by B R Crichton
He was soaked to the skin. The heat of his exertions melted the snow that fell on him in an instant, and his coat absorbed more and more water, getting heavier with every passing minute until it felt like he was carrying a dead weight. Eventually he cast it off. His shirt was no drier, but at least it did not weigh him down, and he was sweating despite the cold wind.
Long forked poles were situated at regular intervals along the wall, and their purpose became apparent when the first of the ladders topped the battlements. Quickly, the nearest two archers put down their bows and took up the pole. They placed the forked end over the top rung, and heaved it back over onto the attackers below, sending the climbers down with it.
He chose his targets carefully, picking them off with precisely placed arrows. Their own archers were not idle however, and he frequently had to duck down behind the battlements to avoid a volley. Luckily, with the distance they must have been firing from, they would be firing blind, and erring on the side of caution to avoid killing their own soldiers, and so most of the arrows sailed safely overhead.
A ladder appeared a few paces to his left. He glanced at his nearest comrade, a Dasari militiaman, who was already moving to get the pole. With the fork in place, Elan made ready to heave it over.
“Wait,” the Dasari said, holding up his hand. “Give them a minute to get higher.” He winked, then, after a few moments, nodded.
Elan could feel the weight of the bodies on the ladder as they pushed it back over, and as they reached the battlements on completion of the motion, both Elan and the Dasari peered over to watch three flailing figures landing in the snow from various heights.
The Dasari gave Elan a wicked smile, then scurried back to his position and his bow.
Another volley hissed safely overhead.
“They’re giving us their arrows,” the Dasari laughed as he loosed another shot into the crowded area in front of the barbican. “We’re not running short yet, you bastards!” he shouted.
His glee was short lived.
Despite the weather and against all logic, they had managed to set fire to the western gate. The ageing timber began to crackle as smoke and steam billowed from its base.
“Water!” he yelled over his shoulder, but as he turned back, an arrow thudded into his shoulder. Elan ducked as the volley hissed through the air to either side of him.
They had clearly got their range right now. He crawled over to the Dasari who groaned in pain as Elan tried to get him to sit up with the battlements to his back. He heard the clatter of a ladder above his head, and he grabbed the pole from the rampart. He glanced about for aid, but ladders were topping the wall everywhere and the other archers had their own worries. Another well ranged volley thinned the archers a little more in what was clearly a well drilled move. Once the range was found, the assault could begin in earnest.
He waited for a break between volleys, and placed the fork on the ladder. He pushed with all his strength and the ladder rocked back by a full stride before the weight of the climbers pushed him back. His boots skidded on the slick, polished stone of the rampart, and the ladder clattered back onto the wall. He felt the juddering of the ladder through the pole that signalled the Jendayan’s approach. He dropped the pole as he slipped to his knees and scrambled for his bow as the invader topped the battlement, reaching for an arrow from his quiver at the same time. He rolled onto his back and released the arrow from his sprawled position, killing the Jendayan before he could leap the wall. Kellan could see the grey cloak had been thrown back to reveal the reddish leather armour beneath, and the man’s head was wrapped in grey cloth, his face veiled with the same pale disguise. The eyes were unmistakeable however, with their down turned corners.
He reached his knees by the time the next soldier topped the wall, and sent him tumbling with an arrow to the neck. The Jendayan archers had ceased their volleys now that the damage had been done, and Elan stood to release his next arrow. All along the ramparts, those veiled attackers with their pale grey cloaks were breaching the defences.
At close quarters, the lightly armoured archers were no match for the Jendayan infantry, and the ramparts would soon be flooded by the grey tide.
Elan fired as fast as he could, drawing and aiming, then releasing the arrow as he reached for the next.
To his left. To his right. The ladders poured grey-clad figures over the wall with gleaming blades.
All around, he heard the screams of the dying archers as they were slain or otherwise jumped from the ramparts to take their chances with a fall to the cobbles below. He cursed himself for never having learned to use a sword properly, but also wondered how much good it would do him here.
He was just considering whether or not the jump was an option, when he saw a group of soldiers charging up the ramp to the ramparts with Truman at their lead. Just in time, they arrived to save Elan from being swamped. The last of the archers were fleeing the wall, as Elan saw at every ramp, dozens of Dasari militiamen pouring onto the ramparts to drive the attackers back.
The fighting was fierce and bloody. The Jendayans were skilled swordsmen, and their number was being constantly replenished via the ladders. Truman arrived at Elan’s side as he released an arrow into a charging Jendayan. The impact knocked the invader over backwards, and his feet flew from under him, but his overall momentum was still forward, and he skidded across the slick stone into Elan’s ankles. He stumbled, slipping as he did, one boot slipping over the edge of the rampart
Truman caught his flailing arm as he teetered over the edge of the stone. He caught his breath as he glanced down to the snow covered cobbles thirty feet below.
“You do not want to do that,” Truman said, pulling Elan back to safety. “You are needed at South Gate. Go!”
Elan nodded, and made for the ramp. His path had been cleared by the militiamen, who were now engaged with the Jendayans on the wall, and trying to stem the flow by dealing with the ladders. He sprinted for South Gate following those other archers that had survived.
Blunt watched smoke lick through the joints of the wooden gate. The cracks glowed orange as did the growing gap at the bottom. It would not hold for long. South Gate was also aflame, and he had sent more archers and footsoldiers there to stem the inevitable tide when the gates fell. But the bulk of the attacking force was here at West Gate. There were four gates to defend, and he had been lumbered with the busy one. He had ordered barricades be built along the sides of the wide road where the enemy would enter when the gates did fall. A collection of overturned carts, large and small furniture, lengths of timber, and even unused coffins from a nearby undertaker formed twelve foot high barriers to either side of the gate that stretched for a hundred paces along the cobbled thoroughfare.
He hoped that it would be enough.
The tide on the ramparts was turning with the local militia managing to regain control of much of the wall, at great cost, and the attackers were putting up few new ladders now that they sensed the gate about to collapse.
Just as he thought that, a cry went out from above. Several wide ladders, enough to take six men abreast, appeared over the battlements. The defenders struggled to tip them, but they were too heavy, and getting heavier with every new clambering body that attached itself to the rungs.
“Bugger,” Blunt muttered. Then the gates crashed in. Burned to the point of weakness, the hinges crumpled under the impact of a large battering ram. Blunt thought he had heard a cry of warning over the clamour from above, but the large tree trunk would have been obscured by the blizzard until the last moment.
The gates fell in a shower of sparks and glowing embers.
From his horse at the head of the mounted column, he raised his sword.
“Ready!” He heeled his horse sideways to make way for the horsemen.
There was a moment of relative calm as the smoke was whipped away by the biting wind, before the Jendayans burst through the open arch of the barbican. He paused long enough to let a certain number through then ga
ve the order.
“Charge!”
Two hundred mounted soldiers, including Valia, charged past him, the deafening clatter of the hooves on the cobbles echoing from the high walls. Screams mingled with the clatter as men fell beneath the horses’ hooves, and longswords found their mark. The attackers were quickly crushed, and driven back through the open barbican, whose iron hinges, hot from the fire still, hissed as snowflakes touched them. The horsemen fanned out as they poured from the city gate, cutting a swathe through the attacking ranks. A few were dragged from their mounts when they became bogged down in the bodies and churned up mud, and died as the Jendayans fell upon them. Several horses stumbled, throwing or crushing their riders whose fate was no better.
Then, in the chaos of the blizzard, they turned and thundered back into the embrace of the city walls.
Olimar arrived at his father’s side as the cavalry returned.
“South Gate is holding, Blunt, but they could use some horsemen there.”
“Take fifty. No more, I will need them here. And I need more foot for that bloody wall!”
Olimar nodded, and shouted to one of the riders as he went by. “All men forward of you, bring them to South Gate.” Then he galloped forward calling to the others he had selected.
Blunt grimaced. That was more like sixty. By his estimate, they had lost forty in that first charge, and they were not done yet. He was relieved to see Valia among those returning; he would rather the Dasari took the losses for their city. They were merely guests.
Elan was part of a line of sixty archers facing the blackened South Gate. Thirty knelt and thirty stood. Captain Erin shouted his commands over the noise of the battle. The line faced the open barbican where Jendayans had massed in the gloom of the storm, appearing endlessly from the grey, howling exterior to meet the defenders’ arrows.
“Volley! Volley! Volley!”
Elan found the pace comfortable among those at the back of the double line, but that was all that could be said in favour of his position. His fingers were numb with cold, and his heart pounded in his chest. He had not retrieved his coat, and was now feeling the chill as exhaustion began to set in.
Each arrow he loosed was one less in his quiver, and there were no more to hand. The fighting on the ramparts was at a stalemate, neither side gaining the upper hand, but that was better than it could have been. He tried not to dwell on the outcome if the Jendayans took control of the ramparts, instead concentrating on his own task; making every arrow count.
He glanced down for a quick count, and saw eight left.
“Volley!” It found its mark, and the whole wave went down.
Seven.
“Volley!” It took a man in the sternum.
Six.
“Volley!” It hit an attacker in the chest, along with two others. Wasteful.
Five.
“Volley!” Another in the chest, and another wave dropped
Four.
“Volley!” Several Jendayans with crossbows aimed and fired from the smouldering gate before they were felled. Elan heard the bolts find their marks, and his heart raced faster.
Three.
“Volley!” The hiss of a crossbow bolt at the same moment he released and his neighbour was thrown back with a grunt.
Two.
“Volley!” He heard shouts of “Out!” as other archers found their quivers empty. His arrow took a crossbowman before he could fire. Where was Olimar?
Last one.
“Volley!” he loosed the arrow, calling “Out!” and dropped another.
“Break!” Captain Erin yelled. It was the most welcome command he had ever heard. Jendayans poured over the piles of bodies of their fallen comrades as the archers fled, and Elan heard the thunder of hooves. More than fifty horsemen charged down the broad, cobbled street, driving into the footsoldiers and scattering their shattered bodies. The horsemen drove the enemy beyond the ruined gate, and Elan breathed a heavy sigh of relief. But there was no time for resting and he quickly replenished his quiver from one of several crates that had arrived by handcart from Fate knew where. While the horsemen did their work outside of South Gate, they turned their attention to the ramparts above.
On the ramparts above West Gate, those broad ladders were causing problems. The defenders could barely hold them back, and several Jendayans had made it as far as the ramps leading down into the city where they had only been stopped by strategically placed archers. But the militia on the ramparts were taking losses as well. Once the enemy were over the wall and on firm footing, they were proving to be superior swordsmen to the militia, and the advantage was swinging away from Truman and his allies.
The speed of their slender blades was nearly that of his own rapier, and he found himself defending more and more. They left few openings as a soldier wielding a heavier weapon would have, and he struggled against their techniques. Reinforcements arrived from time to time, but what they really needed was to rid themselves of those bloody ladders. A group of perhaps six men with three poles could probably topple them, but it was hard enough finding a single ally to watch your back, let alone another five.
A slip from his opponent opened up an opportunity to drive the point of his sword into the veiled man’s throat. He kicked the dying man from the end of his sword and lunged at another, whose attention was directed at a large Dasari swinging a huge two headed axe. The Jendayan could easily dodge the slow sweeps, and was about to attack the exposed ribs of the slower fighter when Truman whipped the point of his rapier across the side of his neck. A gout of blood poured from the stricken man’s wound as he fell from the rampart.
The barrel-chested Dasari militiaman briefly nodded his thanks, and then charged at two Jendayans cresting the battlements side by side. One sweep of the double-handed axe sent them both tumbling with great gashes across their lightly armoured chests. He took up a position at the ladder, and killed three more Jendayans before a fourth put a crossbow bolt through his throat to prevent the axe from doing further damage. Truman could not hold that ladder alone, and allies were getting thinner and thinner on the ground.
Where were those reinforcements?
Now the attackers outnumbered the defenders on the wall. He had fought his way to the heavy wooden door of the barbican, where three Jendayans faced him. Their pale cloaks were thrown back over their shoulders to free their sword arms, revealing the red hue of the leather armour beneath. Had the rampart been wider, they could have easily taken him, but as it was, they would have to attack one at a time. Behind them, the wall was almost devoid of defenders, and the enemy were starting to pour down the ramps unhindered.
One of the soldiers rushed in, hoping to take him off guard as he glanced away momentarily, but Truman deflected the thrust and brought his dagger into play, driving it into the attacker’s throat. He tipped away the dead weight over the edge of the rampart to free his hands, but already the next was upon him, and the blade bit into his forearm. The Jendayan had overstretched, so did not manage to put his full force into the strike, but still, Truman felt his left hand go limp.
His dagger lost, he cursed and drove the rapier into the chest of the attacker as he sought to recover his balance
The third took an offensive position as he was joined by another Jendayan, less intent on running down the ramp into the city. Truman slumped. Blood ran freely from the fingertips of his left hand. He was exhausted, beaten, he knew the game was up. He considered the jump to the cobbles below; perhaps one of those bodies would break his fall.
He just had no more strength.
He was alone among the enemy on the wall now; the last man standing and facing two attackers, one-handed, exhausted and losing blood.
He sagged against the stone of the barbican at his back
Then a shout rang out. A rider galloped up the near ramp, throwing the Jendayan soldiers over the edge as the horse battered its way through the throng. For a moment Truman thought he was dreaming, or already dead.
It was her
. Valia.
She thundered onto the wall, her mount’s hooves skidding on the wet stone as its nostrils flared, blowing gouts of hot breath into the air. Its wet flanks were hazed with steam as she swung her great sword, single handed, to devastating effect. The horse reared, and brought its steel shod hooves down onto the scrabbling man below, then accelerated towards Truman, casting men from the rampart to disappear, screaming from view.
Valia.
In his time of greatest need she had come to his aid. She had never looked more beautiful. Strands of hair, wet with snow, sweat and blood clung to her face. He could see the determination on her face as she urged the horse on, heaving her sword left and right to cut down her enemies.
The vision gave him strength. The first Jendayan brought his sword higher, lazily preparing for the easy kill, but Truman had one burst of energy left. He drove his rapier home, taking the man in the chest, then, pushing off the wall, drove the dying man into his fellow behind, losing his blade in the process. The second man was scrabbling to his feet, when Valia arrived, like a hero out of legend. Her longsword felled the attacker even as he tried to right himself, then, with her left hand, grabbed Truman’s wrist and pulled him onto the saddle behind her.
He wrapped his good arm around her waist as she turned the beast on the narrow wall, and clung on for all he was worth. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, shutting out the cries all around as they burst through the awestruck attackers who had just topped the wall. Her scent mingled with that of sweat and leather, and the movement of her body against his intoxicated his receding senses. His final thought before blackness took him was of how perfectly happy he was in that sublime moment.
Captain Renald stood facing North Gate. He held his left wrist loosely in his right hand behind his back. The ranks of footsoldiers behind him were getting restless, not for the yearning to fight, but with cold. He looked at his right shoulder, and brought his left hand around to measure the snow that had piled there