And then, finally, and almost as a relief to the human warriors, the Malaac attacked.
40
Cheris would not recommend riding a horse, however docile, to anyone. She was tired, saddle-sore and was starting to smell like the beast on which she was sitting. It had been two to three hours since her departure from Felmere, a lonely journey through open deserted fields with the river Fel chattering over its stony, shallow bed a constant and voluble companion. She had crossed it not that long ago; seeing it foam and bubble and its bank shallow, she had taken the chance, urging her steed into the water, where, as she had suspected, it barely reached the animal’s haunches. Not for the first time that day she thanked Elissa and Camille and indeed Morgan for giving her such a patient, reliable and understanding mount. All she had to do was point her in the right direction and give her a nudge. Granted on several occasions the old thing had stopped of her own volition to chew at a particularly sweet clump of grass, but Cheris did not force the issue so glad was she not to have fallen or be taken in the entirely opposite direction to the one she had intended.
She looked back towards Felmere Town. There it stood, stubborn and obdurate, flags flying from the high tower of the keep. But all was not well there; barely minutes after she had started her journey she had heard the drums and horns of Trask’s army. They were at the town now, not numerous enough to fully surround it but clustered in great numbers before the front gate, spread out on either side in a crescent formation. She could see catapults and other machines of war being deployed. In a way, she was happy to see them, for at least she knew exactly where they were, where Trask was, for surely he was at their heart, directing everything. And what she was doing, where she was going, was all about him after all. For as long as they were both alive it would always be about him. She turned away from the city and back to her own journey.
A little further on and the grass was finally swallowed up by trees. Looking up, she saw them clothing the hills rising up to the mountains. The waterfall was close by and the shelf of rock next to it, the place she had previously visited with Sir Dominic. There was still a fair bit of climbing to be done to get there and she wanted to arrive there sometime before nightfall. She needed time to prepare and would rather use natural light than the candle she had brought with her and she did not want to divert her energies producing a magical light, not without good reason.
‘Come on, my girl; it’s into the woods for us.’ She nudged the horse gently and disappeared into the shadows under the trees where the scent of pine resin was still strong. And still the river danced its merry way alongside her.
Morgan’s face was as grim and unmoving as the battlement on which he now stood. Sir Trask, as expected, was well prepared and organised. He watched as his army arrived and immediately deployed their mantlets, great hide-covered wooden screens behind which Trask’s men could get to work safe from the threat of arrows and slingshot. Morgan knew what they were doing, digging ditches behind which the catapults could be placed, now protected from cavalry. Morgan considered asking Dominic to lead a sortie against the new arrivals before the ditches could be completed but on reflection decided against it. Trask had many men out there, including, he saw, crossbowmen who were capable of cutting down horses with one shot. It would be folly to lose his elite cavalry at this early stage, especially when the elves and Reynard’s Eagle Claws had been instructed to keep well away from here. He could not risk the only cavalry he had. He supposed that he could try to get a message to Reynard but he wondered how much the courage of the messengers would cost, both in terms of lives and coin. They would have to be smuggled out through side gates after dark and then left to cross the open country, crawling as it was with hostile troops – not a job for those of a nervous disposition, especially as torturing the enemy’s envoys to death had become routine over the past few years.
There had been some encouraging news, though. As Trask’s army slowly approached, three thousand pairs of studded and mailed boots stomping over the hard ground, the city gates were left open to admit the last handful of stragglers and refugees seeking security within the walls of the city. Morgan watched them come in, bringing their carts and animals with them, hardy families with wide-eyed children who still believed they could make a go of surviving in this war-torn landscape. Morgan guessed that, like him, they had lived here all their lives, as had their parents and grandparents and generations before them. It was difficult to surrender that which felt so precious. He gave instructions for them to be housed and fed, But they were not the arrivals that had heartened him so. Just before he gave the instructions to shut the gates and lower the portcullis, a group of priests riding upon some sturdy ponies trotted into the city, their hooves clopping on the road. They were carrying their Books of Artorus around their necks and were obviously of the Frach Brotherhood – why on earth were they seeking sanctuary here? He gave orders to have them detained, so that he could speak to them. Leaving Captain Mirik in charge, he hurried down the steps to speak to their leader, a lugubrious-looking man, bald with great bushy white eyebrows, a man so tall he dwarfed the pony he was sat upon.
‘What has happened with the church?’ he asked. ‘Are you fleeing Trask’s men? If so, why?’
The man shook his head; he appeared mortified. ‘Trask and his thugs are an affront to the dignity of the holy church. He seeks to destroy the divine order of things and to put himself above other men. His king and barons are mere poodles, puppets whose strings he is more than happy to pull. When a fellow brother spoke against him in his sermon, Trask sent his men to deal with him, the church was burned, its artefacts looted and poor Father Inna was hung from the nearest tree, his body despoiled by birds. The man pays service to the Gods only insofar as he can use them for his own ends. The Frach brethren have abandoned his new “country”; some of the Artoran churchmen remain but they are diminishing. Godless his domain will soon be and all souls within it shall be forever accursed.’
‘You are leaving the people without their gods?’ This was a horrific concept even for Morgan, hardly the most pious of men.
‘They will be welcome in the country of the Grand Duke and of those loyal to him. The Gods never abandon those that do not abandon them.’
‘You will always be welcome here. Maybe soon you can return to the houses of the Gods you have been forced to leave.’ Morgan let them continue onwards into the city. This was an interesting development, indeed. He knew of no one who could tolerate being without spiritual guidance for long, least of all a frightened and confused populace. Trask had miscalculated badly. Without the support of the church, it would be impossible to rule any sort of country, never mind a fledgling one. He had lost the influential Frach Brotherhood and it sounded like the regular church was vacillating, too. Lukas Felmere had had to show proper contrition and pursue to the death those that had violated a Frach monastery, but if Trask was doing the persecuting himself he would never be forgiven. Added to that was the fact that there were no group of people more pious and superstitious than soldiers. Trask was well known for inspiring fierce loyalty in his most valued troops, but a situation like this might give even his most steadfast warriors pause.
He reflected on this development as he watched Trask’s men settle themselves down for a siege. A tent city had gone up behind their lines, protected by a shallow ditch and a line of blackened stakes. In front of that were the besiegers. The mantlets had been pulled back, revealing a deeper ditch behind which sat a line of catapults and trebuchets almost ready to unleash their armoury against the city walls. It was an army set up with the expectation of staying for some time. Morgan checked the banners planted in a line before their camp. The blue-and-yellow banner was there along with the banners of Haslan Falls, the green island on a blue background of Axmian, the green and white of Tetha Vinoyen, along with other banners of smaller baronetcies. The banners of the mercenary companies were there, too, including that of the Vipers. And inevitably the yellow banner of Arshuma fluttered
proudly next to the others. Morgan wondered how many of the men below were actually from Tanaren. Half? A third? No more than that, he felt sure.
He looked along the battlement next to the gate tower on which he was standing. A line of armoured men looked curiously at the unfolding situation outside the city walls. He could hear grumbling from some of the men, seemingly unaware of his presence. One voice was stronger than the others.
‘Look at them, ready to starve us out;. They look like they are settling down for a party out there; they can gorge themselves all winter, watching us get thinner and thinner. In a month we will be eating rats or the moss off the walls. Why aren’t we attacking them, why are we just standing here, for Mytha’s sake?’
Morgan came over to the man, who blanched when he saw who was speaking to him.
‘There would have been little point before now. Any cavalry we would have sent out would have been decimated by their crossbows, and with their mantlets we would have been throwing arrows away. Now they are almost set up, though, get yourself ready – the order to attack will be given soon. And as for eating rats,’ – he put his hand on the dissenter’s shoulder – ‘there is no way those men out there want a prolonged siege. Trask has got over half his men here; his seat of power in Tetha Vinoyen is undermanned and in no state to defend itself against the Grand Duke. All this out here’ – he gestured at the besiegers – ‘is for show. He will be looking to get over the walls, probably at night. That is when we need to be alert; he needs a quick win or his men will desert. His priests already have; you may have seen them coming in earlier. Without the Gods, without the promise of booty, just watch his army thin out. Half of them aren’t even our people. General Mirik, give the order for the trebuchets to start firing. Let’s shake these bastards out of their slumber.’
With that he made for his room in the gate tower, running a gauntlet of cheering men given fresh heart by his speech. He had had enough of wearing his ceremonial armour, now the fighting was imminent he wanted to change back into his mail hauberk, one that had stood him in such good stead over many years. He would wear a cloak with the mace of Felmere instead so the men could recognise him that way. A couple of his captains would be waiting in his room to discuss sentry rosters, but he would get rid of them sharpish; though it was he who had summoned them, there was nothing to discuss that could not wait a few hours. Syalin was waiting at the tower door and accompanied him on his way up the steps. Before he got to his chamber, though, a man trotted down the steps towards him; it was one of the commanders he had summoned. Morgan was puzzled. Why on earth did he want to speak to him now? What was it that he had to say that couldn’t be said before the others? The man beckoned confidentially to him. ‘Baron,’ he said, ‘a word, if you please.’
Morgan approached him, a perplexed expression on his face, but before he could reply a couple of things happened. He saw steel glinting in the man’s hand and reflexively went to draw his own knife. But before he got anywhere near to using his blade Syalin was on the man. Swiftly interposing herself between the two of them, she grabbed the hand that wielded the assassin’s dagger and with her foot hooked the man’s leg from the floor, unbalancing him. He fell backwards, clattering down the steps to land back at the door that opened on to the battlements.
Before he could react she was on him again. She put her knee on his chest with her full weight behind it, and with her left hand she stabbed him through the wrist, causing him to scream and drop his knife. With her right hand she held another blade to his throat. Morgan saw her face, all concentration and dispassionate cruelty, the same expression she had worn when she had tried to kill him. By the Gods, she was fast, though; blackroot obviously worked, so it seemed. He realised in the time since he had cheated death how her face, with its chiselled lines and glacial indifference, had softened; he had even seen her smile a couple of times. That was forgotten now as she looked at him. He would much rather have her as a friend, not a foe, he thought.
‘Shall I kill him?’ she asked. ‘Or do you want him questioned first?’
The door to his chambers opened, his captains looking bemusedly at the scene before them.
‘He tried to kill me,’ Morgan told them. ‘Obviously he has been taking Trask’s gold.’
‘And why shouldn’t I?’ the man replied, wincing with pain, his eyes watering. ‘You are no baron, just some mud-grubbing farmer who got lucky. You cannot rule these lands. You have no right. Fenchard is at least of noble blood.’
‘Of cold noble blood,’ said Morgan with some disdain. ‘I think you will find he is dead and Trask, a farmer’s son who became a squire and then a knight, now rules in Haslan Falls. No matter, I am done talking to you.’
Overhead came the sounds of grinding metal and snapping ropes, followed by a dull cheer from the battlements. It was the catapult mechanism; as he had ordered, they were starting to bombard the enemy.
‘Syalin, take this man to Mirik. Tell him he is to be returned to Trask by the fastest possible route.’ Both he and Syalin raised their eyes upward, where the catapults were now being fully engaged. She looked at him and understood.
‘As you wish.’ She gave her cruel smile and propelled the man back up the stairs and past him, making sure the spikes on her armour drew their fair share of blood.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Morgan, ushering them back into his room.
The meeting was short, just as he had wanted. After he had sent his men on their way he changed his armour. On a couple of occasions, though, he was interrupted by the impact of stone upon stone and a rain of fine dust falling on his head from the ceiling above. Trask was evidently returning fire.
At length, he returned to the wall. The majority of Trask’s men were at the limit of the archers’ range, though a cunning crossbow bolt might find a mark. The conflict, as it stood then, was between the opposing catapults of which Trask’s considerably outnumbered Felmere’s. The walls still stood, though, shaken but unbowed, a denuded battlement here or there the only evidence of Trask’s success so far. In his camp, however, one catapult lay, smashed like matchwood in the freshly dug ditch. There were other marks in the earth, scored by great stones landing heavily, and he could see men prone on the ground, being attended on by others.
Mirik and Syalin were watching developments together. Morgan went up to them. ‘Were my earlier orders carried out?’
‘Yes.’ Syalin laughed softly. ‘He bounced. A couple of times. It was funny.’
‘It was not meant for amusement,’ Morgan said grimly. ‘It was a message for Trask. The only type he understands. I hope it gave him something to think about.’
It certainly did. Trask stood over the crumpled body of the man, tied up into a ball so that he fitted the catapult, spine sticking, white and bloodied, out of his back and spat dismissively on to the ground. One of his captains came up to him.
‘It was worth a try,’ Trask said. ‘But the blonde girl had too much for him. Still, it saves me some coin at any rate.’
The captain ignored his words. ‘Sir, we have had word from the infiltrator squad. They are in position, lying low in the countryside. They will strike when the Artoran bell chimes for the first hour after midnight.’
‘This is what we will do with them. One team will test their walls at their lower points with ladders. They will not succeed at first but we keep trying to surprise them. After a few days we double and treble the teams, picking different points on the wall every night. It only takes a handful of men to get through, to open a side gate, and we could be in in minutes. Morgan knows this – he knows the catapults are useful but not decisive– so we have to keep him on his toes. The sappers will start digging tomorrow. I have told them to build a ram, too. We will try that, if all else fails. We need to beware of his knights; they could come out at any time and the damned Wych folk are out there somewhere. Interesting, isn’t it?’
‘As you say, sir.’ The captain did not sound convinced. ‘Do you think we will be inside the town in the nex
t couple of weeks?’
‘I can promise you this.’ Trask stared menacingly at the black walls, the gate and its towers. Taken together they almost looked like a face themselves, staring right back at him with equal obstinacy. ‘If we are not inside in the next couple of weeks, then we never will be. Get this fellow burned, with the others – that is, if we still have a priest here able to do the job.’ He left the man alone and walked up to the line of catapults facing the gate. The firing had stopped on both sides, they were all aware of the need to conserve ammunition. Somewhere within those walls was Morgan Felmere, a man he had almost killed at Axmian when he had fought for Arshuman gold. He had been thwarted then, but at the time Morgan was just another soldier, albeit one beginning to make a name for himself. Now he was a baron, a man of importance, and Trask would try and ensure that he would not be thwarted again.
41
Cygan wiped the cold sweat off his brow and tasted the salt on his lips. He looked at his forearm, bloodied after being raked by a Malaac claw and planted his feet firmly on the treacherous sand. So far there had been two things to note about this battle; the good thing was that the waters surrounding the island were quite shallow. This meant the Malaac had to run at them from a waist-high start, giving ample time to plant a flaming arrow or two into any onrushing creature’s chest. The bad thing, though, was that here the Malaac were far more relentless, far more ferocious and far more numerous. Before now after one or two setbacks the Malaac would just melt away, move somewhere else. Here, however, they were not running. Thus far they had inflicted significant casualties – the defensive circle had already shrunk considerably with dead and wounded men dotted around the island’s fringes. The Malaac would not stop here, not until everyone was dead. And, after its initial appearance through the mists, there had been little further sign of the dragon.
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