy.
Stefan and Edvin, last to arrive on the floor, regarded the scene with mild disgust.
“They might have left some for us,” Edvin said in an aggrieved tone.
Stefan shrugged. “They never do.”
Maddie slowly replaced her arrow in its quiver, then came down the stairs from the platform. She grinned at Hal.
“Looks like you didn’t need me,” she said. He nodded, then they both looked to where Jesper was helping Thorn to his feet. The white-haired old warrior regarded his shipmate for a few seconds in silence, then he threw his left arm around him and drew him forward in a crushing bear hug.
“Thanks, Jes,” Thorn said simply.
Jesper nodded once or twice, then replied, “I think I owed you, Thorn.”
But Thorn shook his head. “We’re brotherband; you don’t owe me anything.”
For a minute or so, nobody said anything. Then Hal took control of the scene. He gestured to the disarmed garrison members. There were five of them still standing, their hands held high in surrender.
“Ulf and Wulf, secure those prisoners.”
“Aye-aye, Hal,” Wulf replied, and he and his brother began shoving the defeated group, herding them into a corner of the gatehouse, their orders reinforced by the menacing figure of Ingvar looming in the background.
Hal strode across to the arrangement of levers and cogs that raised and lowered the drawbridge. “Now, let’s see how we can get this bridge down,” he said, studying the controls with a keen eye.
He had never seen the workings of a drawbridge before, but he was a skilled engineer and designer and it took him only a few moments to figure it out. The huge bridge was raised and lowered by heavy chains, which ran through the floor they were standing on into the lower recesses of the gatehouse. They were controlled by a large windlass, with room for half a dozen men to turn it. In addition, to make the work easier,
the bridge was fitted with a counterweight, so that only a relatively small effort was needed to raise it. The counterweight in this case was the heavy portcullis—the grilled barrier that came down across the entrance to the castle when the bridge was raised. As the bridge went down, the portcullis went up, and vice versa.
While it took some effort to raise the huge bridge, lowering it was a relatively simple matter. There was a brake on the windlass that could be thrown off as the bridge started to move. Once the brake was off, gravity took over and the bridge would simply fall down, bringing the portcullis up and opening the way into the castle.
Hal gestured to his men. “Ingvar, get that windlass turning. Stefan and Edvin, give him a hand.”
As they moved to the windlass, Edvin grinned ruefully at Stefan. “We never get to do the fighting,” he complained. “We only get the donkey work that comes after it.”
Which was patently untrue. Over the years, the two of them had done more than their share of fighting. Stefan merely grunted and together they grasped the spokes of the windlass. Ingvar towered over them and began to heave. The wheel didn’t move. Hal walked quickly to them.
“You have to release the brake,” he said. “Then stand clear once it’s moving.”
He grasped the brake lever that inserted a massive iron stop into the cogwheel at the side of the windlass, and hauled it back. The three Herons heaved once more, and the windlass began to turn easily. The bridge started to go down, and Hal called to them.
“Let go and stand clear!”
They stepped back from the windlass, which began to turn faster and faster as the bridge gathered momentum. The massive chains either side clattered over the pulleys, shedding flakes of rust as they went. There was a mighty rumble from the depths of the gatehouse as the bridge dropped and the portcullis rose. Then the foot of the bridge crashed down on the far side of the moat, rebounding a half a meter in the air, then coming to rest in a cloud of dust.
“Hope we didn’t break it,” Edvin muttered.
Hal shrugged. “It’s not our bridge.”
Light flooded into the gatehouse through the gap that had been closed by the bridge. Below them, the Herons saw Horace spurring his horse forward, leading a charge across the bridge and into the castle yard.
“Time to give them a hand,” Thorn said, and led the crew toward the heavy timber door that opened onto the battlements.
* * *
• • •
Dimon turned in horror as he heard the massive rumbling sound from the gatehouse. He went pale as he saw the bridge starting to descend, moving faster and faster with each meter. Below him, outside the walls, the attacking force had heard the telltale sound as well and they cheered loudly, then started forward toward the castle.
“Get down to the yard and stop them!” Dimon yelled to the men on the battlements.
There was no further purpose in remaining on the battlements. His men, about thirty in number, started to clatter down the stairs leading to the courtyard below. But once he had seen them start down, Dimon held back. He could hear the clatter of hooves on the wooden bridge, and he knew that Horace’s cavalry would sweep his own men aside in a matter of minutes. The courtyard was no place for him, he decided.
Dimon hesitated, wondering which way to go, then the door to the gatehouse swung open and he saw Thorn, Hal and Stig coming at a run, the rest of their crew behind them.
A few of his men, who hadn’t yet made it to the stairs, turned to face them. Since Thorn’s massive club had been destroyed, he and Stig had changed positions, so that the Heron’s first mate led the way onto the battlements’ walkway. He smashed into the four men who had stopped to bar their way. His ax swung in a shining arc in the late afternoon sun, and his first opponent went down. As the second slid under the deadly arc of the battleax and drew back his sword to lunge at the tall figure, Thorn crouched and leapt forward, stabbing at the man with the saxe that he held in his left hand.
The man gave a startled grunt and dropped the sword. He staggered away to lean against the castle battlements, sliding slowly down to the walkway as he did.
That left two. Hal engaged the first, parrying the man’s wild swings with his own sword, then immediately cutting back in a lightning series of short, sharp strokes. The man gave way before the deadly onslaught, parrying desperately, only just managing to deflect the whirling sword at the very last minute each time. He felt a chill of fear clutch his heart as he realized he was seriously outmatched. He would have thrown down his sword and yielded, but he had no time. If he dropped it, the Skandian’s sword would be on him before its owner could stop.
In total panic, he turned to run, but Hal leapt forward and, reversing his sword, brought the heavy hilt down on the back of the man’s head, sending him sprawling unconscious on the boards of the walkway.
The fourth man had made the mistake of trying to engage Hal as the skirl was preoccupied with his unfortunate comrade. He was armed with a spear, and he lunged underarm at the Skandian. But, fixated on his target, he hadn’t noticed the massive form of Ingvar looming. The huge warrior reached over Hal’s shoulder and batted the spear aside with his voulge, sending it flying out of the man’s grasp with the force of the impact. The would-be attacker drew back a pace and fumbled for the sword at his waist. But Ingvar was too quick. He snagged the hook of his voulge into the chain mail bundled at the man’s shoulder and jerked him forward, off balance. It was Ingvar’s favorite fighting technique with his unique weapon, and one that few opponents were ever ready to counter.
The man stumbled as he was jerked forward. In a flash, Ingvar disengaged the hook and reversed his weapon, swinging the heavy ash-wood shaft in a horizontal arc to smash against his opponent’s head. It would have been a telling blow no matter who delivered it. But with Ingvar’s mighty strength behind it, it lifted the defender off his feet and hurled him several meters through the air. As he hit the planks, he slid another half meter, then lay still.
Dimon watched, horrified, as his men were brushed aside with apparent ease. He glanced quickly around, looking for sanctuary. The Skandians were between him and the gatehouse. There was a flight of stairs leading to the courtyard below just a few meters beyond him. But he knew the scene down there would be one of further disaster for his men.
That left the east tower, behind him. From there, a humpbacked stone bridge led across the gap to the fourth level of the keep tower. There was no way he could escape from the keep, with Horace’s men in the courtyard. But it offered temporary safety from the wild Skandians. He turned and ran.
35
Stamper’s hooves thundered on the rough planks of the drawbridge as Horace urged him across and into the castle courtyard. Two of Dimon’s men stood at the open gateway ahead of him in a vain attempt to stop him. The one on his left thrust upward with a spear, but Horace caught it on his buckler and flicked it away. The next instant, Stamper’s huge shoulder slammed into the man and hurled him back onto the flagstones.
The second man looked at the armored figure and the massive battlehorse bearing down on him. He was armed only with a sword, and he knew that was an entirely inadequate weapon for this situation. He turned and ran, dropping his sword as he did so, seeking the shelter of the lower levels of the gatehouse. Maybe they’d find him later and take him prisoner, he thought, but at least he’d be alive.
Stamper careered across the courtyard like a four-legged battering ram. A group of five stood before him, huddled together for mutual protection, their spears and swords held out like the quills of a hedgehog. Feeling the pressure of Horace’s knees in a well-known signal, Stamper reared, lashing out with his huge front hooves, smashing and scattering the spears that had been held up to stop him. The men before him fell back in terror as Horace wheeled the horse on his hind legs and reached to cut backhanded at them with his sword. Two of them fell. The others turned and ran, only to be pursued by a trio of c
avalrymen who had followed Horace across the bridge.
One of the running men managed to surrender in time, falling facedown on the stone paving, his hands above his head in a desperate gesture of self-preservation. The others weren’t so lucky.
The courtyard was a scene of confusion and terror and noise as the cavalry hunted down the outflanked defenders. Horses thundered this way and that as the troopers spotted and chased after new targets. The ironshod hooves struck sparks from the flagstones that paved the courtyard.
Gilan rode calmly into this scene of devastation. It was not his role to take part in the wild cavalry charge that Horace had led—although, had he felt he was needed, he would have joined in. But he was confident that Horace and his highly trained troopers could take care of the ragtag Red Fox soldiers. He rode with his massive longbow across his saddle bow, an arrow nocked and his eyes searching the faces of the enemy. He had set himself another task.
A soldier leapt forward from behind a stone buttress, a long pike in his hand. Seeing the rider moving at a steady walk, with no sword or shield, he took him for easy prey and ran at him, the pike drawn back for a massive killing stroke.
But this was no easy prey. This was a fully trained Ranger, armed with the Corps’s most deadly weapon. As the yelling man charged, eyes wild, Gilan drew and shot him, almost as an afterthought. The heavy arrow, with the full force of Gilan’s eighty-five-pound longbow behind it, spun the running man around, sending him staggering back, so that he lost his footing. He crashed to the ground and lay still. But Gilan, knowing his shot was good from the moment it had left his bow, wasn’t looking at him anymore. His eyes roved the courtyard and the battlements above.
Duel at Araluen Page 24
