“You’d better come see this. Bring Hal with you.”
* * *
• • • • •
They followed him at double time back to the fort and up onto the northeast rampart. The shooting practice had ceased, and the men were peering up the valley, some of them shading their eyes with their hands.
“There,” said the man who had hailed them, thrusting out one arm to point.
About two hundred and twenty meters away, close in by the trees just before the valley angled to the right, a solitary horseman on a dark horse was sitting watching them.
“How long has he been there?” Damien asked.
One of the archers shrugged. “Could have been a while. We only just noticed him. Soon as we did, we stopped shooting the big bow.”
Hal nodded approval. “No sense in showing him what it’s capable of.”
Another of the archers, one of the younger men, pushed forward eagerly. “Why don’t we have a crack at him?” he said, indicating the mangler on its tripod. “I reckon I’ve got the ranging pretty well worked out.”
Hal regarded him coldly. “As I said, no sense in showing him what the mangler can do,” he said. “If you miss—and you probably will—that’s all you’ll achieve.”
The younger man opened his mouth to protest, then thought about what the Heron’s skirl had said and realized he was right. He stepped back, chastened.
“Where do you think he came from?” Damien asked.
Hal gestured toward the north. “Somewhere up the valley. My guess is they have a camp up there.”
A concerned look crossed Damien’s face. “Do you think he might have run into your scout?”
Hal was about to answer, but Ingvar, who had accompanied them, got in first.
“If he had, he’d be dead,” he said flatly.
chapter eight
Gradually, the steep walls of the pass became lower and flatter, until eventually they were nothing more than rolling, tree-covered hills, stretching out to either side. The flat central plain remained clear, although now it was three to four hundred meters wide. No trees grew on this section, but there was coarse grass, which showed through the melting snow in tufts and patches of dark gray-green.
Lydia studied the ground as she moved northward, traveling at a steady lope. She saw numerous signs that horses had been this way—sometimes singly or in pairs, sometimes in larger groups. It became apparent that there must be a significant force of Temujai in the vicinity, and she edged closer to the fringe of the trees. It wouldn’t do to be surprised in the open, she told herself.
She had barely had the thought when she heard the muted thudding of hooves on the snow-covered ground.
This wasn’t a single rider, she could tell, but a party of horsemen. There was a shallow depression in the ground in front of her and she dropped flat in its cover, lying prone and gathering the cloak around her. As before, she kept the hood up and well forward, concealing the pale shape of her face.
The thudding grew louder, and a few seconds later, a group of horsemen burst into view over the next rise, riding in two files. She held her breath as they cantered diagonally across the clear ground. Fortunately, their present path would take them well away from her. Now, superimposed over the thudding of hooves, she could hear the jingle of multiple harness fittings and the grunting of the horses. The men remained silent.
Abruptly, at a hand signal from the man leading the left-hand file, the horsemen swept in a wide arc to the right, circling until they were headed back the way they had come. The sound of their hooves and harnesses gradually faded, and they disappeared back over the slight rise.
Cautiously, Lydia rose to her feet and followed them, moving closer to the sheltering trees.
“Must have been just a drill,” she muttered to herself. She often spoke aloud when she was on her own. She had done so since she was a child. The sound of her own voice could be strangely comforting.
As she neared the low ridge, she dropped to all fours and scurried forward through the snow. There was always the chance that the riders had stopped once they crested the ridge, and she didn’t want to take a chance on blundering into them. Slowly, she raised her eyes and peered beyond the ridge. The open ground sloped away from her and then took a sharp dogleg right, around the trees. There was no sign of the horsemen, but now she could sense something else.
A smell. A mixture of odors—horseflesh, sweat, dung and campfire smoke. The latter was harsh and acrid, and she wrinkled her nose. She recalled that Thorn had told her the eastern riders used dried horse and cattle dung to fuel their fires. The smell was sharper and harsher than woodsmoke, and it carried farther on the cold mountain air. Also, it wasn’t an odor you’d expect to encounter. Woodsmoke was natural to the area. It might be caused by a lightning strike or a carelessly doused cooking fire at a small campsite. But the smoke from a dozen or more of these fires would be an unmistakable message that there were strangers in the area. She raised an eyebrow.
“They’ll need to change that if they don’t want us to know they’re here,” she said softly.
She rose to her knees and checked the land in all directions, listening as much as looking. There was no sound of horses or men moving, no low mutter of voices—although with disciplined troops like the Temujai she thought that might be unlikely. So far as she could ascertain, the way was clear. She rose from her knees and, staying in a crouch, ran smoothly to the trees on the far side. From there, she’d have a better view around the dogleg in the trail.
Her senses were stretched to near-breaking point, waiting for the slightest hint that someone was near or that she had been spotted. But there was no shout, no pounding of pursuing hooves. Gratefully, she slid into the shadow of the trees and moved north, toward the dogleg, standing more erect now that she wasn’t exposed and in the open.
She left a margin of three trees between herself and the open ground. The dappled light beneath the pines would conceal her movements effectively—if a watcher did suddenly appear.
The smell of that smoke was becoming stronger, and now she could hear the soft sounds of horses whinnying and pawing at the ground to find forage under the thin layer of snow. She must be coming up on the enemy horse lines, she realized.
Then, abruptly, she reached the corner and the enemy camp was laid out before her.
As she’d surmised, the horse lines, where the riders’ horses and remounts were enclosed in a rope paddock, were closest to her.
She gasped at the vast number of horses in the rope enclosure. Moving closer, she could see that it was subdivided into four smaller areas. That made sense, she thought. It’d be hard to maintain the integrity of the enclosure over one large area. But there must have been at least five hundred horses milling around inside the ropes, pawing at the ground for grass, bumping each other and occasionally showing their teeth or even kicking as another horse infringed on what was deemed to be personal space.
Studying them further, she came to the conclusion that there were more than the initial five hundred she had estimated. There must be six or seven hundred animals milling about.
She smiled mirthlessly when she recalled an old joke of Thorn’s when he had been discussing how to determine the numbers of a cavalry force. “Easy,” he’d said. “Count the legs and divide by four.”
Of course, with this constantly moving mass of horseflesh, it was virtually impossible to get an exact count. But even six hundred horses meant six hundred cavalrymen, and that was a seriously large force.
Then she revised her estimate. Each rider would travel with a string of two or even three horses, she realized. So that meant there were maybe two hundred men in the party—which was still a force to be reckoned with.
She edged forward so she could see more of the camp beyond the horse lines. The smoke of a score of fires—that acrid smoke she had been smelling for some
time now—rose from a huddle of untidy-looking brown tents. They were rounded in shape, like large beehives, and seemed to be covered in a thick material—maybe felt, she thought. The material was placed over a framework to hold its shape and lashed in place with crisscrossing lengths of rope.
It was this lashing that gave the tents their untidy appearance. The felt was thick and shapeless and it bulged out unevenly between the strands of rope. She curled her lips dismissively at the sloppy appearance. Life on the Heron had accustomed her to a sense of order. Sails would be neatly folded and lashed down. Ropes would be coiled and hung on wooden pegs. Spars and oars were stowed in racks along the length of the ship, above the deck. Everything had a place, and the deck was kept clear and uncluttered, insofar as that was possible.
Then, as she had done about the horses, she revised her opinion. The thick felt that covered the tents would be necessary to keep the interiors warm in the freezing winds of the high steppes where the Temujai roamed. Canvas or linen wouldn’t suffice. And the bulky nature of the material dictated the lashing and the resultant apparent untidiness. Those same freezing winds would carry away any covering that wasn’t firmly tied down.
The Temujai tents might look sloppy, she thought, but they would be effective. She also recalled that Thorn had told her these people were nomads. The tents weren’t meant for temporary accommodation, as Skandians might view them. They were their permanent homes.
And while troops might endure the discomfort of a cold, drafty canvas tent while on campaign, it was a different matter altogether when they were in a permanent dwelling.
Men were moving around among the tents, and she watched them keenly. They were unarmed and seemed at ease. However, she could make out a line of pickets surrounding the entire camp, spaced fifty meters apart, each man armed with a stubby recurve bow and a quiver of arrows. They were all facing outward and were constantly on the alert. Discipline in the Temujai ranks was tight, she thought. But that was only to be expected.
She heard hoofbeats behind her, on the far side of the cleared ground, and she froze in place. She waited as a rider slowly rode past her position and turned into the camp. She thought he was the man she had seen earlier that day, heading toward the pass. He had a similar red patch on his left sleeve.
One of the men in the sentry cordon hailed him and he answered with a casual wave. Obviously, he was recognized, as he was allowed to proceed into the camp. He bypassed the horse lines and rode to a central tent, slightly larger than those surrounding it. He dismounted and went inside.
“Reporting in,” muttered Lydia under her breath. “But what exactly are you reporting?”
She realized she’d spent enough time simply watching. She’d have to report back to Hal herself before long, and she’d better have something concrete to tell him. Best way to estimate the size of the Temujai force, she decided, would be to count their tents. That was easier than counting men or horses, who constantly moved around and came and went.
She began to count the strange, hump-shaped, little felt hives. They weren’t pitched in any particular order or in regular rows, which would have made it easier. And her view to the far edge of the camp was restricted—by distance and the drifting smoke. She counted as high as fifty-eight and estimated that there might be a dozen more that she couldn’t see clearly.
“Let’s make it seventy,” she told herself. “Now it’s time I wasn’t here.”
* * *
• • • • •
“Seventy tents?” Hal asked.
She shrugged, not wanting to be pinned down to a definite number.
“Maybe seventy-five. Maybe fewer,” she replied. “And I’d say there were five hundred horses in those paddocks.” Leks gave a start of alarm at the number but she hurried on. “That doesn’t mean five hundred riders.”
Thorn nodded, agreeing with her. “The Temujai are always on the move. Each rider will have a string of horses with him. Maybe two—three for the ones who can afford that many.”
“How many men do you think would fit in those tents?” Hal asked.
She considered the question before answering. She had been a long way from the tents but she had seen men enter them several times. Sometimes two, but on occasion as many as three.
“Three, at a maximum,” she said. “There was a command tent in the center that was larger. I saw the horseman go inside and he didn’t need to crouch to get in. The others were lower.”
“So, let’s say three to a tent, and seventy-five tents,” Leks said, a note of inquiry in his voice.
She nodded. That was a close-enough estimate.
“That’s two hundred and . . .” He hesitated. Mental calculations weren’t his strong point.
“Two hundred and twenty-five men,” Thorn said promptly, and they all turned to look at him, more than a little surprised. He saw the looks and reacted indignantly. “What are you staring at? You don’t think I can figure? I lost my hand, you know, not my brain.”
Hal made a pacifying gesture. “Sorry, Thorn. It’s not a skill we might have expected of you.”
“We’re more used to seeing you bashing enemies, not counting them,” Stig put in, a wide grin on his face. Thorn sniffed, a little mollified by their apologies. In truth, he was always quite pleased to be able to catch them on the hop.
“So, let’s round it up,” said Leks, relieved that his own hesitation in calculating the figure had gone more or less unremarked. “Assume there were some tents Lydia couldn’t see.” He glanced at her for confirmation and she nodded. “That’s maybe two hundred and forty, two hundred and fifty men.”
“And that tallies with the number of horses you saw,” Hal said.
Thorn cleared his throat and they looked at him again. “The Temujai organize their squadrons in sixties.”
Leks interrupted him. “Actually, they call them Ulans.”
Thorn shrugged. “Whatever. So, two hundred and forty might be close to the mark.”
The others pondered this figure for some seconds.
“That’s more than a nuisance raid,” Hal said.
“Not a full-scale invasion, however,” Stig said.
“Maybe not. But it’s a pretty serious attack,” Leks told them. “It’s been a long time since the Temujai have attacked in force like that. Maybe they think it’s time they really tested our defenses. If they overrun us, they open the way for more troops to join in and launch a serious attack on Skandia.”
“And if they don’t,” Stig said grimly, “they stand to lose a lot of men.”
Leks shook his head. “That’s never bothered a Tem’uj general,” he said. “They have a lot of men to lose.”
Hal rapped his knuckles on the table to get their attention. “The point is,” he said, “I think we can expect an attack any day now. They may try to catch us before we have the manglers properly installed. That spy got a pretty good look at what they can do.” He looked at Stig. “Get the men to work tonight finishing those platforms and installing the two manglers. We may need them tomorrow morning.”
chapter nine
The little garrison stood to before dawn the following morning. But there was no sign of the Temujai.
They came on the second day and they came in strength. Once again, the Skandians and their Araluen allies were standing ready before the sun rose. As the first streaks of light began to paint the sky to the east, they heard the enemy approaching.
It was a rolling sound, like muted thunder: the sound of hundreds of unshod hooves on the hard-packed ground.
They rode in their Ulans, in two columns. There were three of them in all, each comprising sixty riders.
“Nearly two hundred of them,” Damien commented to Thorn. With Hal and Stig manning the two giant crossbows, the one-handed sea wolf was in command of the Herons on the walkway. “Not as many as we thought.”
“Always g
ood to overestimate the enemy,” Thorn replied. “That way, you’re never disappointed. But there are a few extra.”
As the last of the three Ulans swept round the curve in the valley, they saw a smaller group of fifteen to twenty Temujai riding on three wagons. The wagons themselves were loaded with what looked like lengths of timber.
“Scaling ladders,” Damien said. All garrison commanders were thoroughly briefed on Temujai attacking tactics.
Thorn raised an eyebrow. “No sign of a battering ram?” he queried.
Damien shook his head. “Their horses are light cavalry ponies, not draft animals. They can’t drag heavy siege machinery into place and the riders think such manual work is beneath them. They’ll try to come over the walls. But first, they’ll soften us up a little.”
The three Ulans had changed formation. Each was now assembled in two ranks, thirty men across. They formed up in the narrow valley in a slightly staggered formation, with each squadron overlapping the one in front so that they stretched from one side to the other.
The fourth group galloped their carts up to the rear of the assembled Ulans and brought them to a halt. Damien turned to Lydia, who was a few meters away, watching with interest.
“Keep an eye out for the sharpshooters,” he told her. “They wear a red insignia on their shoulder. Usually, they hang back behind the rear ranks.”
She nodded, her eyes narrowed to slits as she sought the expert archers whose task it was to shoot down the enemy commanders. So far, she could see no sign. They heard a shouted order and saw a ripple of movement from the squadron on their far left as sixty arrows were drawn from quivers and laid on the bowstrings. Then another shout saw the bows rise. The defenders could hear the creaking sound as the strings were drawn back. There was no command to shoot. Each archer released in his own time as he found his aim. But that tended to coincide with the timing of his comrades. The men on the ramparts heard the slithering twang of multiple bow releases.
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