The ram band did not stop since not a single arrow was shot at them. . . yet. The bastards want the ram to come close enough to their walls so that they can destroy it. They must have poured oil or tar on the first battering ram before shooting it with fire arrows. Should he call those soldiers accompanying the second ram back? Too late now. They were in the Herlogan archers' range already.
"Send a hundred more to rally those men," Gramus urged Edmond. "Not all the ladders are totally ruined."
"And what about the ram?" Edmond nodded toward the soldiers heading to their doom. "Their fate won't be any different from the previous one."
"That's what the Herlogans would think as well." Gramus turned to Edmond, jabbing his finger. "You go with the third ram yourself. Take a hundred men with you. Turn around their cursed wall, find an unguarded side, and breach it."
"What if they don't have an unguarded side? Shall we halt?"
Gramus still had fresh knights, swordsmen, and archers to deploy in this battle. "You will find an unguarded side. I will make sure you do."
12. MASOLON
"They fooled him and gave him red flax oil instead of corn oil," Ziyad had said last night, telling his brothers about one of his journeys as a bard in Ramos. "Once the poor lad poured his cooking oil on the potatoes he was stewing, a big flame grew from his pan and ate his hands. We lost our cook, yet we discovered a strong fuel for warmth for our cold journeys in case we didn't have enough lumber to keep the fire alive."
Ziyad had suggested tarring the field in front of the gate with oiled tar, and it was working so far. A few fire arrows hitting the right places were enough to turn the ground into a burning hell. While Masolon had around thirty archers after his brothers' arrival, he chose Frankil and a few of his fellow-knights to spearhead the ranged defending force of this little fort. Every arrow must count tonight if they wanted to hold their ground against Gramus's thousand soldiers; Danis had scouted the area earlier today and informed Masolon about the attackers' numbers. So far Masolon counted three hundred footmen with the ladders, thirty with each ram. After only dispensing eight arrows and two buckets of oiled tar, he was done with one battering ram and one-third of Gramus's footmen.
But no, he was not done with them yet. Those who survived the flames regrouped around two almost burnt ladders to resume their march to the wall. And there was also another battering ram heading to the gate. Masolon ordered his men not to shoot the siege engine until it came close enough to pour some oiled tar over it. They have to move away the destroyed ram first, Masolon thought, and it seemed that Gramus's men realized that as well. To avoid the flamed ram blocking their way to the gate, they headed with their second ram toward the palisade wall. "Maat! Ben! Ready with the buckets! Danis!" Masolon urged the two lads as he drew an arrow from his quiver. He notched the arrow into the bowstring, dipped the arrowhead in a pot of oiled tar in front of him, and turned to face the peasant standing with his flamed wooden pole below the scaffold. The peasant raised his pole vertically so that Masolon could light the tarred arrowhead with the flamed tip of the pole. Masolon turned again to aim at the battering ram, Maat and Ben waiting for it to stop.
Like they did with the first ram, the two lads emptied their buckets over the second siege engine. Masolon shot his fire arrow at the tarred ram, setting its wooden roof on fire. One second later, Danis loosed another fire arrow at the other side of the ram. Now the siege weapon was as good as one massive cookfire.
"Ladders, Danis!" Masolon ignited another arrow and aimed at the nearest ladder to him, leaving the other for the red-haired knight to take care of. The wooden ladders were still intact somehow despite the fire that caught them in the first volley of flaming arrows. Masolon doubted that any of these ladders might stand one more fire arrow hitting the right spot.
Both Masolon and Danis shot at their targets at the same time, the fire on the ladders growing fiercer the moment the two arrows struck the flamed parts. The soldiers at Danis's front found themselves forced to drop their ladder. On the other hand, those at Masolon's side insisted on reaching the wall despite the fire already eating their ladder. How are they going to scale this? Masolon wondered as he regarded the soldiers hurrying to the palisade wall.
"What are you waiting for, Masolon?" Antram nervously asked when the soldiers below halted, laid their burning ladder on the ground, and stomped out the fire. "Let us shower them with our arrows."
"Not yet." Gramus's soldiers were easy targets at this very moment, but Masolon did not wish to waste his arrows too soon, while the battle was yet to start. All his archers had pots of oiled tar in front of them, men with wooden poles standing by campfires below the scaffolds to ignite their arrows. But Masolon's orders were strict about that matter: no one would loose an arrow without his permission. He knew that at some point, when Gramus deployed the main strength of his army, Masolon would let his men shoot at will to thin the invaders' lines. But that would not be possible if he ran out of arrows while Gramus still had troops to send to Herlog’s wall.
Swiftly, Masolon notched another tarred arrow and flamed its head with the help of the pole-man standing behind the wall. Gramus's soldiers were still trying to tame the fire on their ladder with their boots when Masolon loosed an arrow that missed all trunks and legs in the way and hit the tarred ground. Fire rose beneath the soldiers' feet, trapping seven of them at once. The rest jumped away from the ladder, their shrieking mates, and the wall that rained fire arrows down on them. Only a few dared to stay near their burning companions, but there was nothing to do with those men who had lost the lower halves of their bodies already to the fire. If there was something to do to aid any of those soldiers with their agony, it would be one clean stab right into the heart.
"See? They are running away, and all we did was waste a couple of arrows," Masolon told Antram.
"Why let them run away while we can finish them off? Those men will attack us again when that Gramus comes to his senses and launches a full attack?"
"I would be disappointed if they did not." Masolon allowed a faint smile on his lips. He would not exhaust his tarred front yard to get rid of a dozen or two dozen soldiers.
Gramus was moving his reserves at last, save for his cavalry. Masolon counted fifty men sprinting toward the wall ahead of ten rows of marching soldiers. Archers, Masolon realized. "They are sending their bowmen, brothers! Notch your arrows!"
Gramus's archers outnumbered his, yet Maoslon and his brothers had an advantageous position. "No fire arrows," he reminded Antram, who dipped an arrowhead in the oiled tar bucket in front of him. "We will need some scorched ground for those masses."
"Hope we don't regret your exaggerated caution." Antram left the arrow in the bucket and drew another clean one from the pile of arrows by his feet.
"Aiming at the soldiers below their feet is much easier in this darkness, brother," Ziyad pointed out as he pulled his bowstring.
"Not for me." Shooting arrows without fire was much easier. With two successive shots, Masolon struck two archers, most probably dead.
"You told me what did you do for a living back in your homeland?" Ziyad asked while Masolon was nocking another arrow onto the bowstring.
"Survive." Masolon loosed a third arrow to snipe a third archer. How many battles had he fought in the moonlight to defend his clan's settlement from brigands' raids? Those night skirmishes had occurred almost every week until shooting at a shadow in the dark became a reflex.
Now not sticking to their organized march, the soldiers behind the archers hurried to the two burning rams in front of the gate. What do they think they are doing? Drive the burning ram into the wooden gate, sacrificing their hands to the flames? It would be heroic, Masolon could not deny that, but he must stop them anyway. "Frankil, Antram, Ziyad, Bergum, Danis," he bellowed, "fire arrows at those footmen! The rest with me shall take those archers down!"
The number of Gramus's archers did not pose a problem, the number of skilled ones was. While Masolon was fielding
a bunch of peasants and hunters, save for Frankil and his brothers, who were not that bad, the attackers were seasoned bowmen who were doing that for a living. "Take cover!" Masolon warned as Gramus's archers sent their first volley. He lowered his head, and in a heartbeat an arrow whizzed just hairs above his head. The response of the untrained Herlogans was not swift enough to prevent some unnecessary losses. Three of them cried out in pain, but only one of them cried for long. Two dead. Masolon bit his lower lip. "Our turn, brothers!" Masolon nocked, aimed, and loosed, hitting one archer in the trunk. Repeating the sequence in less than a couple of seconds, he shot another one in the chest. Nock. Aim. Loose. He had been trained during his childhood to do all three as one action.
Masolon could not help glancing at Gramus's infantry when he heard their screams. The fire field scorched by Frankil and the brothers trapped a few rows of the marching footmen fifty paces away from the gate. The Herlogans standing atop the scaffold to defend their village ceased shooting for a whole minute, hooting for Frankil and his fellows. The peasants had faith now. And probably, they were enjoying the death song Gramus's men were chanting.
"No celebration yet!" Masolon roused the naive archers of Herlog before the second volley of arrows fell upon them. Two more of his men fell, one of them dead. "Frankil! Everybody! Ignore those worthless footmen and help me with those archers!"
Shocked by their fallen companions, the Herlogans came back to their senses and resumed what they were supposed to do at this very night: make the most of the arrows Masolon had bought them.
Frankil and the other fire archers unleashed their flaming arrows upon the attackers' archers, forcing them to break their formation to run away from the hell that might open beneath their boots at any moment. Now scattered, the archers shot at will to answer the Herlogan courtesy, but they caused less damage than they did in their previous volleys. "Hunt them down!" Masolon hollered. The wavering archers ran randomly into the field since they had no idea which spots were tarred and which were not. They are not falling back, Masolon observed. They were just doing their best to avoid the Herlogan fire arrows, but still kept themselves on the battlefield to aid their surviving footmen, who were either trying their luck with one of the burning battering rams or dragging the wounded away from the scorched field. If Masolon had a decent force of cavalry under his command, like in the good old days of Murase, he would vanquish these wavering troops in a few minutes with one powerful charge.
The enemy was not the only side whose discipline was faltering; Masolon noticed that his men were shooting randomly at the ground to start a fire without causing significant losses. "Focus, curse you all!" Masolon bellowed. "Do not let them distract you! The main strength of their troops is yet to come!"
"Don't let them move that ram one single inch!" Frankil urged his brothers, who instantly directed their attention toward the footmen closest to the burned siege engine.
"The archers first, Frankil!" Masolon did not stop chasing Gramus's archers with his arrows. "The ram is on fire already. It can wait!"
"You and the rest handle the archers, while I keep an eye on the ram," Frankil insisted. "We cannot afford the risk of having our walls breached."
There was no time to waste in arguing. Masolon kept nocking, aiming, and loosing, Gramus's archers falling over, dead or wounded. "More arrows!" When he demanded, the same kid he had encountered yesterday hurried to him with a bunch of arrows heaped on his arms. Masolon helped him fill his quiver and patted him on the shoulder. "Stay close to me, little warrior. I shoot faster than anybody here."
The kid nodded, obviously elated with his important responsibility. Masolon was back to his hunting spree when Ben mumbled, "Blast! They move too much."
"Do not loose your arrow until your target stops." Masolon shot one archer dead. "He needs a moment to aim and take his shot."
In a few minutes, Masolon was again out of arrows, and still there were more archers to kill. "Arrows, little warrior!" he called out to the arrows kid who dashed to replenish Masolon's empty quiver.
"Ram!" Frankil's yell was enough to draw everybody's attention to the wall.
"Masolon?" Holding his bow, Ziyad gave him an inquisitive look.
"Aid him!" Masolon himself shot one of the soldiers, who somehow found an unburned spot in the wooden siege engine and started pushing it onward. Despite the shower of arrows falling upon them, none of those men ran away from the ram. Whenever one of them fell, another assumed his place and resumed the pushing task. Even those who could not find a clear spot on the ram to push it, crammed behind their mates and pushed them instead, giving them some more momentum to help them move the hefty ram set afire. When the burned ram hit the palisade wall, the soldiers dispersed and started sprinting away in different directions. The force of the ram’s impact was not enough to cause any real damage to the wall. But any touch was enough to make the wooden wall catch fire from the burnt wooden siege engine.
The little fire starting in the palisade wall evoked a state of restlessness among the Herlogans and Masolon's brothers alike. "Water!" Edd was among a few other Herlogans urging their men behind the wall to help them put out this fire.
"No archer abandons his post until they are all dead!" Masolon bellowed. "Hunt those bastards before they run away!"
Antram turned to him. "But the fire is—"
"Up here!" Masolon waved to the Herlogans bringing water from the village before he turned to his men atop the scaffolds. "And you! Do not stop shooting for a second!"
"Can't we swiftly open the gate to let our men out?" Ziyad gestured toward the field outside the wall. "Our enemy is clearing the field."
"Not yet." Most of the fleeing archers and footmen retreated toward their idle cavalry, away from the scorched field, away from the flaming arrows. "No one opens the cursed gate. What is your problem? I said: up here," Masolon rebuked the men hurrying to the gate with their water buckets.
One chubby fellow of them peered at the wooden ladders leading to the scaffolds, spilling water from the tilted bucket he carried. "This is absurd. Going up and down with these buckets and then back to refill them?"
It was true those men were no soldiers, but there was something called common sense. "You shall do whatever it takes to prevent the collapse of the only barrier standing between us and the knights outside."
The chubby Herlogan acquiesced after the other bucket-fellows urged him to hurry. "See to those lackwits." Masolon nudged Ben. Killing a Herlogan was something he wanted to avoid.
Gazing at Gramus's host in the distance, Masolon waited for some movement, a blown horn, a yelled command, but nothing came from the queen's general except silence. He is not waiting for this fire to destroy my wall. Masolon glanced at his brothers, who did not seem happy with his leadership in this battle, especially Antram. But Masolon did not regret any of his decisions so far. Maybe he is camping here to build new rams and ladders for another assault. That sounded more logical. Gramus still had his knights, who did not even break out any sweat in this fight, in addition to a few hundred footmen. . .
Wait. Gramus's host seemed to be less than they should be. The queen's general might have lost a hundred men or two in this failed raid, but not two-thirds of his forces. It could be possible that darkness curtained part of Gramus's troops, who must be camping around, somewhere that Masolon was not aware of. Blast!
"Ben, go check on our watchman at the eastern side of the wall." Masolon could not spot his shadow from this distance in the darkness. I hope it is just my tired eyes. "Maat, the western. And you, Edd, ride to the river. Do not engage if you spot an enemy. Just fly back to me."
His three soldiers hurried to see to their duties. Ziyad came to him while he was standing still, keeping an eye on Gramus's host. "Aren't you too gloomy today, brother?" The Murasen tilted his head.
"We are under attack tonight, if you have not noticed yet."
"I fought with you before, and you were never that tense. Did peace ruin your composure in battle?"
Ziyad scoffed.
"Peace!" Masolon found himself laughing. "It did ruin my mind."
Ziyad came closer to him. "After we are done with this, don't you want to ride with us again across the six realms? Sometimes we are lucky enough to encounter some outlaws on the road to slay."
Mounting his horse on the open fields; nothing else would make him feel more peaceful. It reminded him of his early days in his homeland in Ogono, when he used to ride wherever he wanted without anything occupying his childish mind. It reminded him of those few days in paradise, when he could ride to her house in Burdi to see her.
"I am forbidden from entering two realms, brother." Larovic and Feras's faces flashed through Masolon's mind. The two faces had nothing in common; one was molded by snow, the other by sunlight. They looked similar, however, when they curled their lips and wrinkled their foreheads in contempt the moment they had banished him from their lands.
"There is nothing for you to do here, brother." Ziyad chuckled. "I cannot picture you sowing wheat on your farm."
Masolon lifted his head when he spotted Ben hurrying back from behind Ziyad. "Ram!" the lad yelled, waving to everybody. "Ram at the eastern side!"
Masolon and Ziyad sprinted at once toward the eastern side, Antram, Frankil, and all his fellow knights joining them. "Every archer to the eastern side!" He drew an arrow as he ran over the creaking scaffold. The palisade wall would not stand being hammered for long by the heavy ram log.
"They shot him." Running ahead of them, Ben pointed at the corpse of the Herlogan watchman beneath the scaffold, an arrow stuck into his neck. Blast! We are too late! Masolon realized when he heard that thumping noise mingling with the cracking of wood. The ram was at the foot of the wall, carving its way through it. Masolon and his men drew their arrows and shot the soldiers surrounding the ram, the roof of the siege weapon shielding the men working it. No way to stop the blasted ram from breaching his wall.
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