The Red Fox Clan

by John Flanagan

  Breathing heavily, she looked around to get her bearings. She was in one of the small groves of trees and bushes that dotted the landscape of the castle park. It was large enough to provide privacy and shelter for couples who wanted to picnic here or spend quiet time together. But not big enough to shelter an attacking force of any kind. A few meters away from the concealed entrance, a wooden table and benches had been placed. It was typical of at least a dozen secluded spots in the parklands. She stepped clear of the entrance, dragging her foot free of the branches and vines that wrapped around it and tried to hold her back, and moved to the table to sit down.

  From there, she could see no sign of the entrance when she looked back at it. The rock outcrop concealed it almost completely, and any further sign of it was obscured behind the tangled bushes.

  Rising, she moved out of the grove, and suddenly she could see Castle Araluen rearing high above her. She was at least 150 meters from the castle gates. Looking back to where she knew the tunnel exit was, she nodded in admiration of those old tunnelers. They had come a long way, she thought.

  She turned and looked downhill, to where she could see the roofs of the local village rising above the treetops, and a glimpse of sunlight on water that marked the stream that ran through the village. She recalled Duncan telling her that his ancestor had a girlfriend in the village and used the tunnel to sneak out and see her.

  “Well, Great-Great-Grandfather,” she said, smiling, “you were a naughty boy, weren’t you?”

  On reflection, she realized, the tunnel must have been intended for a more serious purpose than her great-great-grandfather’s secret trysts. Perhaps it was intended as an escape route in times of danger. Or a means of secret access to the castle itself. If the latter were the case, she thought, it was no wonder its existence had been a closely guarded secret. Castle Araluen was regarded as virtually impregnable, but the tunnel under the moat provided a dangerous flaw in that invulnerability. As a result, the fewer people who were aware of it, the better.

  “Well,” she said reluctantly, “best be getting back.”

  The thought of leaving this pleasant world of green grass, sunlight and fresh air for the dark, airless confines of the tunnel was decidedly distasteful. She picked up her lantern from where she had left it on the table and realized that she had neglected to extinguish it. She shook it experimentally and the oil reservoir splashed with a hollow sound. She had checked that it was full that morning, but she had been using it extensively since she descended to the cellar. The lantern felt less than half full now, and the thought of running out of oil halfway through the tunnel, and being plunged into darkness, did not appeal to her. She glanced at the sun. It was after the noon hour, and she knew the drawbridge guards changed at noon. That meant there would be nobody to question how she had gotten outside the castle walls if she went back in that way.

  Coming to a decision, she raised the lantern glass and blew out the tiny flame. Then she set out up the grassy hill for the castle gates.

  * * *

  • • •

  That afternoon, after a hurried lunch, she explored the remaining two tunnels. Both of them remained within the castle walls. The one that led east was relatively short. It led to a passage below the courtyard and up a concealed stairway to the massive gatehouse that contained the machinery used to raise and lower the drawbridge. The stairway emerged at a point halfway up the walls, close to the mighty cogwheel that was turned to operate the drawbridge. It was in a cleverly concealed alcove behind the huge heavy wooden beams and chains. Unless someone climbed up there—and there was no reason why anyone might—the stairway would remain undetected.

  The third tunnel was considerably longer. Its original direction was to the south and it seemed to run straight, but without any outside reference she had no way of knowing whether it veered to the left or the right. The only way of knowing would be to follow it to its end and see where it took her.

  It took her, after several hundred meters, to a chamber some three meters square. Set against the side wall was an angled ladder—or a steep set of a dozen wooden stairs. Holding the lantern high, she peered upward. At the top of the first set of stairs was a second ladder. Beyond that, the darkness prevented her from seeing more. She tested the stairs, gradually letting more and more of her weight settle on one of them, then climbing up a few steps, moving slowly and carefully. They seemed solid enough, so she began to climb in earnest. At the top of the first set, there was a small platform, allowing her to step to the side and align herself with the next flight. After more testing, she mounted that and went up again. As she climbed, she looked up and could make out a third flight, aligned with the first, reaching higher and higher inside the wall. Above that, more darkness. She guessed, from the height she had covered, that she was ascending inside the outer wall of one of the towers—presumably the south tower.

  After she climbed two more flights, she could make out a glimmer of daylight high above her. She found herself looking out a narrow slit of a window, high enough and narrow enough to be virtually invisible from the ground. The view from the window confirmed that she was climbing the south tower. She recognized the ground below her, and a partial view of the western tower to her right.

  Now that she was able to orient herself, she could see that this concealed set of stairs was on the southwestern side of the tower, and parallel to the large spiral staircase that led upward on the southeastern corner, which provided the main access to the upper floors.

  Here, high above the ground, the lighting on the stairs was more even, with those narrow slit windows positioned at every second flight of steps.

  She climbed all the way to the top, where she found a door. There was a small spyhole in the door, obvious because of the ray of light it emitted into the dimness of the hidden staircase. She peered through it and could make out a large chamber inside. It seemed deserted. There was a table and a dozen chairs in the room and, on the opposite wall, a weapons rack where spears and halberds were stored.

  The door handle was in plain sight on this side. She guessed it would be concealed on the other side—as would the door itself. She placed her hand on the lever, tempted to lift it and let herself inside. Then she hesitated. The room seemed to be deserted, but her field of view was restricted and there could well be somebody in there. If that were the case, it would not be a good idea for her to go blundering into the room, appearing through the wall as if by magic. She took her hand away from the lever. She’d need to find out more about this upper room. She’d never been here before. In fact, she had spent little time in the south tower of the castle.

  “I’m going to need to do more research,” she muttered under her breath. Then, reluctantly, she headed back down the narrow stairs and retraced her path through the tunnel to the cellar.

  All in all, she thought, it had been an interesting day.

  18

  As Ellis had warned them, the ford across the river was chest deep and the current was strong. Horace and Gilan reined in to study the crossing. So far, there was no sign that the Foxes had followed them. After their demoralizing defeat earlier, they would be in no hurry to get close to those deadly archers again.

  “We should get half the archers across first, to set up a defensive line on the far bank and cover the rest of the force while they cross,” Gilan said after a few minutes. The river was just over one hundred meters wide at this point, so the bank they were on would be well within range.

  “Good thinking,” said Horace. “We don’t want them catching us while we’re floundering around mid-river. I didn’t see any archers among them, did you?”

  Gilan shook his head. “If they had any, they would have used them,” he said. He called to the commander of the archers. “Nestor, get half your men paired up with the cavalry and set up a line on the far bank.”

  The senior archer nodded and touched his forehead with his knuckles, then beg
an calling orders to his men so that half of them slipped down from the backs of the horses they had been riding. They handed the reins of the unsaddled horses to the cavalrymen they were paired with and stood beside the mounted men, gripping the harness leathers tightly. They handed their bows up to the riders, who slung them across their shoulders.

  “Why not let them ride across?” Horace asked.

  But Gilan shook his head. “They can ride, but they’re not experts. And it’ll be tricky controlling a horse in that current. Better to let your men keep the horses in place so they can provide support for the archers walking beside them.”

  The first of the cavalrymen were urging their horses forward into the river, the archers clinging to the downstream side, where the horses would provide a bulwark against the current. They surged out into the stream, the water rising rapidly until it was lapping at the riders’ knees. The archers, clinging desperately to the harnesses, pushed on with them, nearly chin deep in the river. Two of them lost their footing, and their legs floated up to the surface. But they maintained their grip on the stirrup leathers and, with their mounted companions leaning down to heave them upright, regained their feet once more.

  Gilan watched until they were halfway across the river. Then, satisfied that the plan was working, he turned his attention back to the tree line, several hundred meters away. He walked to where the second group of archers were standing ready, facing the trees, bows in hand.

  “Any sign of them?” he asked the second in command of the force.

  The man shook his head. “Not so far, Ranger.”

  The terrain here was similar to the spot where they had first engaged the Foxes—several hundred meters of open grassy plain before the thickly wooded forest began again.

  “Call out as soon as you see them,” Gilan said.

  The man nodded, his eyes fixed on the shadows beneath the trees.

  Behind him, Gilan heard a whip cracking, accompanied by loud splashes and shouts of encouragement. He turned to see the supply cart as it entered the water, with the five archers who couldn’t ride still clinging to it. It lurched sideways under the initial thrust of the current, then the wagoner whipped up his horses and they bent to the traces, pulling it straight. The wagon rocked and shuddered as it coped with the uneven river bottom and the force of the water shoving against it. For a moment, Gilan thought it might tip over, and he opened his mouth to shout a warning. But it was solidly built, with a low center of gravity, and it regained its balance, gathering speed as the horses pulling it grew in confidence.

  The wagon lurched violently as one wheel sank into a hole in the riverbed. One of the archers was nearly dislodged from his precarious perch, saved only by a quick hand thrown out by one of his companions, who dragged him back to safety. Gilan heard a quick peal of laughter from the men on the cart, including the one who had nearly fallen. He nodded to himself. Morale was good if they could laugh about the near mishap, he thought.

  He touched Blaze’s sides with his heels and trotted up to rein in beside Horace, who was watching the progress of the small force across the river.

  “What have you got in mind once we’re across?” he asked.

  The tall warrior grinned ruefully at him. “Well, there’s no further need to track down those six Foxes we’ve been following,” he said. “We’ve found the main force we’ve been looking for.”

  “And there are more of them than we bargained for,” Gilan said. “We’ll need to find shelter—somewhere we can set up a good defensive position.”

  “I was thinking we should head for that old hill fort we saw on the map. It’s only three or four kilometers downstream from here.”

  Gilan nodded agreement. “Thought that might be what you had in mind,” he said. “They’re nearly across,” he added, indicating the men in the river.

  The first three horsemen were urging their horses up the shallow slope on the far bank, the archers releasing their hold on the horses’ harness and walking unsteadily away from them. The cavalrymen who had assisted them handed their bows back and the archers sat on the grass, wringing out their sodden breeches and jackets. As he watched, the remaining archers waded clear of the river. The supply cart plunged up the bank, the archers riding it jumping clear and running to re-form with their comrades.

  “Ranger!”

  It was the archer Gilan had spoken to who was calling. Gilan looked at him now and saw the man pointing to the tree line in the distance. There was movement there as men began to emerge from the forest.

  “Looks like our friends have arrived,” he said.

  Horace looked to the far side of the river, where the archers who had already crossed were still recovering from the effort of wading chest deep in the fast-running current, and from the soaking they had received.

  “Be a couple of minutes before they’re ready,” he said.

  Gilan pursed his lips. His friend was right. “The lads on this side will have to discourage the Foxes,” he said. He slipped down from Blaze’s saddle. “Think I’ll give them a hand.”

  He strode across the grass to join the small band of archers. There were eight of them in the line. Seven had crossed with the cavalry and five had ridden on the supply cart.

  Horace turned to the waiting cavalrymen. “Form up on the riverbank,” he said. “Be ready to help the archers when they make a run for it.”

  In the distance, he could hear orders being shouted. The Foxes were beginning to form up—a single extended line this time.

  “Archers, stand to,” Gilan ordered quietly.

  The bowmen, who had been lounging on the grass, rose to their feet to form a line, spaced two meters apart, standing side on, each with his right hand on an arrow in his belt quiver, his left holding the bow loosely, in a relaxed position. There was no sign of nervousness or anxiety among them. They were confident in their own ability and knew they were about to deal a deadly rebuff to the advancing troops.

  From the far side of the river, a piercing whistle cut the air. Horace turned and saw that the twelve archers who had already crossed were now formed up as well. Their commander waved his bow over his head to signify that they were ready.

  “Nestor has his men in position,” Horace called to Gilan.

  The Ranger acknowledged the information with a wave of his hand. His eyes were still fixed on the approaching troops, now striding with growing confidence, since the expected hail of arrows had not materialized.

  Their spirits were further bolstered as they saw that the force of archers facing them had been halved. Eight bowmen, they thought, couldn’t do much to stop them.

  They were about to find out how wrong they were.

  An officer rode among the advancing infantry, leaning down to drive them forward with blows from the flat of his sword. The men recoiled from him, but he was keeping them moving, not allowing them to shirk or hesitate.

  Gilan allowed himself a humorless smile. “Never a good idea to draw attention to yourself in a battle,” he said. “Particularly when there are archers around.” He raised his voice so the line of archers could hear him. “All right, lads, I’m going to take down that nuisance on the bay horse. When I do, that’s your signal to start. Shoot fast, but aim your shots. Ready?”

  There was a feral growl from the waiting archers in response. Eight hands drew eight arrows from their quivers and nocked them ready on the bows. Gilan nodded approvingly. Their discipline was excellent, he thought.

  Then, the enemy line passed a point he had already selected. He nocked an arrow to his own string, raised his bow, sighted and shot in one smooth movement, barely seeming to aim.

  The arrow flew in a whimpering parabola, then struck home in the center of the rider’s chest, hurling him backward over the horse’s rump and leaving him lying still on the grass. The men around him parted, looking fearfully at him as he lay there. Nobody had seen the arrow com
ing. Nobody had seen any of the men facing them shoot.

  Then the first flight of arrows from the near riverbank hit them, slamming into shields and helmets and exposed arms and legs. One man fell. Two others staggered under the impact.

  And the second flight of arrows hit them, causing more damage, creating more gaps in the advancing line.

  And then a new rain of arrows was upon them as Nestor and his men on the far bank added their contribution to the mayhem. Arrows plunged down from a higher angle, an almost ceaseless shower of hardened steel points that slashed through chain mail, tore holes in leather and metal breastplates, and sent men crashing to the ground on all sides.

  One sergeant looked along the line, seeing the neatly ordered rank being disrupted and torn apart. They still had seventy meters to go before they reached the small force of archers facing them. At this rate, few of them would make it. As he had the thought, the man next to him fell with an arrow through the top of his leather helmet.

  He glanced back to see their commander, safe and secure in the tree line, screaming at his men.

  “It’s easy for you,” he muttered. “You’re not out here.” He stopped and held his sword over his head, waving it in a circle in an unmistakable gesture, then letting the point descend and indicate the ground behind them.

  “Fall back!” he yelled, his voice carrying across the battlefield. “Fall back! Close up and fall back!”

  Better to have them retreat now, while they still had some vestige of discipline, than wait till the arrows had decimated them and destroyed their will to fight.

  Gilan saw the lone figure calling orders. As he watched, he saw the line close up, sealing the gaps torn by his archers’ arrows, and he raised his own bow to shoot the sergeant who was restoring some sense of discipline to their attackers. Then he stayed his hand. The man was ordering the Foxes back, ordering them to retreat. He might be saving some of their lives by keeping them in formation, but it made no sense to cut him down now. He was doing the work of the Araluen force.