by Garon Whited
“All right,” I said, quietly. “Tell me what happened.”
He gave me his best guess: A party of men prepared the barracks’ roof and walls during the night. When the noblemen were mostly out of the way with the sudden plague, these infiltrators parked carts at the doors of the barracks to trap most of the footmen and archers inside and then lit each building. Then, already armed and armored, they went through the town in groups of three, killing every soldier they could find until enough of the army massed into units to take them down. Unfortunately, a lot of the army was hit with the plague, too. Thirty-one were still standing, and several of those were wounded.
It was a very convenient plague. I was willing to bet someone poisoned us—maybe one of the cooks or kitchen helpers.
“All right. I’m deathly tired and still not well, but I think we need to help the survivors. Bring me someone ill and a lot of water. I can fix my problems, but fixing someone else is tricky. I’ll have to experiment.”
“Fyrn, go get one of the dying; one that can get no worse. Harlach, see to—”
We all paused and listened at the sound of a distant horn.
Brynon proceeded to swear in an efficient and effective fashion. I paid close attention and was impressed at his command of eloquent profanity. I made note of some of the more colorful of his epithets, just in case I needed something impressively blasphemous.
“What is it now?” I asked.
“The viksagi,” he replied. “They come at last.”
It doesn’t take a lot of men to defend a bridge. Horatius did it with two friends. I had about twenty healthy men, ten walking wounded, and a small-but-helpful woman. Hellas kept me upright, found my staff, and was basically my gofer. I don’t know how it looked and I didn’t care; I wasn’t going to turn away any help. I did send her kid to a back room of the keep, well away from the gates and hopefully out of harm’s way.
Where was everyone else? Sick or fleeing. Can’t say I really blamed either; the civilians would have evacuated when the fighting started anyway; this just meant running instead of walking.
The only good news was we heard the horns while they were still a long way off. It was nearly an hour before we could hear the enemy singing. And what singing! Bellowing, deep-voiced men clad in furs and leather, all hammering out the tune and some beating time on their shields with short axes. It was nothing more than a distant swell of sound, like surf, but it grew louder and I started to pick out voices.
When I asked about it, I was told they always sing before battle. It pleases their gods and attracts the attention of angels, or something to that effect. The word was arhelu, loosely meaning bright warriors—I don’t think they meant what I think of as angels.
We had time to brace the gate with timbers—the water-wheel-whatever was on hold, so we had plenty. We got up on the wall and into position. Everybody had a crossbow, except for Verril, our only archer. We improved our numbers by using the walking wounded who could shoot a crossbow, but not cock it; we teamed them up with the able-bodied to increase the rate of fire.
I found myself wishing for a machine gun. And field glasses. And artillery.
They advanced almost into bowshot. They didn’t march so much as walk in time with their singing, and there wasn’t even a hint of ranks or files. Instead, they were strung out along a couple of miles of their route; more people and wagons and such kept moving into their forming camp. I worried about the largest; it was obviously a heavy ram. The keep’s gates are old, much-dented bronze, but a ram is eventually a problem for any gate. The second largest wagon was, in its way, even more worrisome; it was easily big enough to house a partially-assembled trebuchet. Each was big. It took six hairy oxen to haul either.
They didn’t start doing anything immediately upon arrival. Instead, they made merry and camped cheerfully—and with a lot of clear space left around the second wagon.
“Sir?”
Sergeant Brynon stood next to me on the wall. I leaned heavily on the battlements, watching the oncoming army. I never realized how impressive it would look. A couple thousand people, all here to kill us.
“Yes, sergeant?”
“What are your orders, sir?”
I shook my head. How did I get stuck with this job?
“I have no idea,” I confessed. “Hold the bridge, I suppose.”
Brynon looked around sharply; we were relatively alone. He leaned close to me and whispered in my ear.
“Sir? Permission to speak freely, sir?”
I leaned back a little to look at him. “Granted.”
“If you say that in the hearing of the men, I’ll feed you your own guts, sir,” he replied, softly.
I blinked at him. “What?”
“If you want to take the heart out of every last one of your men, sir, tell them you have no plan,” he hissed. “You’ll give over the keep to the viksagi faster’n the bowels of the other officers pass gas. You have to know what to do. You can be wrong, but you’re in charge. You do something besides stand there and dither or, with respect, sir, I’ll kill you.”
I felt a coldness in my belly. I was in charge. People were depending on me. Not just the soldiers, but also the sick people, the fleeing people—everyone they could potentially catch. I doubted the viksagi force could take the whole kingdom, but it would be a real pain once it got across the river. If it got across the river.
I fell back on delegation.
“Right. Sergeant, ready the men to defend the bridge.”
Brynon looked relieved. “Yes, sir!”
I watched the army assemble as he jogged off, bellowing orders. I don’t know enough about defending a castle! It looked like it was time for some on-the-job training. Now, if I were going to assault this gate, how would I go about it? And how would I stop it?
I noticed several unusual individuals grouped together, looking the keep over from a safe distance. My eyes are excellent these days, and I could see they wore odd markings, tattoos or inked scars, all over their forearms. Each one wore an odd hat, each in the shape of some sort of animal—birds, bears, or wolves. There were nine of them.
A slow chant reached my ears, mainly because I was listening for it; I saw their lips moving.
I felt the slow approach of a spell, a vision spell. They were moving it forward like a periscope, peering at the keep, to see how things were inside. Since we couldn’t let them get away with that, I drew my dagger and called up the spark of power in it. I lashed at their floating vision spell and it came apart like an egg in a blender. The backlash of the broken spell made them all flinch.
That ended attempts to spy magically. But I was quite aware that animals might be used to peer in at us, so I kept an eye out for them. Birds at this time of year would be unlikely; they’re smarter than us and go south where it’s warm.
“Verril?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“If you see a bird heading our way, do you think you can shoot it down?”
“If it’s not too high, my lord, aye.”
“Keep your eyes open and an arrow on the string. If you do see one, sing out and we’ll go after it with arrow and spell.”
“Yes, lord!”
A spare set of eyes—especially a professional archer’s eyes—is never a bad thing.
I went back to thinking about this army on the doorstep and the magical artillery they might have. And how to tell them all to go away.
“Sergeant!” I shouted. He came hustling up.
“Sir!”
“I see you’re readying the oil cauldrons.”
“Yessir.”
“Send someone to fetch us all the lamp oil in the keep, as well as a lot of torches. Bring all the jars, jugs, and bottles we have, too, and a double armload of clothes, cloaks, or blankets.”
“Sir?”
“Now, sergeant.” We looked at each other for three heartbeats. I had an idea and I was in charge, right? I could see him wondering if he wanted to demand an explanation. I don’t think
he had a lot of confidence in the one remaining officer.
Firebrand glared at him. The sergeant felt it. His expression was a study in changes.
He saluted and gave the orders. I settled down to sit and rest.
The sun was about two hours from setting. With a little luck, we wouldn’t have to hold them off long. Because after sunset, I would feel a lot better. Then we’d see just how Horatius did it.
Once the materials arrived, I started several of the wounded on making Molotov cocktails. A clay jug full of kerosene with a rag tied around the neck is all they were. It wouldn’t do anybody it landed on any good, and no one who wears fur, long hair, and a beard wants to run through a flaming puddle.
We ran out of jars before we ran out of oil. I had the rest of the flammable oil poured into one of the grease cauldrons. The oil they normally used in the cauldrons was just boiling-hot and sticky; mixed with kerosene, it would make a reasonably good napalm.
All this took time. Time they were willing to give us. Maybe the wizards were encouraging caution. I don’t know, but I bet the sting from my counterspell lasted for hours.
We were halfway to the sunset line when the viksagi finally started their offensive. We watched them form up, an open mob of guys shouting and gesturing at us, at least until they attacked. Men came charging across the bridge, round shields held over their heads, and we shot as fast as we could. They didn’t wear armor, aside from hides, and they didn’t form a very good shield-wall; the shields were used more like umbrellas than overlapping scales. Men went down before they even reached the bridge. They came on, pressing forward at a lumbering dogtrot as they funneled their numbers into the narrow strait of the stonework. From the way they moved, and glimpses through the waving shields, I could see they had ladders held low, carried by half a dozen men at a time.
Hanging back were slingers and archers, hailing dangerous missiles at us; their weapons had much less range than ours, but they depended on the threat of the advancing horde to draw our fire. It was not nearly as dangerous as it could have been; the builders of the keep had given the defenders a wall both high and thick, with good defenses on the battlements. We suffered a few minor wounds from their missiles, but nothing more than that. Had the top of the wall been packed with defenders, I daresay it would have hurt us more.
Below, more dead and wounded hit the stones, some howling, others gasping, a few dropping silently. They tangled the feet of those behind a little, but not enough to matter. We shot and we shot and we shot, but they reached the gates. The scaling ladders they carried tilted up to rest against the battlements over the great bronze gates.
I gave the signal, and Pent tilted the hot oil out onto the causeway. Many screamed and many more fell in the slick mess, but others started up the ladders.
We shot or cut apart those who came up anyway rather than burn, and then shot the ones who were running away from the conflagration at our gate.
During the respite, the ladders burned away and fell in flames. The respite wasn’t long; fresh troops were bringing up the ram to the edge of arrow range. Oxen couldn’t pull it closer; we would just shoot them. But the ram was almost a wheeled building. It had a heavy wooden framework with a sturdy roof; it was already covered in snow, but they threw more on top while they unhitched the oxen. I could see one end of a tree, banded over and around with iron, poking out through a hole in the front. Once they unhitched the oxen from the front, brawny men got under the roof and started pushing.
It rolled slowly forward and there wasn’t much to be done about it, at least not with what we had on hand. We fired flaming arrows at it, but the roof was covered in wet hides under the snow. We shot anyway. When they came close enough, we threw the firebombs; the roof caught and began to burn. The viksagi reversed their approach in a hurry and worked like mad to put their ram out.
Shortly afterward, they rolled forward again. We threw more firebombs, but they flicked to the sides before they hit, only to fall into the river. A magical shield protected the ram. There had to be a wizard under that canopy with the troops.
“Aim in front of it!” I shouted. “Put your bombs on the bridge! Build a fire in front of it!” A second later, we had a nice blaze going. Nobody under the ram wanted to march through that.
They ground to a halt; the ram darn near blocked the entire width of the bridge. They waited. The fire was only kerosene, after all, and the bridge was stone. It would burn out shortly.
Brynon came over and watched the ram with me.
“I don’t suppose you’re up to a cavalry charge, my lord?”
“I’m feeling better, but not that much better,” I countered. “What I wouldn’t give for two dozen men in armor.”
“And two dozen more of those things you ride,” he added, eyeing the ram. It was just a matter of time before we ran out of oil, and the viksagi could afford to wait all night.
“A point. But even if I had the statues to enchant, the riders wouldn’t stand up to the…”
He looked at me as I trailed off. I’d just had another meteorite impact in the forebrain.
“My lo—” he began as I turned away.
“Bronze!” I shouted. I felt much better; my voice echoed in the courtyard. Seconds later, she emerged into the sunlight. If we survived, I’d apologize to the stablemaster for the stable doors. To Brynon, I said, “Prepare to open the gate!” I turned back to Bronze as he ran down to untimber the doors. “I’m not up to a ride,” I called, “but I hope you’re up for a war.”
She tossed her head and let out a steam-whistle scream. Smoke started to wisp from her nostrils.
I took it for a “Yes, that would be lovely.”
“When the gate comes open, kill that ram!”
With six men cranking at the winches, the gates creaked and groaned and shuddered open just as the flames started burning down. Viksagi reinforcements charged forward when they saw the gates start to move; I think they were expecting cavalry. They jammed up behind the ram, trying to flow around it, but the best they could do was a shuffling, single-file line on each side of it.
They weren’t expecting Bronze.
Bronze rang like a bell with every hoofbeat, charging hell-for-leather across the stonework. She reached the ram and went right through the front of it. I heard shrieks.
I missed seeing her attack a manor house. I didn’t miss a second of this.
She was perfect. I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud. Men hacked at her with axes, which bounced off or shattered. Hooves flashed like glints of sunlight. Flames shot from her nostrils to ignite the underpinnings of the ram. Men shouted and hammered and hacked and threw themselves on her or out of her way. The attackers gave her a few dents and dings, but that merely attracted her attention. But, attacking or fleeing… either way, it did them no good.
If there was a wizard under that siege engine, he ran or he died. The spell protecting it failed and I was quick to encourage the flames already there. I saw spells building, dangerous, damaging ones of lightning and ice, to melt or freeze my horse. The wizards were taking a hand in things. But my vision is better than a mortal man’s. I saw them building and I struck them, grounding out their power and wasting it. It was difficult, and it was tiring, but that’s my horse they were trying to kill. I won’t stand for it.
“That’s it!” I called to her. “Time to come back! Back!” I shouted.
Bronze didn’t listen, or didn’t hear. She stayed in there, slashing with her hooves, kicking madly, breathing fire and bellowing smoke. Anything still moving was a target, and she buried metal in flesh time and again. Finally, nothing moved except the roaring flames of the ram. I shouted at her a few more times until she tossed her head at me, as if to say, “I hear you. Stop shouting.” I gave up and just kept an eye out for magical unpleasantness.
The viksagi ran like hell. Or, to be technical and proper, Bronze fought them back to the end of the bridge and they elected to break off the attack. Bronze snorted a blast of flame after
them—contemptuously, I thought. She turned and walked through the flaming ruins, back across the bridge. Walked, despite hurled missiles—which merely bounced off with little more than a scratch to show for it. It was her insult to the whole army, with her tail flicking as though to swat away flies. She left behind a bonfire of logs and hides where once there had been a siege engine.
We cranked the gates shut and let the flames block the bridge.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 12TH
As sunset approached, the remains of the ram were still burning brightly; it promised to be a good fire for most of the night. I went inside to visit the toilet; it’s a good spot to be alone. Not only did I wait out the sunset there, I also cast a few spells. Most of them were personal defenses, but I also wrapped a spell across my eyes to shift infrared up into the visible range—invisible IR goggles—and I tried, carefully, to summon up a fog.
Bronze went on a sortie against the ram; with her help, I was going on a sortie against the wizards.
Once I was dead and cleaned up, Hellas helped me into my armor; I now understand why knights have squires. Inconvenient stuff, armor. But tonight, at least, I was glad to have it. It made me feel a little better. I headed out to the courtyard and climbed aboard Bronze.
“Gentlemen!” I shouted. “Open the gate.”
“No!” Hellas cried, seizing my boot. “My lord, you mustn’t!”
“You can not, sir!” Brynon agreed. “You can’t abandon the keep! Let me ride out.”
Firebrand glowed for a second, maybe as a warning, then burst into flame. I had nothing to do with it, but I appreciated the theatrics.
“Oh, but I can and I must,” I replied, shouting up to the sergeant. “I’m not abandoning the keep; I’m defending it. If we wait, we lose!”
He frowned thunderously but held his tongue. A moment later, he clapped a couple of men on the shoulders and sent them down to the courtyard and the gate.
I smiled down at Hellas. “You’ve been a great help to me, and I thank you for it. If I open a school, as I hope someday I may, it will be my pleasure to have you for an assistant and a pupil. But for now, you must let me go.”