The number of dead men piled along the pathway grew, and Talon could see the enemy beginning to waver. The cries of fear and distress from the wounded and dying rose higher than the battle cries that had preceded them. The shouts became more hoarse as their throats dried up.
Then abruptly there was a change of mood. An excited shout rang out in front of the gates, and the men below seemed to become re-energized. Then there were roars of excitement, and the mob of men who had only just before been almost ready to flee crowded forward. They bayed like a crazed pack of hounds smelling blood. Talon glanced down into the barbican, which was an area of space completely surrounded by high walls just inside the main gates; it was empty of anyone at all.
Palladius gasped, “God protect us now! We are done for!” Terrified, he looked over to Talon, who was leaning on the parapet almost casually, watching the event.
“Hmm. Perhaps not. Stay where you are,” he told Palladius. He compressed his lips and waited.
The yelling mob, driven on by those mercenaries who had survived the terrible toll of arrows, pushed the gates wide open and surged into the yard of the barbican. At first hesitant at their change of luck, but then driven on by the mercenaries and the press from behind, the desperate conscripts poured into the confined space, believing they had won and that the castle was theirs.
Too late they realized that they had run into a trap! The gates had been unbolted by the men inside. However, now the enemy were surrounded by high walls that bristled with armed men and archers. Talon, standing on the battlements overlooking the throng below, raised his arm and brought it down hard in one sweeping motion.
Moments later there was a blinding flash in one corner of the barbican, followed instantaneously by a clap of thunder so loud that it shook the very walls, and a hail of stones and scraps of metal tore into the crowded space around the entrance way. A cloud of acrid smoke from explosion obscured the view below from the men on the battlements for a few long seconds; as it cleared it revealed the awful destruction the device had wrought on Isaac’s men.
Dead and wounded lay everywhere, and the survivors limped or crawled about, dazed, bloody and deafened. They were given no respite. Talon hurled two tubes of bamboo down among the survivors, which exploded and further reduced their numbers. Meanwhile, Reza and his archers shot at any of the better-armed mercenaries who had survived the initial blast.
Talon judged the moment right and shouted a command to the men concealed in the towers. They rushed out and slammed the doors in the faces of the stunned men outside who had stopped in their tracks, rendered immobile by the hideous flashes and the smoke and thunder coming from inside.
“My God!” exclaimed Palladius. “What in God’s name was that?” He shook his head from side to side, looking dazed, and both hands were clapped over his ears. Talon didn’t bother answering. His attention was focussed on the enemy outside the gate. He could rely upon Max to deal with the survivors inside the barbican.
To keep the ones outside off balance, Talon ordered his men to continue hurling rocks and firing arrows down upon them, and they were subjected to two more well placed bamboo exploding tubes that Dar’an tossed down. The devices blew limbs and bodies in all directions, wounding even more. Those who could began to flee, chased by a hail of arrows and rocks and the jeers and cheers from the soldiers on top of the walls. Equally terrifying were the very small devices that hissed like snakes, then flashed and gave off a vicious little bang at the running feet of the fleeing men, who now raced as fast as their legs could carry them back to the relative safety of their own people, and this time the mercenaries did not try to stop them.
Talon turned his attention back to the carnage inside his barbican. He signaled Max, who had led his men at a charge into the once-crowded space.
“Kill all those who look like they were well armed, as they will be the mercenaries. Group the others together with their wounded until Talon comes down,” Max told his gang of tall, emaciated blonde men, who brandished axes and large swords. The Franks did so with relish. None of Bourtzes’ mercenaries was left alive, not even those pleading for their lives.
Half an hour later the gates were re-opened and the survivors, minus their weapons, were ejected at sword point. There were very few. Out of over a hundred men, only a dozen shocked citizens of Famagusta left the barbican. They were, to a man, lightly wounded but able to limp along, and they carried some of their less fortunate comrades. Then something happened that Talon had been hoping for, but had not thought possible.
Palladius called to them as they left. “Go home! This is no place for you; here you will die for nothing. This man is a magician! Go!”
Talon nodded his approval to Palladius. “You have done well today,” he told him.
Palladius looked inordinately pleased, and his rugged, pock-marked face broke into the first smile Talon had seen on the dour soldier. At least Talon guessed it was a smile. With his enormous beak of a nose, deep-set eyes and cratered skin, along with his broken and misshapen teeth, it was a frightening sight.
Many of the survivors did not return to their own lines. Instead, they chose to scramble down onto the rocks directly below the castle walls, and when they reached the steep hillside below they fled into the scrub and trees, running as though the devil himself was after them. They were not interested in fighting any more. Talon and Palladius laughed aloud as they watched them go.
“Now that is what I wanted to see. They are deserting the emperor and I hope more will follow and spread the word across the island,” Talon told his friends who came to join him on the tower.
“Will they be back today, Master?” asked Dar’an who joined them beaming exultantly. He had had a good day.
Talon took a long swig of cool water from a skin that Yosef handed him and then sprayed some on his sweating face before handing the skin off to Palladius, who did the same. “I don’t think so, but we are not done yet... we have work to do tonight.” He gave orders for his men to rest and eat while staying near their posts. Max and his men went to work with some of the sailors and Greek slaves to aid the wounded and to collect weapons and armor, especially from the dead mercenaries, as their gear was far superior to that of the townspeople. Others began the general clean-up the bloody mess in the barbican. Talon went down to examine his new device.
Reza joined him, as did a very curious Palladius. “What is this infernal device you created, Sir Talon?” he asked.
“Magic!” said Reza mischievously in Greek for the benefit of Palladius. He had just about understood what Palladius had said.
Palladius crossed himself fearfully. He had seen Talon raise his arm and bring it down as if casting a spell, and almost immediately afterward the awful explosion had occurred. Perhaps this dangerous looking companion of Talon was right! Talon possessed magic of the most awful kind. Palladius, being as superstitious as anyone else, glanced at his new leader with not a little awe and fear and surreptitiously crossed himself.
Talon strode up to the remains of the Erupter, which he’d had the carpenter and the blacksmith construct according to a crude drawing he’d provided. The barrel, if it could be called that, had been made of wood, fashioned by the carpenter to resemble a long, hollow tube of thick, hardwood strips about two paces long and smooth on the inside, two hands wide in breadth and held together with bands of iron along its length.
The tube had been blocked at one end with a thick metal plug fashioned by the blacksmith, and mounted on an equally crude ramp that supported it off the ground and enabled it to be pointed at the gates. It was now split and shattered along its length. The iron bands that the blacksmith had bound around the strakes had been distorted and in several cases torn apart. The whole thing had been blown backwards against the wall behind it where it lay in a smoking ruin, having badly chipped some of the limestone blocks of the wall. It had fulfilled its purpose, however, and Talon was well pleased. He turned to Reza and spoke Farsi. “It performed just as we wanted it to, Broth
er. But now we must find some bronze and try to make one after the manner of the Chinese.”
Max sauntered over to join them. “If this is an infernal idea you brought back with you from China, Talon, then I would be sore afraid to come against you,” he said, shaking his head. “My ears are still ringing from that awful noise!” The normally imperturbable Max looked shaken by what he had seen.
“A very good thing you laid a trail up to it, Brother, and I was well out of the way when I lit it!” Reza laughed.
Talon grinned. “It doesn’t pay to underestimate this Chinese powder, Brother. The making of this is something only you and I will ever know,” he added. They recited the formula in Farsi: “Charcoal, sulphur and saltpeter,” they said in unison, then laughed at the bewildered faces all around them.
Hearing the rumble of thunder, they all looked towards the west, where black clouds were forming out at sea. A warm wind preceded the storm, tugging at the banner on the citadel. Talon hoped Henry and Guy were heading back into the harbor.
Map of Cyprus
As the moon rises on a cloudy sky
I cry out my curse.
My feet are standing in a puddle of blood,
blood shed from the innocents
—Lucirina Telor Vivan
Chapter 16
Night Visits
From a quarter of a mile away, Isaac watched the route of his army. He was mounted on a white horse decorated in all the finery that befitted an emperor about to conquer a castle—or a city. He had been waiting with keen anticipation for the moment that now would not come, to ride in state and claim back what was rightfully his. His face was aflame with anger and embarrassment as he watched the routed survivors straggle home, limping and bloody. Wheeling to face his advisors, he demanded to know how the men could be so defeated, and why wasn’t the castle taken yet?
No one dared say anything and eyes were averted as he glared around him at his servants. No one wanted to state the obvious: they had failed ignominiously. It was now early evening and there was nothing more that could be done that terrible day, but Isaac stayed where he was, staring at the castle and the small figures lying strewn along the track that led along the path to its gates.
The banner still flew defiantly from the top of the tall Keep as though taunting him. They had all heard the roar of jubilation from the men, and a runner had breathlessly reported that the gates had been breached. But then there had been a noise like a huge clap of thunder and a cloud of yellowish smoke had climbed into the sky, followed by utter silence. Then had come more bangs, not as loud as the first, and then the terrified, running men had come back along the trail, routed and defeated. They had sped past the emperor, ignoring him and his retinue, their eyes staring, mouths gaping and faces distorted with terror, to disappear down the hill, leaving him aghast and suddenly very unsure of himself. The mutter of thunder in the distance did nothing to reassure him.
He still could not believe what had occurred, what his eyes had seen and what he had heard made no sense to him at all. It was unthinkable, incredible, that his underlings would fear anything more than his wrath.
After a very long time, a brave servant hesitantly suggested that perhaps the emperor would like some refreshment back in his tent? His senses still numbed, Isaac allowed the servant to turn the white horse and lead it towards the tented area of his army.
When he arrived, there were none of the cheers that had always attended his arrival anywhere. No one could meet his eye, and no one other than his faithful servant Diocles remained to greet him. After depositing their salvers of delicacies and drinks, the others scuttled away.
The Emperor dismounted and entered his large tent, made of heavy silk that repelled the elements, and settled onto heaped silk cushions. He wasn’t sure he could stand at this time, his knees were so shaky. “Where is Bourtzes?” he demanded. He reached for an intricately inlaid cup and gulped a wine that had been made to be savoured.
“He is with the rearguard of the army, my Liege,” Diocles said in a frightened tone.
“I want him here! Now!” screamed the emperor suddenly, sitting up and spraying wine and spittle everywhere. Diocles flinched and put his hand to his mouth.
“Yes, yes, Lord, at once.” He fled from the tent, leaving the emperor alone but for his guards, who stood rigidly outside the tent, wearing wooden expressions. Diocles frantically gestured to servants to attend their emperor at his meal. Perhaps food would calm down his Excellency.
Komnenos, however, was only just getting started. He felt an overwhelming urge to destroy something. His foot lashed out and connected with a low, laden table. The table sailed halfway across the tent to fall hard, one leg broken. The refreshments flew in all directions: cold soup splashed onto expensive carpets, meat pattered down greasily, and jellies wobbled and disintegrated, making a slippery mess in front of him that looked like a dozen seagulls had just befouled the precious carpet. The servants cowered as his rage mounted. He screamed and yelled, and then threw himself onto his back and all but waved his feet in the air he was so mad. More howls followed, then a thorough destruction of plates, cups and jugs; more things thrown at the servants, and ferocious whippings with his horsehair fly swat.
Bourtzes arrived within half an hour and snapped to attention in front of the emperor, who was finally bringing himself under control, having exhausted himself and having satisfactorily terrorized his hapless attendants.
“You might soon wish you had died up there before the castle walls!” Isaac screamed at him.
Bourtzes blinked, then closed his eyes for a second to keep himself from answering back with the wrong tone or words. He wondered if his men would permit this sack of shit to carry out that threat. Unfortunately, they might. After all, his death would mean promotion for at least one of them.
“My Lord,” he began.
“My Lord?” Isaac mimicked him. “I am your Liege, Your Emperor! You bastard, you have failed me!” he yelled. “I should have your head!” He grimaced and sneered, as though the thought appealed to him, “In fact I might still, if you don’t come up with a good excuse for the mess I witnessed today and figure out how to take that dung heap of a castle back!”
Bourtzes bowed low and began again. “My Liege Lord,” he said very politely, his voice dripping with patience. “I would have been here earlier, but I needed to secure our perimeter. The worthless... I mean, the citizens of Famagusta have no idea how to secure an army for the night. I had to order the posting of sentries and show the blithering idiots how to do it!” Bourtzes was thoroughly on edge, very angry, and didn’t need to have this imbecile of a petty emperor to tell him what a debacle the day had been.
“About the castle, I do not rightly know what it was that caused the loss of so many lives. The weapons employed against us are of an unknown magic. They are pure evil wizardry! Witnesses say that he hurled bolts of fire and destruction upon my men, who were defenseless against him.”
“So you don’t have a plan, then? I should have your head for dinner!” Isaac yelled hoarsely. His throat was sore from screaming. Jellies, he realized, would be very soothing right about now.
He looked around at the appalling mess in the tent as though seeing it for the first time. “What is this mess?” he demanded. “You!” he pointed to a frightened servant, peering into the tent. “Clean it up, or I shall have you whipped within an inch of your miserable life!”
“As for you,” he pointed at Bourtzes, “I shall eat my supper and you will figure out how to take the castle. You have one day, or I follow through with my promise,” he snarled, his dark eyes bulging.
Bourtzes bowed and left, sweating copiously in the sweltering heat and thankful not to have had to challenge the emperor’s authority. It dawned on him that the time might be coming soon. He went straight to the area where his own men were quartered. His own officers, those who had survived the carnage, greeted him with sullen looks that betrayed their bewilderment and shame. None would meet his eyes.<
br />
“Where is Radenos?” Bourtzes demanded, after looking around at the remains of his small army. There was a long silence, broken only by the flashes of lightning and the rumble of thunder out at sea, and then one of them said, “I saw him taken down by an arrow. He didn’t make it back.”
Bourtzes cursed. Radenos was a Frank, once a Varangian guardsman, who had been one of his best men.
He went through the roll call to identify the men who had died or were missing. He sensed that the men were feeling shaken and mutinous. They had signed up for booty, not for this kind of blood and sweat. None of them had ever encountered such a force, and it had shaken these hardened warriors to their core.
He wanted to shake them and slap a few about to straighten them up, but Bourtzes knew it was incumbent upon him to try to boost morale, yet he was at a loss. The castle was virtually impregnable; he had been right in the thick of it by the gates, seeking opportunities to exploit as any good officer should, as well as kicking and beating the cowardly conscripts as they milled about like cattle.
Only God knew how he had been spared from the massacre within the barbican. He had been about to charge in when the terrible flash of lightning, the clap of thunder, the whirr of tiny missiles like bees and the waft of evil, stinking smoke had stopped him short. And then the screams had begun. The gates had slammed shut on him and his men outside, then more of those infernal thunderbolts had been thrown down at him by the very man he had talked to during the parley. Bourtzes had fled with the remainder of his men, with those awful, noisy, hissing serpents snapping at his heels. He was sure that well-disciplined troops could have stormed the walls had there been enough of them, but he’d only had a tight knit group of mercenaries, and they on their own could not pull it off.... Or could they?
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