Marrok, blood-soaked and sweating heavily from hand-to-hand combat upon his besieged tower, gave a signal to archers under his command to fire upon the castle’s own marksmen. If anything, it would keep their heads down long enough to clear the battlements. Almost instantly, a shower of arrows sailed overhead and had the desired effect of killing a handful of defenders and making others cower in safety.
A stray rock cast into the air by a catapult collided with his siege tower, the topmost portion splintered into a thousand pieces, and then Marrok was falling.
His lower back struck a wooden beam, and he cartwheeled in agony on his way to the ground.
Mere inches from death, a giant, tasked with both protecting him and pushing the tower, reached out a hand and caught the unconscious Marrok in mid-air. The giant, grey skinned, like that of an elephant and with a lumbering gait, carefully carried Marrok away from the main battle to seek out the tent of the temple healers. He ignored several other souls who plummeted to their deaths.
He roared in pain as several arrows struck him in the shoulder and yet he continued to escape the area undaunted. A path of warriors cleared for him as he strode purposefully down the incline of the Main Street and towards the entrance to the city.
During the early stages of the campaign, half of the city had been set ablaze, fires set by retreating defenders who had initially marched in streams from an encampment under the walls of the castle.
The acrid smoke from smouldering ruins choked the giant and burned his eyes. He carefully skirted the many bodies, both civilian and soldiers that littered the road, such was the price of battle. He had witnessed soldiers execute civilians on the orders of Lordich to dissuade The Order from advancing.
Coinin had seen to it that the secret tunnel leading into the castle had been sealed off. The giants, once again proving their worth, had sealed the entrance with several house sized granite blocks and it was left under guard. Lordich would not escape that way.
Coinin was fearful that the warlock could vanish the moment they breached the castle wall, so any strike had to be swift. He knew, though, that Lordich was also a stubborn soul, and would likely make his stand in the throne room. Yes, he could port there and attack Lordich, but without troop support it would be futile to go alone, and the situation was not sure enough to warrant that just yet. If it came to it, Coinin had determined to sacrifice himself for the cause, even if to buy the attackers more time.
The curator had been busy in other matters too. He had secured the four swords and the Rose of Cerathil from the Great Library. They now resided in a locked chest, under guard, the contents not revealed to anyone below the rank of general. Major Quindil and a dozen soldiers, including his Aunt Marisa who was dressed as a matron to protect her identity, maintained watch over the items aboard the elven ship, Mar, now at anchor several nautical miles out to sea and hidden behind a tall, wide outcrop of rock.
Coinin and Jericho were ensconced within a tan coloured leather tent to the left of the main city entrance. This was a makeshift war room where the battle was assessed. Aniol and Zaruun stood guard outside
The tent smelled musty, having sat in an elven storage room for many years, and several holes had appeared in its roof, but it was perfectly adequate for their needs. A large central table occupied the space, and around the outside rolls of parchment dedicated to strategy and tactics littered several chests. A single, large lamp hanging from the roof lit the space, and a candle upon the table provided a small amount of table light.
Every so often, messengers rode horses to and fro carrying orders or updates concerning the invasion.
Coinin looked at the table before him, which held a rudimentary model of the castle and a great number of wooden pieces shaped like soldiers placed before it, upon a hand-drawn map of City Rostha.
So far The Order had divided the defenders and was systematically rounding them up into smaller and smaller sections where they were picked off one by one, though progress was slower than predicted due to the sheer tenacity of the enemy foot soldiers.
‘This is taking too long. I could have blasted the wall to dust before now.’ He reminded Jericho of his doing exactly that during a daring escape from Castle Rostha.
Jericho looked at him seriously and paternally. ‘The plan is working as intended and if you think I’m permitting you to march up to the wall while Lordich’s forces remain a threat, you have another think coming.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘No buts. We have already lost a great leader and an incredible mind. The archmage’s loss is terrible. Imagine if we lost you too. I can’t fathom what that would do to morale. Besides, you and Marrok have become like sons to me.’
Coinin scanned the general’s face seeking a lie and sensing none he turned red and looked away. ‘There must be more that we can do, General.’
At that moment, a breathless messenger, wearing a dark cloak and armour, burst through the tent flaps and saluted, his red face wide eyed and his manner jumpy. Jericho returned the salute and took a small piece of parchment from the young dark haired man. ‘Wait outside.’
The messenger wheeled around and disappeared beyond the thick leather flaps of the tent opening.
Jericho unfolded the letter, sealed by a glob of red wax and read the few scribbled lines upon it. ‘Damn,’ he cursed. ‘It seems Lordich has help incoming.’
Coinin returned his gaze to the general. ‘More enemy foot soldiers?’
‘I wish it were. You need to see this.’ Jericho urged Coinin to join him outside of the tent with an outstretched arm.
Among the smoke, siege towers, catapults and sounds of endless battle, the pair made out four familiar shapes hovering over the castle. Cannon fire boomed across the city.
The pirate airships, wooden framed, were fired by coal that belched black smoke through a chimney and provided large fans power to move the ship through the air. Hot air also hoisted the ships high through means of an inflatable air bladder fastened to the ship by thick ropes.
Having spent a considerable amount of time on one, Coinin hoped that he would never see one again and he looked troubled. ‘I expected a dragon or two, but not this.’
Jericho scratched at his upper arm in thought. ‘Fortunately, I did.’
‘Oh?’ Coinin frowned.
‘Not to worry, I have a plan.’
‘I do worry. Those pirate airships have enough firepower to destroy the siege towers, even our catapults.’ Coinin’s voice rose anxiously. ‘What is this plan?’
Jericho raised a finger, indicating patience, and revealed from under a cloth at the side of the tent closest to the entrance, a small wooden cage. Inside, a white dove cocked its head sideways, taking a glance at Jericho, and then pecked at a stray seed on the wooden floor. The general opened the sliding bolt and reached inside. The bird did not protest as he did so. Once free of the cage, Jericho raised his hand in the air and threw the bird high. It took a second for the bird to get its bearings and then with strong wing beats it headed out to sea. Jericho smiled knowingly.
Coinin scowled. ‘Are you going to tell me, or must I guess?’
Jericho rolled his eyes playfully. ‘My sister is coming.’
Coinin frowned. It took several seconds for him to understand the meaning and then his face lit up.
Jericho nodded. ‘That’s right, and she won’t be alone. You told me of the promise she made to aid us in a time of need. Well, she’s been waiting out to sea since we began the campaign.’
Coinin could have hugged the general. ‘I had forgotten our pact,’ he said, remembering his last conversation with Matron Truelove, in which he requested the aid of sky pirates in their darkest hour. ‘How long, General?’
‘Mere minutes, I should expect. Though truth be told, I don’t actually know.’
A second messenger, similarly dressed as the first, chose that moment to ride up to the mouth of the tent and hand off another parchment.
Coinin opened it deftly and scanne
d the scrawl. ‘By the gods. We’ve lost all but one catapult. The siege towers are down and two giants killed. It appears that enemy pirates are bolstering Lordich’s men, and we still haven’t breached the castle.’ Coinin raced inside the tent and grabbed a quill, dipped it into an inkwell and mumbled as he wrote an instruction on the reverse of the parchment. “Guard the remaining catapult at all costs. Fire at the airships above the castle, not the wall. Archers to use pitch and flame. Be advised, we have incoming airship support from the rear. Do not fire at the friendly ships. - Coinin Wulf, Curator, Order of The Wulf.” He blew upon the parchment to dry the ink and then folded it before selecting a candle nearby and dripping some of the wax across the join. He replaced the candle into its holder and used the ring of office, taken from Archmage Menin’s body, to seal the letter. Within seconds he was outside once more and handed it to the rider. ‘Take this directly to General Jonjo.’
‘Aye, Sir.’ The grey-haired rider saluted and turned his horse before bidding it to move and to move fast.
Coinin watched the rider leave, sending up a cloud of dust, and turned to face the sea. ‘I hope Truelove arrives quickly.’
❖
General Jonjo was a master tactician. He had spent forty years mastering his craft. Sadly, the fall of the sanctuary was his first defeat. It had struck him hard, but the curator had ordered him to move beyond that and to learn from it. “Besides,” said the curator, “we did not have enough men to fight Lordich. Now we do, so take the fight to him.”
These words spoken by Coinin had bolstered his confidence and self-esteem. Now, he crouched low behind a statue of the now dead King Hantestum and bellowed orders to his men. He had at some point received a cut to his face, which had begun to heal and had crusted over, and his face and hands were covered in dust, most of which was thrown into the air from cannon fire coming from the pirate ships.
The Order was pinned down, and the ten thousand men he could fit into the square before the castle were now in grave danger. Cannon fire exploded into a fireball in the centre of his men and he began a systematic retreat. He was about to pull out and regroup himself when a rider pulled up alongside him and handed over a parchment.
He ripped it open, not even bothering to salute, read it, and agreed with himself that the plan was sound. ‘Major?’ he bellowed to an officer cowering behind a low wall. ‘New orders. I want archers firing at those ships. We will need pitch and flame. Also, get that damned secondary catapult firing at the ships. Oh, and there’s help incoming. Skyships from our rear. Do not fire at them. You have all that?’
Between cannon fire, sending up dust mere feet away, which showed that the pirate’s aim was improving, the major nodded. ‘All understood, Sir. I will pass it down the line.’
The average sized elf, Major Renu Vika, Brotherhood born and bred, slicked back his long black hair and waited until there was a break in the cannon fire. While the cannoneers reloaded, he ran decisively to a point deemed safe in which to wait out for the cannon balls to deplete, which they were bound to, eventually. As he ran, significant sections of buildings were blasted into thousands of pieces only to come raining down on him, thankfully, none too large as to incapacitate.
The safe area, beyond the current range of the cannons, was at the entrance to the square before the castle. From here he could see the dozens of statues to the king, and a stone bridge leading up to the castle, which the curator and archmage had so famously destroyed. It had been subsequently rebuilt, though, sadly, it remained a shadow of its former self.
Having zigzagged his way across the open space, he arrived safely at the entrance of the square and squeezed through dozens of soldiers, stinking of death, blood and sweat. Beyond, he could see that every inch of open space was crammed with soldiers eager to get on and fight. This was a bottleneck, and he hoped that the enemy hadn’t figured that out also and thrown their resources at it, potentially killing thousands who had little chance of escape.
He ran, sweat beading upon his brow, to the next clearing, where a catapult had been erected and was manned by a dozen elven marksmen and a giant. He swung his bothersome cloak over his shoulder and marched up to the gunnery serjeant. ‘Serjeant?’
The tall elf, resplendent in steel and gold, turned and saluted the major. ‘Sir?’
‘Your orders are to target the airships above the castle. However, reinforcements are arriving from our rear in airships. Mark them but do not target the same.’
‘Understood, Sir.’
The serjeant, her red cloak wafting in the breeze, shouted orders to the catapulters waiting by. ‘Ready yourself to move this device.’ She stepped up to a platform at the side of the catapult that held a spyglass, and after locating the first of the airships, her right hand waved first left then right as strong elves repositioned the device. ‘Raise her up.’
The crew adjusted the catapult’s angle to the castle using a hand crank that lowered a large wooden screw inserted into the frame. Dropping her hand at the crucial moment when the crosshairs of the spyglass targeted the ship, the crew stopped turning the crank. She turned to her artillery crew. ‘We may have one or two shots at this. Make them count.’
‘Aye, Serjeant,’ a chorus of voices yelled.
Seconds later, the owners of those voices were busily orchestrating the arming of the catapult with a massive rock. Each catapult team had its very own giant to manoeuvre the payload into the leather sling attached to the main arm. The frame began to creak under the strain, though it held firm.
Each elf stepped backwards once the catapult was loaded, ensuring a long rope trailed from the firing pin and into the hands of the chief catapulter. The serjeant remained at the spyglass and, at the exact moment, her arm dropped. The catapulter yanked the thick rope, while another elf struck the pin with a large hammer from the opposite side, which in turn ejected the wedge-shaped iron bolt, instantaneously flinging the leading arm forward with a whoosh and a thwack as it hit the crossbar. The catapult jumped forward a foot and, with a loud whistle, the rock sailed high into the air. All eyes eagerly awaited a strike.
At the last second, the target airship veered right and the rock sailed on by. Groans ensued, and then elation followed. The giant rock struck the bow of a second ship and ripped a hole through the magazine, three seconds later, a massive explosion rocked the castle and everything around it. The ship exploded in a ball of flame, sending debris in all directions. The other ships were blown in all directions, too, by the blast, though successfully survived the explosion. The remains of the damaged ship fell at an awkward angle and struck the castle wall with such force that a breach appeared. It finally came to rest in the courtyard and continued to burn with smaller explosions and flame.
Cheers rang out across the city, and for those at the catapult, their own muted glory turned to one of concern. The first ship they had targeted had turned to face them, whereupon it began to bear down on the catapulters. The serjeant checked through her spyglass and saw at once that the pirates aboard the vessel had started to arm their cannon. Ports not already opened had begun to open along the sides of the ship, and the iron noses of guns appeared.
‘We don’t stand a chance, Serjeant,’ an elf observed.
‘That much I know. We have the opportunity for one more shot. Make it happen.’
The elves bellowed orders to the giant, who had enjoyed a moment to rake his nose with a finger. He coughed and lazily rose from his seated position and yawned as he collected another rock. The elves raced to re-arm the catapult, first by turning a giant wheel to create the necessary tension and then seating the firing bolt. Successfully complete, the giant was then able to deposit his load into the sling.
The serjeant once again instructed the catapulters to position the catapult and at the optimum moment dropped her arm. ‘Fire!’
Instantly, the bolt was struck and pulled. Again, the arm swung forward with force, sending the rock sailing through the air. With bated breath, they waited. A miss. The rock fel
l harmlessly short. The serjeant had miscalculated in her haste to defeat the enemy.
‘Arm yourselves and back away from the catapult,’ Serjeant Ulondarr barked, wishing she had archers to hand to target the large air bladder holding the ship aloft.
A flurry of activity ensued as catapulters became foot soldiers, ready to repel the incoming pirates. As the ship neared, ropes were thrown overboard in preparation for alighting the craft. A hundred yards away, the elves saw the distinct shape of legs and feet dangling over the bulwarks ready to swing down and onto the ropes. A dozen pirates did just that seconds later with surprising speed and fearlessness. In less time than it took to take a breath, the pirates were riding high over the rooftops of residential buildings, holding onto the thick ropes that reached the ground.
Serjeant Ulondarr hoped that just one rope would catch amongst the houses and cause the ship to spin. However, as the ship closed in and began its hover manoeuvre above them, that hope was dashed. The giant hulk of the ship cast a dark shadow on the ground, and any second now they would be in battle proper.
The boom of a cannon sounded, and Ulondarr thought instantly that the pirate ship, floating a hundred feet above them, had fired upon them.
Seconds later, to her relief, a large hole appeared in the prow of the pirate ship sending it reeling. She turned quickly to see reinforcements arriving: several equally large pirate ships led by the strangest sight she had ever seen. Were her eyes deceiving her? The rumours were true, and she now owed her father twelve gold. She knew better than to bet against her father.
A cross section of a golden building, rectangular and sporting a sail, was amid the ships, floating there. It was strange enough to see seagoing vessels riding the skies, but a section of a building, that was too much.
A second boom and the enemy pirate ship attempted to avoid an incoming projectile by diving harshly, too severely, and the ship hit the tower of a wealthy merchant’s home and managed to moor itself. Slate, wooden beams and brickwork crashed down into the square, sending troops scattering in all directions to avoid the debris and choking dust.
The Aduramis Chronicles: Volumes 1-3: The Definitive Collection Page 131