by Tim Stead
If it wasn’t Narak himself it was certainly something not quite human. Fargas tried to think. Farheim, then – one of the god-mage’s creations. There was only one way to kill a Farheim – cut off its head. But this one was wearing plate armour, gorget included. He could see no gap. But Fargas knew that plate armour wasn’t perfect. In order to make it wearable it had to be light, and thin metal will dent if you hit it hard enough. If the gorget became too uncomfortable to wear he might remove it.
“That Farheim,” he said to the men about him. “If he comes this way go for the neck, and go hard.”
Things began to swing their way again. More men joined them and they began to claim a piece of the wall again. Fargas kept his eye on the figure in plate armour, and half an eye on the archers on the roof opposite. He wondered which would come first.
A man broke through their line, surprised to have done so. He stumbled, but still managed to block a blow from Fargas’s sword. He countered and Fargas sidestepped, hacked at his opponent’s head, but that was met with a firm shield and another cut, this time low, going for thigh or knee. Fargas was forced to use his own shield to protect himself and barely parried an overhead cut. It clanged off the side of his helmet.
That threw him off balance, but he was saved by a comrade who attacked from the other side, forcing the defender’s attention that way.
Fargas cut at the man’s exposed calf and scored a hit. The defender went down and Fargas drove his blade into his back. He glanced at the archers again.
“Shields!”
This time they got it right. Of the twenty or so men on the wall only four were felled by the first volley, two by the second and none by the third. More joined them almost at once and their numbers swelled again.
Now the man in plate armour strode though the melee towards them. The first two men to face him died quickly. His blades sheared through their mail armour. One lost a head, the other was cut through the body to the spine and fell lifeless, a river of blood pouring across the parapet.
Part of Fargas, the sensible part, told him to run. But there was nowhere to run to. The wall was topped with a forest of flashing blades and dying men. The soldier in him said turn and fight, however uneven the match there’s always a chance if you have a blade in your hand.
Common sense serving no purpose, Fargas rushed to meet the Farheim. He raised his sword to strike, but found his shield rising on instinct to deflect a blow that sheared off the top six inches. He ducked, turned, and aimed a mighty blow at the monster’s throat.
Fargas put everything into the blow, but it counted for nothing. The Farheim saw it coming and blocked it almost casually, turning the parry into a punch that sent Fargas flying back. It was a moment before he realised how far he’d been thrown by the blow. He crashed through one of his own men and kept going. He saw the edge of the parapet pass him and he kept going down. Now he was inside the city, but as he fell, he tumbled and when he landed it was bad. He lay in the dust of the street for a moment before the pain hit him. He gritted his teeth, screwed up his face, but a grunt of pain still forced its way out. It was his leg. Broken – probably shattered beneath him. He opened his eyes. His sword was lying ten feet away, but it might as well have been a mile.
He lifted his head and looked around. There were soldiers down here – Arbak’s soldiers. He reached for his dagger. It was the only weapon he had left, but that, too, had been dislodged by the fall and lay a mere foot from his knee. He twisted up to try to grab it but the pain threw him back, gasping.
He raised his head to try again, but a boot kicked the weapon away and two men were standing over him.
“Nasty,” one of them said. He was looking at Fargas’s leg. “I could put him out of his misery. He’ll never walk again.”
“You know the orders,” the other man said. “Besides, this one’s an officer.”
The first man kneeled down by Fargas’s head. “What do you say, traitor? A quick death now? Best all round I should think.”
Fargas spat at him.
The man sighed and stood up again. “You win,” he said. “Get a stretcher over here and take him to the hall.”
Fargas had to admit that was a surprise. He’d expected to die, and perhaps he still would. Everyone died sooner or later but apparently, for Fargas, it would be later.
*
Cain stood on his tower and watched. The urge to go down there and fight was considerable. He resisted it. Spans and Catto were keeping him safe, and that was his part – to think and not to fight. He wondered how Sandaray was doing. He’d expected an attack somewhere else and it had come almost as soon as this wall was fully engaged. That was good timing on Alwain’s part.
His own battle was going well enough. Steps on the wall were harder to clear now. Alwain’s men had adopted a tactic of kneeling behind their shields to meet every volley and that seemed to serve them well. If Caster hadn’t been there to sweep up what was left Cain could have been in trouble. He was annoyed that he couldn’t get the pendulums swinging again. That would have made a difference.
But Cain could scent victory. Here at least the presence of a Farheim on the walls was tilting the balance his way. Sheyani’s music was playing its part. It was eating at the attackers’ confidence. They, too, could feel that the tide of battle was against them and that made them cautious, slower to strike, more inclined to their shields than their swords.
But perhaps there was a way to get the pendulums swinging again.
“Catto, get Captain Dantillia up here.”
Catto ran off again and Cain crouched down. He reckoned that Spans would catch any arrows that came at them, the man’s shield was broad enough, but he wanted to think. He peered through the crenels that overlooked the length of the wall. From here he could clearly see three of the poles that held his pendulums at bay. The others were partially concealed by their fellows. The first one was less than forty feet away. He lined it up with his thumb, closed one eye.
“My Lord?”
Catto was back with the Captain of the Wolfen Pledge. Dantillia was keen, Cain could see that. He’d held the pledge back as a reserve. In truth he knew that they were his most loyal troops. They would die for him without question. He would only use them as a last resort.
“Captain, can you get one of your great bows up here?”
“Yes, My Lord, but it will take a little time.”
Cain nodded. They were not small weapons. “If you had one set up on this tower could you hit those logs?” He pointed along the wall.
“Yes, My Lord.” He waited for Cain to give the order, coiled like a spring and glad to be released.
“Do it,” Cain said.
Dantillia nodded once and ran off.
Cain looked down at the walls again. So many men were dying on both sides. The city street behind the wall was littered with corpses, many dragged into neat rows by teams of soldier orderlies. Stretchers shuttled to and fro. Cain could feel the pain of it all, but he pushed it deep down inside. He could lament his losses later. Now was a killing time.
The Wolfen began to arrive. The first of them carried heavy wooden blocks that they pinned together to make a wooden platform several feet high. Others brought tall shields and stood along the outside of the tower to protect those working on the bow.
The bow itself came in several pieces and was fitted together with practiced speed.
“It will take a moment to adjust the bow,” Dantillia said as his men fussed around the weapon, tapping it to and fro with mallets. Cain watched. He wondered if Alwain was watching the fight and if the rebellious duke was seeing the same things he was. Cain wasn’t worried about victory now. He’d won, or Caster had. Alwain’s men couldn’t stand against the sword master. The armour, Cain knew, had been Narak’s. It was not plate armour than a mortal man could wear. It was simply too thick, too heavy, and the quarter inch steel did not yield to sword strokes. A hammer might have done some damage, but Alwain’s men didn’t use that particular weapon.
Add to that the tireless nature of a Farheim and Alwain’s men stood no chance. Caster could fight like that for hours.
“Ready, My Lord,” Dantillia said. “Do you have a preference as to our target?”
“Just take them as they come, Captain.”
The bowman in charge carried on adjusting his weapon, oblivious to the battle going on around him. He placed a huge bolt in the groove and sighted down it. He nodded.
“Shoot,” Dantillia said.
The bowman pulled a lever and the weapon jumped. The bolt didn’t hit square, but ripped through the side of the first log and went on to strike a ladder on the other side, smashing it and hurling half a dozen men back to earth.
The bowman calmly adjusted the machine, tapping it very gently to the left. Cain could barely detect the movement. It was loaded again.
“Shoot,” Dantillia said.
This time the bolt flew straight and true. It struck the log square in the middle and Cain saw it jump and then ever so slowly begin to tilt. The huge arrow had lifted the bottom free from its hole and the thing slipped sideways.
The weight at the top came free. It fell in a great sweeping arc, carrying all before it. But the rope that held it had taken dozens of blows from the invaders and, as the weight reached the bottom of its arc, it parted.
But that was not entirely a disaster. The things had momentum and it was the best part of round. It rolled, keeping close to the base of the wall, for close to a hundred paces. Ladders were shattered, men crushed, a whole section of the wall was swept along the base.
The great bow was reloaded and shot another bolt. This time the tree trunk didn’t jump free, but the arrow stuck fast in it and a split ran down its length.
The Wolfen shields were being hammered by arrows. Alwain’s men had seen what he was up to and they must have recognised that if even a few of the pendulums started to swing again the battle was done.
The great bow shot again and the log snapped like a twig. Cain heard a faint cheer from the wall as the second weight swung free. This time the rope held, and at the end of its arc of destruction the men on the wall began to haul it up again.
Within minutes it seemed that the fight had been thrashed out of Alwain’s men. The swinging stones, Sheyani’s piping, the Farheim on the walls – all had taken their toll. They began to pull back, men running across the fields towards their camp, pursued by arrows and jeers from the walls.
Cain allowed himself to smile. “Captain Dantillia, take your men and lend a hand to Colonel Sandaray. I think it’s over here.”
Dantillia was delighted at the prospect of a fight, apparently. He drew his blade and saluted in a fashion more reminiscent of Seth Yarra than anything else. “At once, My Lord,” he said.
Cain watched him go.
“Do you think they’ll come again, sir?” Catto asked.
“They may,” Cain replied, though he doubted it. Alwain had thrown everything at the walls, and he must have over a thousand dead, maybe twice that number injured. Cain had not needed to call on his reserves. “Send word to repair all the weights. See if the one that came loose can be retrieved. I want to be ready, and I want them to see that we’re ready.”
*
Sandaray was winning his own battle. He had five of Arbak’s weights swinging again and the effective attack was restricted to fifty feet of wall. They should have given up by now.
Even so, he was delighted to see the Wolfen coming along the parapet at a trot. He’d watched them train, admired their discipline, and had no doubt they were better soldiers than his own. But Sandaray wouldn’t have swapped. He thought the Wolfen humourless and grim. His own men were endowed with a relaxed, cheerful manner – which he liked to think stemmed from himself. He wasn’t hard on them – he left that to Willan – and he thought of himself as a sort of father to the regiment.
His men would be pleased, too.
He worked his way along the wall to meet them.
“You’re very welcome, Captain Dantillia,” he said.
“You’re wounded,” Dantillia replied.
It was true. He’d been nicked while leaning out to rope in one of the weights. He’d been ignoring it, but somehow Dantillia’s comment revitalised the pain. He was bleeding, too. His tunic was sticking to him under his mail shirt.
“So I am,” he said. The apparent severity of it surprised him.
“Best get that looked at,” the Wolfen said. “Things look in hand here.”
Now that he was feeling it, he had to admit that he was a little light headed. That wasn’t a good thing on a high parapet with no rail and a lot of angry men pushing about.
“I think I will, Captain. Report to Major Willan. Tell him I’ve ceded command to him for the afternoon.” He looked along the wall. They so outnumbered Alwain’s men now that Willan was rotating his fighters. Sandaray felt proud. They had done their job and done it well.
He walked down the nearest stair and headed through the city to the hall where the wounded were being treated. The city felt deserted, but he saw faces at windows, felt eyes on him as he walked the streets. They were an anxious presence, the citizens of Bas Erinor, confined by Arbak’s order to their homes and those who lived nearest the wall rehoused in safer places for the duration. Despite, or perhaps because of their shuttered presence the streets had an eerie, haunted feel to them.
He paused on a street corner and leaned against a wall. He was feeling tired. He’d been around enough to know that it was probably loss of blood that was weakening him and it would only get worse. He walked on.
The hall was like a bee hive. Men came and went in continuous streams, some going back towards his own regiment by a quicker route. He walked through the door.
A man approached him at once, saw his rank and saluted. “Colonel, you’ll have to take off that tunic. I’ll help.”
Sandaray didn’t want help. He pulled the mail shirt over his head and peeled the blood-soaked tunic from his body. It hurt, but not as much as he expected.
He had to twist his head to see the wound. It looked worryingly deep and blood welled up from it, trickled down his side.
The orderly wiped the blood away. “A couple of stitches, I think,” he said. He took a needle and some cotton thread from a pocket. “You want to be knocked out?”
“Just get on with it.”
The orderly shrugged and pinched the sides of the cut together. He wasn’t too gentle about it. Sandaray looked away, trying to focus on the rest of the hall. He felt the needle go in, felt the cotton dragging through his flesh.
There were a lot of wounded men in the hall. He could see tabards from a dozen regiments, some of them Alwain’s. That was Arbak again. He’d ordered that the wounded from both sides should be treated. Sandaray wasn’t sure it was a good idea.
“Bandage!” the orderly called. Another man hurried over. Between them they held his arm and wrapped the torn shoulder tightly in pale cloth. He could smell honey.
“Best if you lie down and rest, Colonel,” the orderly said. “And we’ll bring you something to drink.”
“Wine?”
“Milk. It’ll help restore your blood, sir.”
“How long will I have to stay here?” he asked.
“We’ll see how you are in the morning, sir. The more you rest the stronger you’ll be.”
Sandaray sighed. In a way, healers were the bane of a soldier’s life. He was in the getting hurt business, and they wanted to keep him safe. But he knew they were right, and for now the battle was done. He allowed himself to be led to a cot on the back wall. There was an open window above it and so he had light and air. He sat down carefully and accepted a mug of warm milk. Somebody had spiced it and mixed in a little honey. He looked around at the other unfortunates.
The man in the cot next to his was in a bad way. His face was waxy, his breathing shallow, and his left leg was an entirely unnatural shape. But Sandaray knew that face.
“Fargas?”
The man blinked
and turned his head. He’d been drugged to dull the pain. Sandaray could see it in his eyes.
“Who…?”
“Sandaray, Colonel Sandaray.”
Fargas blinked at him and frowned.
“What are you doing here, Sandaray?”
“Took an arrow.”
“Captured, were you?”
It was an odd question, born of confusion perhaps, because of the drugs. Fargas either thought he was back in Alwain’s camp or that Sandaray was on his side. He ignored it.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“Tried to kill a Farheim,” Fargas said. “Bastard chucked me off the wall.”
“They’re hard to kill and that’s a fact,” Sandaray said.
Fargas closed his eyes. He was quiet for so long that Sandaray thought he’d fallen asleep or passed out. He was still breathing.
“Looking forward to getting home,” Fargas said.
“Home?”
“Fetherhill.” The name seemed to stir a memory. Fargas opened his eyes and frowned. “Some trouble there,” he said.
“I heard that.”
“Alwain’ll sort it,” Fargas said.
“Alwain? He’s going too?”
“Got to. The regiments will rebel. My fault. Shouldn’t have gone to Wester Beck.”
“When?” This was news – important news. If Alwain was really going to lift the siege it would change everything. He’d heard rumours of trouble in the west but he had no idea it was so bad it would pull Alwain away.
“Tomorrow,” Fargas said. “Maybe the day after. We’ve got to take the city today, then go. Leave a regiment here I guess.” He closed his eyes again. “Got to go home.”
He was quiet again. After a while Sandaray decided that Fargas was really asleep this time. He waved an orderly over.
“I need paper and something to write with,” he said. “Urgently.”
The man hurried off and promptly returned with a sheet of parchment, a quill and a small cup of ink. “You’re supposed to be resting, sir,” he said.
“I will,” Sandaray reassured him. “But this is important.”
He sat up and scrawled a brief message on the paper, waved it dry and folded it a couple of times. He held it out to the orderly.