The Red Fox Clan

by John Flanagan

  She spread her hands wide in confusion. “But that law was revoked years ago. My grandfather changed it.”

  “And he had no right to do so!” Dimon shouted. “He did it to protect his own interests, to protect his immediate family’s claim to the throne. To make sure that you succeeded Duncan.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I wasn’t even born when he changed that law. How could he know . . .”

  He waved her argument aside with a furious gesture.

  “He was making sure that his family would stay in power! If Duncan had a son, well and good. But if he had a daughter,” he said, pointing his sword at her, “you—then his line would continue on the throne. The law of male succession had been in place for hundreds of years—perhaps thousands. He had no right to change it. It was a good law, one that had been tested by time.”

  “It was an unfair law and that’s why he changed it,” Cassandra told him, and he gave a derisive snort of laughter.

  “Of course you’d say that!” he said. “It’s in your interest to say that. You’d say anything to ensure that you and that brat of yours remained in power.”

  As he mentioned Maddie, he waved his hand vaguely toward the bridge behind her and Cassandra began to realize that he had no idea Maddie was missing from the castle. His words, and that gesture, seemed to indicate that he thought she was with her mother’s party, hurrying to the south tower. And as she had that thought, a small flame of hope began to burn in her breast.

  “Now lower your sword and surrender,” he said. “I’ll see you’re well treated.”

  She gave a bitter laugh, seeing through the lie with no difficulty. “You won’t let me live,” she said. “If you want the throne, you’ll have to kill me. You can’t afford to leave a legitimate claimant alive.”

  His face worked briefly, and she saw in his eyes that she was right. He would kill her, and Madelyn, to cement his claim to the throne. Then she had a moment of revelation. Nobody would know that he had seized the throne by force. The only witnesses to that would be in the castle. And by the time he was through, they’d be dead. He could blame the entire affair on the Red Fox Clan and claim that he had driven them off—unfortunately too late to save Cassandra, Maddie and Duncan.

  “My lady,” Maikeru said quietly, “you must go now. I will settle with this cur.”

  She hesitated. Maikeru was right. She should run for the south tower now, while she had the chance. But she had a sudden flare of rage. She wanted to be the one who finished Dimon. She wanted to feel her sword cutting into him.

  “Get out of my way, old man.” Dimon’s voice was scornful, but she noticed that he made no move toward the old Swordmaster. He was cautious of Maikeru, wary of his skill and his speed and that flashing, razor-sharp katana. Maikeru kept his eyes fastened on the treacherous guard commander. He spoke again, still without any sign of emotion.

  “You must go now, my lady. This is the task the Emperor gave me when he sent me to you.”

  Sadly, she realized he was right.

  She sheathed her sword, turned toward the south tower and began to make her way across the bridge, looking back over her shoulder. Maikeru had moved so that he was in the middle of the bridge, barring the way.

  “Cassandra! Stop there! I warn you!” Dimon shouted, his voice cracking with rage.

  “A dog like you does not speak to my lady in that fashion,” Maikeru said calmly. His calmness acted as a goad to Dimon, who leapt forward, his sword swinging up and back, then coming down on a diagonal at the Swordmaster.

  Only to be intercepted by the gleaming katana. The hardened blade rang against Dimon’s sword and left a deep notch in the steel. Then Maikeru flicked his opponent’s sword to one side and with astonishing speed brought the katana back in a short cutting stroke.

  Dimon blocked it with his shield. But Maikeru followed up immediately with a bewildering series of strokes, cutting left and right at Dimon’s head. One caught his helmet and sheared its owl’s head crest clean off. Dimon staggered with the force of the blow, and Maikeru’s next stroke caught him in the left shoulder, just above the rim of his shield, slicing through the chain mail and drawing blood.

  It was only a shallow cut, but the ease with which Maikeru penetrated his defense startled Dimon. He leapt back and gestured to the men behind him.

  “Kill him,” he snarled.

  The two men started forward, then hesitated. The narrow bridge only allowed room for one of them to attack him at a time. Then one stepped forward, his sword point low and moving in a circle, his eyes slitted. He lunged at Maikeru, hoping that he would catch the old man off guard.

  His sword was deflected immediately, and as he staggered slightly, the katana slashed quickly across his neck and he fell, a choked scream rising to his lips. His companion watched in horror, then realized his mistake as Maikeru went on the attack. Once again the deadly katana found its mark and sliced through chain mail and flesh. The second man fell, lifeless, to the bridge.

  Maikeru smiled grimly at Dimon. “Would you care to try again?” he invited.

  Dimon looked around desperately. More of his men were pouring up the stairs, and he saw that two of them had short bows slung across their shoulders.

  “You two!” he yelled. “Come here! Bring your bows!”

  The two men ran to him, unslinging the bows as they did. Maikeru’s eyes narrowed. This put a different complexion on things. He glanced over his shoulder, saw that Cassandra was at the end of the bridge, looking back at him.

  “Go, my lady!” he shouted. “Run now!” With a sigh of relief, he saw her turn and run into the south tower, slamming the heavy door behind her. She would be safe now, he thought. He had fulfilled the task laid upon him by his Emperor.

  “Shoot him!” Dimon ordered, pointing his sword at the slightly built figure who barred their way. The first of the men nocked, drew, and released. The arrow sped toward Maikeru, barely visible. But he calmly batted it aside with his sword. Dimon shook his head in surprise. He had never seen such lightning reflexes.

  “Both together!” he ordered.

  The two bows thrummed almost in the same instant. Maikeru caught the left-hand arrow on his sword. But the other slammed into his chest, high on the right side. He staggered under the impact and stumbled against the parapet of the bridge, his sword still in his hands, but the point now lowered.

  The two men shot again and two more arrows slammed into him, both hitting vital spots.

  The old Swordmaster sank to his knees, leaning against the rough stone wall and still keeping his grip on his katana. He saw Dimon’s tall figure stepping cautiously toward him. The traitor was only a dark shape now as Maikeru’s sight began to fade. But Cassandra was safe, for now. He looked up at the shadowy form above him.

  “You lose,” he said softly, and died.

  37

  Inside the south tower, Cassandra heard a howl of triumph from the men pursuing her and knew that Maikeru was dead.

  Quickly, she turned the massive lock on the heavy door that led out to the bridge and ran for the spiral stairway in the southeast corner of the tower. The sergeant was waiting there for her, beckoning her urgently to join him. Behind her, she heard a rush of running feet on the bridge, then the hammering of weapons and fists on the door.

  She ran. The sergeant, sword in hand, ushered her through the narrow doorway in front of him, and together they began to wind their way upward.

  The stairway was narrow, barely two and a half meters across. And it spiraled upward to the right. This was intentional, and a standard piece of design in castles of the time. A right-handed spiral meant that a right-handed attacker, climbing the stairs, had to expose his entire body to bring his weapon into play, whereas a defender, above him, only needed to show his right arm and hand. It gave a distinct advantage to the defender.

  Cassandra was taking the stairs two at a time, ru
nning light- footed and leaving the sergeant behind. He blundered up the stairs behind her, making a considerable noise, and then began shouting.

  “The princess! Make way for the princess!”

  For a few moments, she wondered why he was wasting his breath. His heavy breathing showed that he didn’t have a lot to waste, after all. Then she rounded a bend in the stairway and was confronted by three of her men standing ready, weapons bared. The sergeant had been warning them that the people mounting the stairs were friendly. Otherwise, they may well have attacked the new arrivals without warning. The men smiled at her and stepped aside to let her pass. A few steps below, she heard the sergeant’s heavy tread and she waited for him. He drew level with her, red faced and breathing heavily. She ushered him past her.

  “Keep going!” she ordered. Then she spoke to the three waiting men. “You three come with us.”

  She led them up, her head spinning slightly as she spiraled round and round. Ahead of her, the sergeant was slowing down and she yelled at him, urging him to keep moving. From far below, echoing up the stairway, she heard a splintering crash as the door from the arched bridge finally gave way. Then more feet were pounding on the stairway below her.

  She estimated that they had gone up another two floors, and only two more remained before they reached the sanctuary of the upper levels. The safe haven at the top of the tower occupied the eighth and ninth floors. As they came level with the seventh floor, there was a three-meter-long timber section set into the stone stairway. Two more of her men stood waiting at the top of it. She and the sergeant and three soldiers ran past the end of it, and then Cassandra turned and gestured to the waiting men.

  “Pull it up,” she ordered.

  The timber section could be removed. Ropes ran over pulleys in the roof of the stairwell and were attached to both ends. As she passed the order, her men tailed onto the ropes and heaved. The timber bridge rose smoothly in the air until it lay flush against the ceiling of the stairwell. The men tied off the ropes and secured it in its new position. Where it had been was a three-meter gap in the stairs, with a seven-story drop below it.

  “That should hold them up,” she said as she heard the distant sounds of running feet and shouting men on the floors below them. Distant now, but coming closer. One of the men who had been standing by to remove the timber section was armed with a bow. She recognized his uniform. He was one of the castle archers. She pointed downstairs, to where the steps disappeared round the stone wall.

  “Anyone comes round there, shoot him,” she said.

  “Aye, my lady.” The archer nodded, stripping an arrow from the quiver at his belt and placing it on the string. He stood ready, side on, feet slightly apart, arrow nocked. As yet, he didn’t bother to draw back. If anyone came round that corner, they’d be no more than six meters away and he could draw, shoot and hit his target at that distance in a matter of seconds.

  Cassandra continued up the staircase, reaching the door leading to the eighth floor. She pushed through it. There were ten men in the big open space, and they turned toward the door, weapons ready, as she entered. Seeing her, they relaxed and sheathed their swords and daggers. She nodded a greeting. She looked anxiously around the small group, searching for Maddie. But there was no sign of her. Perhaps she was on the next floor, she thought, although she didn’t really believe it.

  “Has anyone seen my daughter?” she asked. “Princess Madelyn?”

  Blank looks and shaking heads met her inquiry. Nobody had seen the young princess. She looked around the group, seeking and finding Ingrid. The young maidservant shook her head as they made eye contact. Cassandra felt a moment of despair. What if Dimon captured her? He would use her as a bargaining chip to obtain Cassandra’s surrender. And yet she knew her sense of duty would never allow her to surrender. And that would mean Maddie would be . . .

  “Perhaps she’s hiding somewhere, my lady,” ventured the sergeant before she could finish that thought. “It’s a big castle, after all.”

  She considered his point. He was right. There were dozens of hiding places in the castle, and Maddie had been raised here. She knew the castle well. Furthermore, even though Cassandra tended to think of Madelyn as her baby girl, the reality was that Maddie was a fourth-year Ranger apprentice, and that meant she was a formidable warrior. She was skilled with weapons and adept at concealing herself. Better yet, she had been trained to think and plan and assess a situation. She wasn’t the flighty young girl that people like Dimon took her to be.

  But it occurred to Cassandra that there was something she could do that might warn Maddie of the situation in the castle. She beckoned Ingrid to her.

  “Go to the upper floor and hoist my standard on the flagpole,” she said, then added, “Fly it upside down.”

  Ingrid looked puzzled. “Upside down, my lady?”

  Cassandra nodded. “It’s a distress symbol. If Maddie sees it, she’ll know we’re in the south tower. And she’ll know something’s wrong.” As Ingrid hurried away to do her bidding, Cassandra shrugged. It was all she could do for now to warn her daughter. She just hoped Maddie would notice the flag.

  Then, squaring her shoulders, she forced herself to push her worry about Maddie aside. She had to organize the defenses of the tower. She’d think about Maddie later, when things were more settled. She glanced at the sergeant. He was standing ready, waiting for orders. She indicated the small group of men watching her.

  “Is this all we have?” she asked.

  He glanced around the room, then answered. “We have eighteen men in all, my lady. Some of the men from the gatehouse managed to make it to the ground floor of this tower while Captain Dimon was assaulting the keep.”

  She nodded. Eighteen men. Not the largest force, but probably enough to hold the tower against Dimon and his men.

  “How many archers?” she asked.

  “Six, my lady,” answered one of the other men in the room, an archer himself, wearing a corporal’s rank badge. The sergeant, of course, wouldn’t have had time to do a detailed head count yet. He’d arrived only a few minutes before her.

  She chewed her lip thoughtfully. In this situation, there wouldn’t be a lot of use for archers. She would have preferred more men-at-arms. They’d be better suited to hand-to-hand fighting on the stairs. Still, the archers could take their turn at that as well. They were trained fighting men, after all.

  “Let’s take a look at our supplies,” she said, and the sergeant led the way to survey the stores and equipment that were maintained in the upper reaches of the south tower.

  The eighth floor was a storehouse and armory. Dozens of spears and long-handled axes stood in racks along the walls—the most effective weapons for dealing with an attack from below. There were several dozen shields hanging from pegs, and an equal number of mail shirts and helmets. She counted fifteen bows and three large wooden tubs filled with arrows. There must have been close to five hundred of them in all.

  Farther on, she found the food supplies: dried, salted meat; barrels of vegetables and pickles; and sacks of grain piled two meters high. She nodded thoughtfully. There was plenty of food here to sustain the defenders.

  Passing the stacks of food, they came to the dormitory for the men—rows of bunks, tables and benches for those off duty, washing facilities, and several privies, built in the side of the tower to protrude over the drop. She wrinkled her nose. Not the most savory of solutions to the men’s needs, but an effective one nevertheless.

  Food and weapons were well supplied, she realized. But there was a more important need. Water.

  “Let’s check the water,” she said, and headed for the steps leading to the ninth floor.

  Here, there was another central staircase between the eighth and ninth levels. This staircase was wood—more like a wide, steep ladder—and could be withdrawn in the event that attackers broke through to the lower floor. They climbed to th
e ninth level.

  This was the commander’s floor—the administrative level. Half a dozen sleeping chambers were set along the curve of the wall.

  There were racks of weapons along one wall and in the middle of the floor was a large open space that served as the command center. A table with a dozen seats dominated the space. This could be used for councils of war or for eating and recreation, as the need arose. To one side was a kitchen area, well ventilated so that smoke from the large oven and open grill areas could escape.

  Cassandra had studied the layout of the south tower and had visited it several times over the years, ensuring that supplies were constantly replenished and any items that were out of date or spoiled were removed. She gestured to a wooden ladder on the right-hand side.

  “Water’s up there,” she said, and she led the way, climbing the steep ladder and shoving aside the trapdoor at the top.

  The tower was surmounted by a pointed spire, covered in tiles. Inside the conical space were two large stone cisterns. There were steps at the side of these. She climbed one low flight of steps and eased open a lid in the wooden panel that covered the cistern. She peered in. Water lapped a few centimeters below the top. She cupped a handful and tasted it. It was fresh and sweet.

  The other cistern was the same—nearly full with good clean water. The cisterns were fed by rainwater from the roof. They were drained regularly and allowed to refill to ensure the water didn’t stagnate. It usually rained regularly in this part of the country, so continuity of supply wasn’t a problem.

  She climbed down and led the way down the ladder to the ninth level once more. A soldier waited there to meet them, obviously wanting to talk to her.

  She raised an eyebrow. “What is it?” she asked.