The Red Fox Clan

by John Flanagan

  “Aim for the gaps!” Gilan called. “Shoot!”

  The bows thrummed with the ugly sound of release, and a few seconds later, six arrows slammed into the men crouched downhill. Two of the shafts found their way through gaps in the improvised shield wall and two of the Foxes staggered backward, toppling over the edge of the track and tumbling down the grass slope below. The other shafts struck against the shields, but the impact staggered the men holding them. Normally, in a properly formed shield wall, they would be supported by two or three ranks of men behind them, all adding their weight and thrust to the task of keeping the front line stable. But here, they were on their own and on uneven, sloping ground. Inevitably, several of them staggered and opened the shield wall to the next four rounds of shafts, loosed in rapid succession from the wall above them. More men cried out in pain and staggered back, clutching at the cruel barbed shafts that transfixed them.

  “Re-form the wall!”

  It was the mounted officer Gilan had noted. He urged his horse back through the struggling mass of men. Gilan took a shot at him, but the man was an experienced fighter and he had his shield held high to deflect any arrows coming his way.

  “Face uphill!” the mounted man ordered, and the attackers turned to obey his command. “Forward!” he yelled, his voice cracking with the strain, and his men began to struggle up the grassy slope.

  They slipped and stumbled on the wet, treacherous grass, and more of them were cut down by the archers above as they floundered and struggled, trying to get a foothold. Then the officer, seeing their plight, showed an admirable talent for improvisation.

  “Ladders here!” he shouted, waving a heavy-bladed ax toward the grass slope. The men carrying the ladders struggled along the track and, under his direction, lay the ladders down on the slope. Instantly the attackers, now with firm footholds, began to swarm up the ladders at four points, gathering on the narrow level section below the gate. Sheer weight of numbers told. As more and more men clambered over the wall, the archers lost their cool precision and began to shoot wildly, as fast as they could nock, draw and release. But too many arrows were striking shields, held high for protection.

  In vain, Gilan sought a clear shot at the man directing the attack. But he had dismounted and was protected by his own kite-shaped shield as well as the milling mass of soldiers around him.

  Once the attackers had gained the top level, they dragged the ladders up after them. Gilan peered over the palisade, but beneath him all he could see was a roof of shields protecting the men below.

  Then a ladder slammed against the wall a few meters away, and one of the Foxes began to mount it, its limbs trembling under the impact of his feet. He was halfway up when a trooper leaned over and speared him with his lance, sending him toppling down onto the roof of shields below. Another attacker began climbing the ladder, with a third in place at the foot, ready to follow. Gilan leaned out and shot the man on the ladder. But the next man was already on his way up.

  Now Gilan could see four ladders against the wall. He had no time to look for the fifth, as the attackers, ignoring the rain of rocks and missiles, swarmed up them, swinging weapons wildly at the defenders as they reached the top of the wall. Desperately, the troopers and archers stabbed and shoved at them, driving them back. But the attackers were beginning to get the upper hand.

  “We need more men!” Horace yelled at him, then gestured to the other three walls. “Get the other archers over here!”

  Gilan nodded and ran to the inner edge of the catwalk, yelling to his men to join the defenders on the south wall. They came at a run, the increase in numbers easing the burden of the men pushing and struggling at the top of the ladders. Gilan peered over the wall again and saw a now-familiar figure mounting the ladder. It was the enemy leader. His shield was held high to protect him. In his other hand he clutched a heavy ax. He was agile and well balanced, barely needing to keep a hand on the sides of the ladder as he ran lightly up the treads. Gilan dropped his bow and reached for his sword. But he felt himself shoved aside as Horace took his place.

  “Let him come,” said the warrior. “I want them to see him fall.”

  He had his round buckler on his left arm, the oakleaf motif on it already dented and scarred by multiple impacts from enemy weapons. He waited for the Fox leader to reach the top of the wall, his sword, made by Nihon-Jan swordsmiths many years before, back over his right shoulder.

  The Fox leader suddenly lunged up over the top of the palisade, sending two of the defenders flying with a wide, looping swing of his ax. Behind him, more attackers were poised to swarm over the top of the wall once he had cleared a space for them.

  As Gilan watched, a movement from the western wall caught his eye, and now he saw what had become of the fifth ladder. It was protruding over the top of the western wall’s battlements, and already attackers were clambering over it, driving back the two troopers who had remained behind when Gilan had summoned more men to the south wall.

  There were already three of the Foxes on the walkway and more mounting the ladder behind them when Gilan stepped to one side to clear his line of sight and nocked an arrow to his bow. With almost nonchalant ease, he drew, sighted and shot, then sent another arrow after that one, and then a third.

  In a matter of seconds, the three attackers sprawled lifeless on the catwalk. The fourth to mount the ladder appeared over the wall and another arrow slammed into him, sending him toppling back. The fifth peered cautiously over the top of the wall, saw his comrades lying dead and promptly dropped out of sight. The two defenders darted forward and shoved the ladder away and to the side, sending it clattering back to the ground below. Gilan let out a long breath. It had been a close call.

  In the meantime, Horace had stepped forward to meet the leader of the attackers. The man swung the huge ax in a horizontal cut that could have beheaded the tall warrior facing him.

  If it had hit him.

  Instead, Horace brought his buckler up, holding it on a slant so that it deflected the ax, rather than directly blocking it. The result was that the axman, not meeting solid resistance, slipped off balance to one side. Now Horace stepped forward again and brought his sword up and over in a vertical cut. The axman managed to bring his own shield up in defense, but the massive force of the blow staggered him again. He reeled back against the wall. As Horace went to follow up on his advantage, the man hurled his ax at him.

  Again, Horace’s buckler saved him, sending the heavy weapon spinning away, clattering to the ground below the catwalk. But the delay gave the Fox leader time to draw his own sword. Recovering his feet, he hacked wildly at Horace. There was a ringing clash of steel on steel as the two blades met. The Fox leader grimaced in surprise as his sword met a seemingly unmoving barrier. The shock of impact ran up his arm, and his blade dropped—only slightly, but enough to give an expert swordsman like Horace a killing advantage.

  Horace’s sword darted out, fast as a striking viper. The super-hardened, razor-sharp blade cut through the man’s chain-mail overshirt as if it weren’t there. He straightened up and staggered back against the wall once more, and then Horace jerked his sword free and rammed his shield into him. The Fox commander fell backward, toppling through the gap between two of the crenellations and crashing onto men on the ladder behind him.

  There was a loud cry of despair from the men gathered at the base of the wall. Seeing their best warrior, and their leader, dispatched with such ease, the attackers lost heart. If he couldn’t make it up the ladder, what chance did they have?

  The Foxes began to fall back from the walls, leaving their ladders leaning against them, with the defenders immediately shoving the ladders away. The Foxes began to stumble down the grass slope to the next level of the trail. They ran, they slid, they staggered down the wet grass, now wet with blood as well as water. Within minutes their retreat had become a panicked rout.

  Eagerly, the archers took u
p their bows again and began to pick them off as they slipped and staggered down the hill. Gilan shook his head wearily, sick of the slaughter.

  “Stop shooting!” he called. “Save your arrows.”

  He turned to Horace, who was cleaning his sword with a piece of cloth. “That was a little too close for comfort,” he said.

  Horace said nothing for a moment, surveying the fleeing army and the litter of bodies on the ground at the base of the wall.

  “Maybe. But I don’t think they’ll try it again in a hurry,” he said.

  33

  Pandemonium reigned in the church below Maddie as the Foxes started to move toward the stairway leading to the gallery. There was a clamor of voices, all shouting at once. Dimon screamed at them, his voice cracking with the strain.

  “Up there! In the gallery! Catch him!”

  With a sense of horror, Maddie realized she was cut off. There was no way she could reach the door with the flood of men mounting the stairs.

  It was their haste that gave her a little breathing space. Too many of them tried to climb the old stairs at the same time, forgetting that the timbers might not be sound. There was an ugly, cracking noise as two of the steps gave way and collapsed, sending four of the climbers tumbling down. They, in turn, brought down several more men, and for some moments there was a jam of bodies at the foot of the stairs.

  Then, one of them, with more sense than the others, took control. He shoved the struggling bodies away from the steps, reached up to the railing and hauled himself carefully over the two broken risers.

  “Take it easy!” he shouted. “One at a time! Move slowly!”

  She could hear the more measured sounds of feet on the stairs now and looked around desperately, seeking a way out. For a moment, she considered lowering herself over the balustrade and dropping down into the main part of the abbey. But she discarded the idea. There were still men milling about down there, and she’d be captured in an instant.

  The only alternative was the window on the far wall. It was a fixed window, made from small glass panes, tinted several colors and arranged to create a pattern on the floor of the church when the light shone through them. At the moment, with the inside of the church lit, the glass appeared dark and forbidding. The glass sections were held in place by a framework of lead strips, she knew. But the window was old, and she hoped that the lead strips would be weak and fragile.

  Otherwise, she would be badly injured when she tried to break through—which was what she planned to do.

  There was no time to think about it any further. It was her only avenue of escape, and already she could see the head and shoulders of the first of her pursuers appearing above the floor level, where the stairway opened into the gallery.

  She rose to her feet, gathered her cloak around her and ran full tilt at the window. At the last minute, she tucked her head in, protecting it with her folded arms and her cloak, and drove herself headfirst at the center of the window. Vaguely, she heard the man who had come up the stairs shouting a warning to his companions below.

  Then she hit the panel of stained glass.

  The spiderweb of lead strips holding the glass in place was old and brittle, as she had hoped. She burst through the window with a splintering crash, showering glass and lead fragments out into the night.

  It was a three-meter drop to the ground below, and she felt herself toppling as she fell. She tucked her head in and twisted so that she struck the ground on her shoulder and rolled to absorb as much of the impact as she could. Even so, she was badly winded by the impact, and it took her several seconds to come to her feet and regain her breath. Above her, the man who had led the way up the stairs leaned out through the shattered window, yelling for those below to cut her off.

  The door was five meters away from her, and as she dragged huge gulps of air into her lungs, four men burst out into the open. They hesitated, their eyes not accustomed to the darkness outside after the bright torchlight in the abbey. Then one of them saw her and pointed.

  “There he is!”

  They were between her and the spot where she had left Bumper. She had no choice. She turned and ran for the back of the abbey as they came after her. Going this way was taking her farther and farther away from her horse, but there was no alternative. She heard the man at the window yelling more instructions as she rounded the back of the building, but she couldn’t make out the words. The rush of blood in her ears and her own ragged breathing drowned them out.

  She paused, leaning against the stone wall, and tried to whistle for Bumper. But her mouth was dry and her breath came raggedly, and she could make no sound. Then three more of the Foxes burst around the other corner of the wall ahead of her, and she realized what the man at the window had been shouting. He had been directing them to cut her off.

  The church was built close to the trees on this side, with only a narrow gap between the stone walls and the dense forest growth. She was hemmed in to a narrow space barely five meters wide, and there was no way she could cut around them. She reached for her saxe and drew it, determined to take some of them with her. She couldn’t hope to defeat the three men facing her and the other four coming from behind her.

  The three men blocking her way hesitated for a second or two, then charged toward her. Two of them had swords, and the third was armed with a heavy club. She set her feet, the saxe ready, although she knew she had little hope of fending off three attackers at once, all armed with weapons with a longer reach than her own.

  Then a shaggy form burst around the corner of the church, behind the men. The first of them heard the hooves drumming behind him and began to turn, but Bumper slammed his shoulder into him and sent him flying. He dealt with a second in the same way, crashing into him with a sickening thud. The man went down and stayed down.

  The third man was armed with the club. He turned and crouched, swinging wildly at the horse as it danced around him. Then Bumper saw his chance and, pirouetting neatly, set his front feet on the ground and kicked out with his back legs, driving them into the man with a solid WHUMP! The force of the impact picked the man up and hurled him against the stone wall of the church. He slid down the rough stones and lay senseless on the ground. Bumper, looking extremely pleased with himself, trotted to where Maddie leaned against the wall, her shoulders heaving as she still sought to refill her tortured lungs.

  “Good boy. Good boy!” she groaned as he stood alongside her. She reached up and caught hold of the pommel, but for the moment she simply didn’t have the strength to mount.

  “There he is!”

  Her original four pursuers came into sight. Wary of a possible ambush, they had held back from chasing her too closely, content for their companions to cut her off from the other direction. Now, seeing her leaning against the stocky horse, they came after her with renewed energy.

  “Run!” she ordered Bumper. He turned and accelerated away as only a Ranger horse could. She lifted her feet as she clung to the pommel, hanging beside him as he galloped down the narrow passage between the church and the trees.

  Two more men appeared before them, and the little horse simply shouldered them aside as he’d done to their comrades. They cried out in surprise and pain as he sent them sprawling on the ground. There were other men confronting them now. But they had seen what had happened to their comrades, and they leapt out of the way, registering only at the last minute that the horse, which appeared riderless, was actually carrying their quarry, clinging desperately to the saddle.

  You’d better get mounted.

  “I’m trying, believe me,” she gasped. Judging his speed and the rhythm of his movement, she let her feet come down to touch the ground and thrust upward with her bent knees, at the same instant heaving herself up with her arms.

  She rolled up and across his back, clinging desperately to the saddle while she managed to get a leg on either side of his stocky body. Her feet
found the stirrups, and she settled more firmly into the saddle. The reins were somewhere on his neck, but she didn’t have time to find them. She grabbed a handful of his mane and bent low over his back as they sped out of the clearing and into the trees.

  Dimly, she registered that they were heading south—away from the castle. But there was nothing she could do about that. Behind her, she could hear Dimon’s voice, shouting for his men to get their horses and go after her.

  We can worry about the castle later, she thought. For now, we’ve just got to get away.

  She made no attempt to direct Bumper, trusting to his instinct and eyesight to guide them through the close-growing trees without reducing speed. Low branches whipped at her, two of them slashing across her face and bringing tears to her eyes before she could crouch down over his neck to avoid them. She clung on grimly as he swerved through the trees at a dead run—faster than she would have had the nerve to drive him. Eventually, she found the reins, the ends knotted together round his neck. But she held them loosely, not wanting to turn him one way or the other, content for him to choose his own path.

  He nickered appreciatively. Just hold on. I’ll get us out of here.

  Behind her, she could hear her pursuers shouting instructions to each other and the thunder of hooves as they rode through the trees behind her. But none of their horses was as sure-footed or sure-sighted as Bumper, and from time to time she heard the crash of collisions and shouts of pain and alarm as they blundered into the trees. The sounds seemed to be falling away behind her, and eventually she twitched lightly on the reins to slow down her horse’s breakneck speed.

  “All right,” she said. “We’ve left them behind.”

  Bumper instantly slowed from his headlong gallop to a fast trot. Now she could see the trees around them, and she sat up straighter in the saddle, scanning the ground in front of her. At last she saw what she was looking for—a narrow game trail that led south through the trees.