The real havoc began when Wilander's bowmen started shooting at her troops, showering her siege towers with fire arrows. "Those arrows are not enough to destroy huge towers, are they?" she warily asked Gramus.
"They are not." Gramus did not withdraw his gaze from the walls. "Until they pour oil on them."
"That's why I stressed last night that our towers and ladders must reach the walls at the same time. Any squad arriving too soon will be slaughtered."
But plans were easy to put into words. Executing them was a different story.
While Payton was rushing forward with his men, four of her ladder squads were ahead of the rest, plainly unable to linger in the field of arrows and fire until the other squads might catch up with them. Those stopping at the foot of the wall to erect their ladders were showered with oil and tar followed by fire arrows. Only a few soldiers of one squad managed to climb their ladder, but none of them made it to the parapets.
This battle is getting uglier than I thought. Rona turned to Foubert, but the general was busy with the bloodshed ahead. She wondered when he would send reinforcements to aid their troops before they falter. Let him do what he knows best, Rona. Don't ruin everything now.
Three more squads reached the foot of the wall and all of them managed to erect their ladders, and this time one squad was closer than ever to the bulwark. Closer, but not close enough. Rona almost tore her lip with her teeth as she watched Wilander's men push the three ladders away from the wall. The ladders fell to the ground with her soldiers hanging to it.
"Why don't they just stick to the bloody plan?" Rona blustered, Foubert glancing at her, his face reserved though, as if he had seen this a thousand times before.
"Nothing a warrior hates like the hissing of an arrow," said Gramus. "It's a cheap way to die in a battle."
Rona might ask him later if it mattered to die by a sword rather than an arrow. Because right now, her siege towers were a few feet away from the wall. And by some miracle, the ram soldiers kept their composure to match the slow pace of the tower squads. "Come on!" With those cumbersome huge structures, a few feet seemed like a hundred miles.
Earlier she had thought the battle got really ugly. Now she realized she had not seen anything yet.
Wilander's men shot with their ballistae, but instead of hurling the usual huge bolts, they struck her towers with chained spears. While Rona was wondering what on earth was going on, she squinted at the walls, trying to figure out what the bustle atop the wall was about. "What is the point of tying my towers to their walls? Those chains won't stop us from advancing."
The frown on Gramus's face told her there was bad news coming. "It's The Cross Chain Defense."
"The Cross Chain what?"
"A Byzont method to bring siege towers down."
That was bad news indeed. "No damned way!"
When one of her towers tilted sideways, she realized that there was a "damned way." And it seemed to be working.
"A chain from the opposite flank, then mount it on a pulley," Gramus explained as he watched the disastrous sight. "And pull."
For the first time since her escape from Paril with Gramus, she felt that helpless. Her monstrous siege towers were tumbling with ominous thuds, crushing both the soldiers mounting them and those waiting beneath. After a few minutes, the huge clouds of dust settled down, revealing her charred battering ram. The defenders of the gate must have dealt with it while she was busy bemoaning her loss.
"We have a squad on the wall." Gramus gestured toward the leftmost side of the wall. "Probably, Skandivians."
A faint ray of light in this dark morning. Somehow those ferocious northerners managed to survive Wilander's archers, who were probably busy with the damned Cross Chain Defense thing. But now, with no siege towers or battering rams to worry about, the Skandivian mercenaries were met with an extremely generous reception, more than they could stomach.
"They need someone to rally them." Rona nudged her horse onward, her thighs pressing on its flanks.
"Rona, wait! You can't go there!" Gramus yelled from behind her.
Yes, I can, Gramus. I must. She was done watching her crushing defeat without doing anything.
More voices called to her, Foubert and Flebe to name a few, but she never looked back as her destrier galloped toward the field of blood and fire. "Over there!" She waved to the soldiers running away from the wall, motioning them to its leftmost flank. "Go there to the ladder!"
Whether it was the horrors of the battle or the surprise to see the Queen here, it petrified them for a moment. "Move! Move! Move!" she barked. Now they knew for certain they were not hallucinating.
Standing still under the rain of arrows was an invitation to kill her. Keeping her horse on the move was not a safety guarantee either. A hundred arrows or more hissed around her as she hurried on horseback to her fleeing soldiers. "Get your arses back there! Go to the cursed ladder!"
"We must fall back, Your Grace!" she heard Payton's voice, but she could not afford a moment to look over her shoulder to seek him amid the soldiers thronging the field. "Cover her! Cover her!" Those orders were surely to his archers, and she wished he still had enough men to undertake such an important task. She had not come all that way from Skandivia, surviving Wilander's schemes and Di Galio's siege to die here at the walls of Paril. I didn't come all that way to fall back either.
"To me, brave men! We will take these walls or die trying!"
Rona could not help looking for the one who made that cry. Among all her vassals and commanders, he was the last man she expected to hear his voice here, where death was devouring her men by the dozen every minute.
Flebe! Astonished, she wheeled her horse and watched the sweet lordling bellow at her scattered soldiers. The train of footmen rallied behind his armored warhorse grew as he approached the last standing ladder. With the huge shield strapped to his arm, he climbed the wooden ladder, a line of swordsmen scaling the wall with him, whizzing arrows soaring around them like angry bees protecting their hive.
And then an angry bee hit her destrier.
The whinnying beast swayed, but it did not fell. Before Wilander's archers might shoot the wounded horse again—and they would—she swung down off her saddle. Three seconds later, her horse, standing between her and the enemy bowmen, received an arrow in the neck and two in the trunk. Once he falls, I'm done, she realized as she quickly scanned the field around her, looking for shelter against the storm of arrows chasing her.
Struck by four more arrows, the poor horse could not keep his hooves on the ground any longer. Rona thought of running, but where to? It was raining arrows everywhere, and eventually, one of them at least would hit her, even if it was not aimed at her in the first place. Death was opening his arms to her now.
"Hold to me!" Mounting a galloping horse, Gramus cried as he reached for her. She was not sure if she clutched his wrist or it was him who caught her with his massive hand, but somehow he yanked her off the ground and put her behind him without stopping his horse. Her gigantic guardian was still recovering from his heavy wounds, and yet the force of his pull was so immense it almost dislocated her left shoulder. But a sound shoulder would not do any good to a corpse.
"Where are you going?" she sharply asked Gramus, who was riding his horse away from the walls, the arrows still on his tail.
"Saving you as well as your war," he replied dryly. "Your army lost a battle, but with their legitimate queen still breathing, they can still defeat Wilander."
"This battle is not over yet. We can capture the walls before sunset if we send more men to Flebe and the Skandivians at—"
"Flebe and the Skandivians are dead, Rona," Gramus cut her off, shocking her with the news. "I know that was not your intention, but you did send a hundred men to their doom when you guided them to that cursed ladder."
11. ZIYAD
For the hundredth time, Masolon rubbed his ten-day-old beard. "My beard is now heavy enough to fool the guards. No?"
"I bel
ieve it's time to take off that cap to show everybody your new bald head," Ziyad scoffed. For someone not used to such freezing weather, cutting your hair was not less reckless than storming the dungeon of the lord's palace in Durberg.
"Perhaps you are right." Masolon grimaced the moment he removed the woolen cap, revealing a hairless head as they approached the white walls of the city, their horses trudging side by side through the snow.
"Feeling good, eh?" Ziyad could imagine the numbness Masolon felt in his head.
"Not bad." Masolon rubbed his head this time.
Not as bad as your idea, Ziyad would tell him. Every time he thought Masolon could not get more foolish, Masolon disappointed him. It must be that demon possessing him, may the Lord of Sky and Earth protect us.
"What if you misinterpreted your dream, Masolon?" It was too late to ask, but Ziyad could not help voicing his query.
"I know what I saw in my vision, brother."
Vision? Oh, enlightened one! "The thunder you saw in your vision was not necessarily a hint at that old Rusakian man. It could simply mean nothing but thunder."
Masolon let out a deep breath of air, frustrated. "You should have more faith in my vision after we met Blanich."
"Blanich has nothing to do with your vision. Running into him was a pleasant coincidence." The most pleasant event in this cursed journey, Ziyad thought, the pretty face of Jubi flashing across his mind. They would surely pass by Blanich's house on their way back to Bermania, would they not?
"After all I told you and all you saw for yourself, you still believe in coincidences? What else do you need to see to believe that every single incidence in our lives is arranged? Blanich gave us an important clue that would make our mission a bit easier."
"Our mission would be simple," Ziyad looked Masolon in the eye, "as long as your guardian angel would protect us."
"I do not want to start an unnecessary war in Durberg."
An unnecessary war? The whole journey is unnecessary, I'm afraid. "Wasn't that your plan from the beginning?"
"Yes, because I thought I was going to face Gerviny's father."
"Ah come on!" Ziyad could not prevent that smile from slipping over his face. "You have a thing toward that princess."
Masolon narrowed his eyes, pretending to be clueless. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the gorgeous princess you were caught in her bedchamber."
"You blabbering bastard! I told you I did nothing!"
Ziyad tilted his head, studying Masolon's furious face. "Nice try."
"I swear I am telling the truth. It was an ambush."
"And I bet you were glad to fall into it." If I just were you. . .
"I was curious, to be honest."
"I am curious too." Ziyad sucked in a cold breath of air, fancying himself with Lady Halin on their own in her room. The thought was enough to warm him. "Tell me, brother: what did you see?"
Masolon curled his lip in disdain, shaking his head in disapproval.
"Did you see more than you saw of Queen Rona?" Ziyad teased him.
"Now you shut up." Masolon glowered at him.
"Alright then," Ziyad hooted. "So, Rona is the one. Of course! Why would she raise a commoner to the rank of a lord?"
"Ziyad."
"A handsome muscular commoner."
"Shut it. We are getting close to the gates."
Here we go. Ziyad took a deep breath as he counted three guards at the open entrance and four archers atop the bulwark. But he knew very well, there were more soldiers, either posted behind the walls or patrolling them. Let's see what your cursed demon can do, Masolon.
The guards on the ground were busy inspecting a caravan when Ziyad and Masolon passed the gates of the city unopposed. Sheer luck or Masolon's guardian angel? Ziyad wondered, still unable to swallow the notion of following the arrangement of a damnable demon.
Masolon stopped his horse when they were out of earshot. "I will wait for you in the tavern. If you do not come to me by nightfall, I will break into that palace."
"You might run into familiar faces in the tavern. Why don't you just wait at Anna's house?"
"I involved her once, and she narrowly escaped death. I shall never do that to her again." Masolon nodded his chin toward the distant towers of the palace. "Your palace, eh?"
"Don't worry about me, brother." Ziyad allowed a chuckle. "The only foreigner in this city is you."
"Exactly what I need to hear." A smile played at the corner of Masolon's mouth. "I am going to enjoy a warm meal before my head freezes."
Ziyad saw him off with a reassuring smile, but inwardly he envied Masolon for his appetite because today, Ziyad's tight belly was not helping. Let's hope you are right about your demon, brother. Because they will probably not buy my ridiculous tale.
The streets were quiet though a couple of hours remained in the day until dusk. But that was how a northern Rusakian city looked in winter. Like a Murasen city in summer. Most of the shops Ziyad passed by were shut. Whether they were buyers or sellers, the people here spent a few hours of the morning outside their houses, away from their warm fireplaces. Away from their beds. Ziyad bit his lower lip, unable to prevent his mind from imagining what could be happening behind the closed doors of those houses around him. When spring came, half of the women of Durberg would wander the streets with swollen bellies.
The guards posted at the gate of the palace assumed a ready stance when Ziyad approached them. Those men were surely bored to death, and now he was giving them a chance to entertain themselves.
"Hey you! Where do you think you are going?" One of the guards advanced, pointing his spear at Ziyad's horse.
Your palace, Ziyad, he encouraged himself. "I am Ziyad the Murasen bard. Just tell Viktor or Bogdin that I'm here."
"A bard, you say?" Without lowering his weapon, the suspicious guard slowly circled Ziyad's horse. "I see you don't carry musical instruments with you."
"I'm not here to play today." Ziyad did his best to sound calm. "Are Viktor and Bogdin here? Just take me to any of them."
"Are there any feasts soon?" another guard asked.
Ziyad heaved a deep sigh. "You know I'm not allowed to reveal that, at least for the time being."
The two guards exchanged a look, grinning. "We are not allowed to let you in either."
Those two morons. "Come on, fellows." Ziyad forced a smile. "I have been riding for two weeks to get here."
"Not our problem, Murasen bard." The second guard shrugged. "No one asked you to—"
"Viktor! Someone here requests an audience with you!" a holler came from atop the wall. A Rusakian archer just decided to save the day.
"Hey! Who asked you to interfere?" the first guard snapped at the archer.
"Know your place before you raise your voice, green one," the archer countered. "If Viktor doesn't recognize that bard, throw him into the dungeon anyway."
Ziyad was about to thank the wise archer until he heard his last suggestion.
Shortly, Viktor appeared at the gate. The stout, mustached steward of the palace was clad in a grey fur coat, a cap with ear flaps covering his bald head. "Good Lord! Ziyad the Kahorian! What brought you back to our city in this shitty weather?"
Relieved that the steward remembered him, Ziyad sighed. "I've been on horseback for a fortnight. I'm sore and cold. Can we talk inside?"
"Sure, son." The steward nodded to the three guards to let the Murasen bard in. Now Ziyad could thank the wise archer atop the bulwark.
Even before Ziyad told Viktor why he was here, the steward called to a stable boy to come and take care of Ziyad's horse. "Where have you been, Murasen?" Viktor asked, ushering Ziyad into the palace. "They have never brought a good harper to the feasts since you last came here."
"How many feasts have you had here since then?" Thanks to Viktor's company, Ziyad entered the vestibule without any opposition from the curious guards, the long curtained windows barely letting in any sunlight, which was already faint
in most days of Rusakian winter.
"When was your last feast here? Before Lord Gerviny's murder or after?"
"Merciful Lord!" Ziyad feigned the astonishment. "When was he murdered?"
Viktor seemed surprised by Ziyad's ignorance as they ascended the marble steps. "You have not come here in a while indeed, son. That murder happened like two or three years ago." The steward glanced over his shoulder. "So, you are not here for the wedding?"
Blanich had told Ziyad and Masolon about Halin's betrothal to Nestor, the Crown Prince, but it would not harm to continue playing the ignorant one in this conversation. "What wedding?"
"Lady Halin, Lord Sanislav's daughter, will be wed to Prince Nestor, King Bechov's son." Viktor stopped by a high white door. "You have chosen the perfect time to come back. These days, the lord of Durberg and his daughter receive guests who need to be entertained. Are you ready for that? Lady Halin might be receiving guests tomorrow."
The steward must have thought that Ziyad was here seeking a job. "Viktor, I'm here for a prisoner."
The steward did not see that coming. "A prisoner, you say?"
Now was the time to tell the story Ziyad had invented and memorized. An old friend of my gone uncle who raised me up. His last behest was making sure his Rusakian friend was out of prison. Ziyad would produce a clinking pouch, claiming that his gone uncle had given him all his savings to bail his Rusakian friend out of prison.
"Darov," Ziyad found himself saying. That veteran steward would never buy that silly tale of my uncle. He might even throw me in a cell next to our old Rusakian friend.
Viktor wrinkled his forehead, still swallowing the shock. "There is only one Darov who has survived the frozen dungeon of this palace. I wonder what might be common between him and a young Murasen bard."
"A common friend who would like to see the old man one last time before he dies." Ziyad produced a clinking pouch and pushed it into Viktor's big hand. "Outside the dungeon, of course."
Alarmed for a moment, the steward looked around quickly, as if caught stealing the gems adorning the golden scabbard of King Bechov's statue that stood between the white door and the stairs. "You cannot bribe me to release a prisoner." He tightened his grip on the pouch though. He is checking how full it is, Ziyad realized.
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