by Tim Stead
“Will you stay and watch?” he asked.
“I will,” Bane said.
Narak stepped back and Bane stretched his wings again. A couple of beats, a small storm thrashed the trees about him, and Bane was gone up into the dark.
“Chillarin, you go on with your mother. I will follow and keep the road,” he said
After they left Narak sat by the way for a while, looking up at the sky, trying to see Bane, but all he could see were stars.
52 The South Wall
Alwain’s next attack was deliberate and unsubtle. He brought forward at least two whole regiments and placed them just out of bowshot and as far from the Wolfen’s great bows as he could. This put them opposite a stretch of the south wall where it met the rise of the mount on which the High City sat.
Cain sent fifty archers up to the castle. From there they would be able to shoot into the ranks of the attackers, but it would take a while for them to be in position. While he waited, Cain watched. They had massed ladders, shields and bows. It was clearly going to be a classical assault on the wall. He didn’t call for more men. It could easily be a trick – drawing men away from other areas to facilitate a second attack elsewhere. Besides, he had installed his massive pendulums along this stretch and he was keen to test them against a real enemy.
Alwain’s men waited too. They must have seen the pendulums resting on the walls, the ropes and the men. It was not hard to work out what they were for. Cain knew that he had a reputation for changing the rules, for making men fight in different ways, for inventing things, and he delighted in it, even if he thought it was excessive. It was useful in battle. It preyed on the minds of his enemies. He turned to the men behind him.
“What do you think, Spans?” he asked.
The big man shrugged. He was a creature of few words, but Cain could usually rely on Catto to fill in the blanks in his friend’s conversation. True to form, Catto scratched his head.
“Looks bad for them,” he said. “Those big weights are really going to fuck with their ladders, sir.” The title was an afterthought. Catto didn’t naturally defer to anyone, and Cain liked that.
Sheyani came up the steps onto the tower. She looked at Alwain’s soldiers, leaned out to look at the wall.
“I don’t think it’ll work,” she said. Cain was surprised. His wife normally praised his ideas.
“Why?”
“What happens if they put a long ladder between the crenels?” she asked.
“We can push long ladders off,” Cain said.
“But if they put a long ladder next to the weight it can jam it. Those things have to get up speed before they’re effective. So if they mix long and short ladders they can still get on the wall.”
Cain thought about that for a moment.
“In theory,” he agreed. But Cain knew that battles were not the ordered affairs that some folk imagined them to be. The best you could do was set the initial conditions and keep a reserve back to act on a specific, direct order. He had done that. Sheyani was right, but he would bet the city that it wouldn’t turn out that way.
A flight of arrows passed over their heads and fell among Alwain’s troops. Some fell. Shields were raised.
“Not long now,” Cain said. “You should go.” She’d rather stay, he knew, and her pipes would give them an edge, but she was un-armoured and there were a lot of archers out there.
“I need to talk to you about supplies,” she said.
“Later.”
She touched his hand briefly. “Stay safe, Sheshay,” she said. With that she was gone, hurrying down to the street and back to a safe distance. She would still play her pipes, he knew, and in a while they would all hear them, faint but rising above the city and full of victory.
Now there was shouting among the attackers, it sounded like orders being passed, and a second volley fell among them followed by a sporadic rain of arrows that meant the archers above were now shooting at will.
The attack began. They moved forwards with admirable precision, almost like a parade ground manoeuvre, shields high, ladders held low and flat by the men who would climb them. Cain’s archers, the ones on the wall, now came into play. Volley after volley hammered down on the raised shields, but that wasn’t how the fight would be decided. Men were falling, dozens of them, but there were thousands still marching forwards.
As they approached the walls the ladders were raised. Cain stood on his tower looking along the line of the wall. He was aware of Spans on his right holding a tall shield between him and Alwain’s archers, but he needed this view. He had to know if his defence was working.
The first of the ladders touched the wall. Nothing happened. He’d told his men to wait until there were a lot of ladders and they were full of soldiers. Arrows flew in both directions and some of his own men died. He heard arrows strike Spans’s shield. The attackers were taking heavy casualties now. Those at the back were in range of his castle archers and the front ranks exposed to his bowmen on the walls.
Men began to climb, two on each ladder, then three, four. Now. He willed them to let go, and almost as if they read his mind they did. A ragged chorus of shouts rang along the wall and the great weights were heaved out into space.
It worked. He had been right and Sheyani had been wrong. It worked better than he had hoped and it was a horror to watch. Those ladders that weren’t swept cleanly away were shattered and the men on them crushed. The weights swung so low that they caught other men still at the foot of the wall and flung them into the general chaos.
Almost at once the men on the second ropes began to haul and the weights climbed once more to their perches ready for a return journey. But Alwain’s men didn’t stop. More ladders were laid against the wall even as the weights were hauled upwards and some brave men slashed at the thick ropes, but to little effect.
Some men made the walls, but were quickly beaten back. The weights swung again. This time the destructive volley was more uneven, but the effect was the same. Dozens of men died.
Cain turned to one of the soldiers on the tower.
“Tell them to get back in step,” he said. “If they swing out of time, they could clash against each other. If they break it’ll open up the wall.”
The soldier ran off.
“Best step back a bit,” Spans said. It was a lot of words for Spans to string together. Cain looked. There were about twenty arrow heads poking through the shield Spans was carrying. Cain nodded and retreated from the edge of the tower and Catto handed Spans a new shield. Cain knelt. Here he could peer between the merlons along the line of the wall and be protected from the majority of arrows coming over the wall.
It was going well. Half a dozen men had topped the wall, but been quickly cut down. The pendulums were doing most of the work, though they were falling more out of step with each swing. It was his own error. He had drilled the men in teams, and each team was displaying their skill, loading and dropping the weights as quickly as they could. Their uneven deployment was a reflection of that skill. He’d also failed to appoint an overall commander for the pendulum crews. That, too, could be a problem. Sending a messenger hadn’t solved the problem.
“I have to get down there,” he said.
Catto went ahead, pushing through the soldiers waiting in reserve on the stairs, clearing the way. Spans would have been better at it, but in less than a minute they were out on the wall, running at a crouch behind the first line of defenders.
Cain didn’t want to be here. He couldn’t see anything. At least on the tower he’d had some overall idea of what was going on. He’d never liked being in the thick of it.
But who to choose? He had twelve teams here, over a hundred men and he had to get it done quickly. It had to be simple.
Yes.
He stopped at the first team.
“You,” he grabbed the sergeant in charge. “Take your lead from the next team. Drop just after they do, not before. Understand?”
The sergeant nodded. Cain moved on. H
e said exactly the same thing to the next team. It would work. He was setting up a chain, a simple chain.
An arrow clipped the top of his helm, twisting it. He set it straight again. Spans tried to reach over him with a shield, but he pushed him back.
“Stay low,” he said.
He went team by team, and it was working. He could see that much just looking back along the wall. It was as though a wave of calm and confidence followed him. Perhaps Sheyani was playing somewhere, but he couldn’t hear her pipes above the din of battle.
He touched a lieutenant on the shoulder. “Take your lead from the next team.” He pointed “Drop when they do.”
“It’s working,” the man said, grinning. “Not many coming over the top.”
Cain nodded. Of course, they couldn’t see the mayhem at the foot of the wall. They were keeping their heads down, but the mood was good. Perhaps it was best that they couldn’t see.
Just up ahead there was a noise like thunder, a crack of splitting rock. For a moment he thought that the wall had cracked. The noise was that loud. But it must be the pendulums. Two of them had met. Everyone on the wall stopped. It was like a lightning flash, a still moment in the chaos.
Cain ran forwards. He could see the two teams up ahead. Both seemed to be struggling to pull their pendulums back up. He reached them without incident and stuck his head out over the wall to see what the problem was.
They hadn’t broken, and that was a relief. The metal was bent on both and one of them was leaking fragments of broken rock from the impact. It was clear, too, that someone had been between the two weights when they had met. They had become locked together.
An arrow hit him in the shoulder and he fell back. He was getting used to pain now, it annoyed him more than it frightened him. Spans ripped the shaft out and the pain vanished. Cain scrambled to the sergeant in charge of the closest pendulum. He was hauling on the rope with his men, trying to retrieve the weight.
“Hold,” Cain said. “Lower it a dozen feet. Then keep it there.”
The man nodded and gave the order. Cain pushed past. The next crew were trying to haul up as well, but they were struggling. That was because, with the other team letting out line, they were hauling both weights. He crouched down next to the sweating men.
“The weights are locked together,” he told them. “We’ll help you haul them up, then we’ll separate them.” He took hold of the rope and lent his Farheim strength to the task. Spans put down his shield and grabbed the rope as well. After a pause Catto joined them, shaking his head in disgust. He clearly thought that pulling on a rope was beneath him, but with the general laying hands on he could hardly refuse.
The fused weights lifted. Heavy as they were, they came up quickly and lodged in the crenel, too big together to sit in the gap. Cain left the others holding the rope and went to examine them.
It was immediately apparent what had happened. The thick metal of the cages had twisted in the impact, locking together. They would have to be bent back to release each other.
Cain drew his sword. It was not ideal, but it was the only lever he had to hand. He wedged it between the metal bars and pulled, a foot against the wall and both hands on the pommel. The metal flexed, but would not release. He turned around.
“Spans, a hand.”
The big man moved to his side, but even as he stepped forwards a group of men came over the top of the wall. The city men crouching in reserve at the back of the parapet sprang forwards to meet them and everything dissolved into chaos.
Cain had never been more than average with a blade, but being Farheim had given him strength and speed beyond any mortal man. Now, however, his blade was stuck between the two weights. He needed it. Three of Alwain’s men turned, unengaged, and came towards him and Spans.
He pulled at his sword, but it was stuck fast. Spans was good, but three against one? He had seconds to act, and he wrenched at the pommel of his weapon with every ounce of strength, bracing his feet against the wall.
Two things happened at once. The sword snapped and the weights came free of each other, one of them plunging over the wall and the other rocking back into place in the crenel. Cain fell flat on his back with the broken weapon in his hand. All that was left of his blade was three inches of jagged steel.
That was better than nothing. He sprang to his feet and stepped forwards. The three men had closed on Spans, but seeing Cain two of them turned to face him. Perhaps it was because they knew who he was, and perhaps it was because a man with a broken sword and no shield would be easier to kill, but Cain was glad of it either way.
This was going to hurt.
He rammed the remnants of his sword into the first man’s face. The soldier tried to block the blow, but Cain put a lot of strength into it and the man was thrown backwards, face smashed, dead. The second man had a free hand and used it. He plunged his sword into Cain’s belly.
He had been right. It hurt more than anything he’d known, but he allowed himself to fall backwards, wrenching the steel free from his gut and the pain vanished. As he fell, he saw Catto vault over him, sword already swinging. That was good. He’d done enough.
He waited for a second, breathing hard. He wasn’t tired, but the pain, even a moment of it, had robbed him of his breath. Even so, he couldn’t afford to wait for long. He scrambled back to his feet and looked about him. The situation had deteriorated. There were more men on the wall now and more coming every second. The other side of the pendulum he’d freed there was a battle taking place at the top of the stairs down into the city. In the other direction, beyond Catto and Spans, a melee pushed to and fro across the wall. Dozens of Alwain’s men were on the catwalk.
He turned to the men on the rope.
“Keep hold,” he said. “I need a blade.”
One of them drew his weapon and threw it to Cain. He caught it. Now, which way to go? If they got control of the stairs down into the city it would be a disaster, but unless he could get the pendulums swinging again there would be more and more men pouring over the walls. He hesitated. Either choice was wrong. He looked at the stair and his mind was made up. There was a figure pushing his way up through the crowd of defenders, a figure in full armour carrying twin blades. He turned to the men whose task it was to set the rope.
“Follow me,” he said. “We’ll get this swinging again.” He strode forwards and stepped between Spans and Catto. It was an unfamiliar weapon, but for this work it made no difference. He cut, stabbed, punched and kicked his way along the wall. It was a joy, he realised, to fight in a melee when one was a Farheim. It was unfair. Men scattered before him like skittles in a tavern. They were too slow, too weak, too human to resist, and Spans and Catto swept along with him, killing anything that he left behind.
This must be how Narak feels, he thought, only more so.
It took a little more than a minute to clear the parapet enough for the rope men to do their job and the damaged weight to swing again. He heard the shrieks below the wall as the clustered ladders disintegrated and dozens of men were crushed to death. A last soldier rushed at Cain. He blocked the cut aimed at his neck and knocked the man over the wall with his left arm.
That was it.
The weights now swung like clockwork, a wave of metal destruction that swept to and fro with just enough of an interval between sweeps for men to put up ladders and half climb them, but no more. The arrows that had ceased when Alwain’s men had topped the wall began again and Cain retreated once more to his tower.
The attack was over. Alwain had apparently had enough of watching his men die and a horn called them home. He watched them retreat in as good order as they had advanced, leaving hundreds behind them amid the shattered ladders. How long had it been? Half an hour? No more than that.
He assessed the carnage. They had killed perhaps four hundred men, lost about seventy. They would bring him more accurate numbers later, but it was a victory, and one they could afford. At that rate they would kill all of Alwain’s before he ki
lled a third of theirs.
The figure in armour that he’d seen forcing his way up the stairs at the end of the wall appeared on the tower.
“Lord Caster,” Cain said. “I was happy to see you. We were pressed hard there for a while.”
“Easily remedied.” Caster looked down at the weights that were still swinging along the wall. “Evil things, those,” he added. “I don’t think Alwain will try that again. But then I doubt he’ll have to.”
“The supplies? Sheyani wanted to speak to me.”
“We’ll last another two weeks. Perhaps six if we ration the food. The North could never support a city of this size, Cain. That’s why they don’t have one. We’ve stripped them bare.”
Cain looked out at the retreating soldiers of Alwain’s army. He’d expected this, sooner or later. Now he was going to have to change tactics.
“Ration the people,” Cain said. “Anyone who fights is on full rations.”
53 The Peoples’ Army
Bram hadn’t believed. Perhaps it was because Berrit Bay had been more or less left alone by Fetherhill, but whatever the reason he’d vastly underestimated the hatred that the southern people felt for their lords. Fane had said that they would come, and they had.
It began three days after they’d taken Fetherhill Castle. A group of thirty men had arrived at the gates. It had been Bram’s turn to command the men on guard and he’d watched them approach with unease.
“Shall we call Lord Fane?” one of his men asked.
“No. We have a lot of men and a castle,” he said. “We can deal with this.”
The men didn’t look like soldiers, but they looked like tough men, land-hardened. Bram guessed they were farm folk. A lot of them carried poles and there were a handful of bows. They stopped fifty paces from the gate and two of them came forwards. They stopped maybe ten paces short and looked up, but they didn’t speak.
“Who’re you?” Bram called down. “What’s your business?”
The men didn’t answer him, but one turned to the other.