Trenham continued to look at the maps, and let the silence lengthen. The Suvian eventually got the message.
“Well, as much as I’d love to stay and banter, I must away. Got to stop my rabble getting too drunk while they’re waiting for your lot to soften up the Ants. Let’s hope Thorgulsen will—at the very least, allow us the pleasure of the garrison before he guts ‘em, eh?” Telvier winked conspiratorially before sauntering from the tent.
Trenham felt the need to bathe. The Suvian might wear fine clothes and affect the manners of a gentleman, but underneath the silk he was no better than the murderous gutter-scum he employed. He poured himself a glass of wine and downed it in one. He was starting to think this was a bad contract.
The trebuchets pounded the Arth late into the afternoon. Trenham had managed to confine his thoughts to the job at hand and direct his crews to destroying the gatehouse. The ballista on the towers hadn’t been idle during their attack and had put one of his engines out of action, but in the long range battle of heavy weaponry, he was winning.
As dusk rolled purple across the sky, the attackers had cause to cheer when the defenders finally abandoned the battered, outer gatehouse. Emboldened by the withdrawal, Telvier’s warriors formed up, eager to attack. Trenham didn’t share their excitement; he didn’t trust the Antian’s uncharacteristic retreat and went over to speak to the Suvian before he sent his fighters in.
“Ah, Herick! Have ye come to watch my lads finish off the Ants?” Telvier smirked. He’d changed his outfit again, and was now wearing a fine cuirass of polished steel.
“Actually, Luca, I was going to suggest you hold off. Let me take out the gates from a distance.”
The Suvian laughed and fluffed his lace cuffs. “You really are too cautious! Look at the damage you’ve done. I really don’t think we’ll have any trouble getting in, the Ants have retreated.” He grinned, gold teeth winking in the fading light. “Time is money, dear fellow! They aren’t paying me by the day.” He took another pull on the silver flask he was waving. “I must say, your crew’s aim is rather good, but then I suppose it is a big castle. Cheer up, we’re almost done. Now if you would excuse me, ‘tis time to unleash the hounds.”
Trenham let him go. Telvier was so desperate to win his way back into the Thane’s favour he’d throw his fighters at the Arth no matter what he said.
The Suvian marched over to his company, drew his rapier, and with a flourish, gave the order to attack. The mercenaries swarmed from the trees in a ragged wave, dragging a rough-hewn battering ram with them. Telvier stayed where he was; safely out of ballista range. Trenham shook his head. This would not go well. The heavy ram was swinging wildly in its shoddily constructed cradle that ploughing deep furrows into the road as they dragged it along. When they reached the bridge, Trenham halted the bombardment.
Kiri, the Irregulars’ Second-in-Command, sucked her teeth. “Not a single defender left on tha’ walls. I ‘spected more from tha’ Ants.”
Trenham shook his head. “I’m not so sure they’ve given up. This is too easy.”
“Easy?” She gave a throaty chuckle, her dark eyes mocked him. “I’d hate t’see your idea of tough. You underestimate yourself and overestimate tha’ Antians. They’ve taken a poundin’. ‘Tis enough to break even—”
Trenham pointed to the Arth.
As soon as Telvier’s company set foot on the bridge, the gatehouse portcullis rattled up and the gates were thrown open. The mercenaries stumbled to a halt as the Hammer and the Black Lancers charged across the bridge and out of the gatehouse.
The knights had mounted up in the Bailey while the defenders made a show of pulling back from the gatehouse. The moment the wheel of the ram carriage touched the bridge, the signal was given for the defenders hiding in the gatehouse to throw open the gates and raise the portcullis. The other three sets of gates had already been quietly opened during the bombardment.
Without doubt, there would be some who would question her decision to ride out. They would argue that the gatehouse was un-defendable, that it was better to sacrifice it without loss. Technically, they were probably right, but Alyda knew there was more at stake here than bricks and mortar. They needed an early victory. The defenders—particularly the civilians, had to believe they could win if they were going to stand and fight. She settled into the saddle, reins gripped in one hand, sword in the other. Now all she had to do was deliver that victory.
The swifter, less heavily armoured Lancers led the charge, followed by the Hammer. The 1st rode straight at the main body of mercenaries. The Lancers split, half riding round either flank of the attackers. While one of the Hammer doused the ram with oil, the rest attacked the startled mercenaries while the Lancers raced to cut off their retreat. Poorly trained, half drunk and scared to death, Telvier’s company ran as though all the demons of the Void were chasing them.
Alyda took no pleasure from slaughter, but there was something deeply satisfying about dealing with the scum who’d put Weyhithe to the torch. She would have liked to have pushed the advantage surprise had granted them and carry the fight into the enemy camp, wreak all shades of havoc upon them, but they had to stick to the plan. They would ride down this scum and destroy Trenham’s engines—the bastard himself if he got in her way.
Trenham’s heart sank. He’d seen this before in Suvia, only this time, he was on the receiving end. Because Telvier and Thorgulsen had rushed the assault on the gates, his crews and trebuchets were now vulnerable. The Hammer scattered Telvier’s fighters without even slowing their charge before turning their attention to his engines. Cursing, Trenham pulled on his coif and strung his bow.
The Irregulars’ trebuchet crews drew swords as the tide of steel flowed towards them, but there was no way they could fight it out with the heavy cavalry and Trenham ordered the retreat. They didn’t need to be told twice.
The knights didn’t pursue the crews; they set about wrecking his trebuchets. It came as no surprise that they knew exactly which ropes to cut and pins to smash to cripple them. Ali Stenna turned to face him. He plucked a shaft from his quiver.
She raised her visor. “Nothing personal!” she shouted, a wolfish grin on her face.
He nocked an arrow, loosed. She slammed down her visor. The shaft flew wide.
When the Guthani finally got themselves in some sort of order and were ready to attack, the Black Lancers’ herald gave a short blast on his horn. Immediately, the knights stopped smashing the trebuchets and spurred their mounts back to the Arth. Guthani and mercenaries flooded from the trees, screaming for Antian blood.
When they were roughly halfway across the open ground, the Lancer’s herald gave another blast. Trenham wondered if it could get any worse when a dozen huge clay pots arced over the Arth walls. He groaned. Apparently, it could.
The pots hit the ground and exploded into hundreds of jagged shards. The fist-sized rocks that were inside them ripped through the attackers, killing and maiming dozens. The counter-attack stalled. Trenham looked across the field—not a single Antian was down. Their archers had returned to their positions on the curtain wall and were picking off anyone foolish enough to come within range of their longbows.
Stunned and bloodied, those Guthani and mercenaries who were able, staggered back to the woods, pursued by the mocking laughter of Antians. Trenham sighed and slackened off his bowstring, conflicting emotions trapping his feelings somewhere between despair and admiration.
Victory seeded thunder in the voices of the garrison and a wave of exultant cheering washed over the Hammer and the Lancers when they rode back into the bailey. Alyda sucked the blood-charged air through the breathes of her helm, but only let go of the hard knot of tension that nestled in her guts when she’d counted back in, every warrior who’d ridden out.
After exchanging savage oaths with her knights, she briefed her officers and then went to her quarters. She was tired, but confident that they would not be attacked again that night. The Guthani and mercenaries would hopefull
y be too busy arguing over who was to blame for that shambolic attack. She shouted for Jamie, expecting him to be waiting for her—but he wasn’t. She knew he’d got back unscathed; he was right behind her when they rode in. Cursing his untimely absence, she entered her room to find a crackling fire burning in the hearth, food and drink on the table and Talin reclining on the bed.
He smiled at her.”I sent Jamie and the little one away. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Little one?” She enquired confused, but happy to see him. She unbuckled her sword belt and tossed it on the couch.
“Aye, your little shadow; the child who’s been following you around. I found him hiding under the bed.”
Alyda shrugged. “You’ve lost me, I…Oh, d’you mean that little imp I caught playing with my helm? No, I don’t mind in the slightest, but Jamie would be useful about now.” She reached for the clasp on her gorget.
“As I’m the one who sent him away, I feel I ought to act as your squire.”
“I think that’s fair.”
“Fair, you say? You’re very honoured. Few people are privileged enough to have a prince do this.” Talin unbuckled her cuirass.
She shrugged out of the armour and pushed him back onto the bed. He lay there smiling while she took off her sweat-soaked arming jack. A slow smile spread across her face. “You’re most gracious, Highness. Now, what was it you said about showing your gratitude when we reached the Arth…?”
It was fully dark before Trenham sent his crews out to retrieve the damaged trebuchets. He had to hand it to the Hammer; the bastards had done a thorough job. His people would have to work through the night to repair the damage.
The next time he turned them on the Arth he wouldn’t stop until the gatehouse was a memory. He didn’t understand why they’d taken the risk of attacking, just to put them out of action for one night. He stowed his bow and stripped off his mail. The sooner they got started the sooner they’d be done. Alyda must have known the engines could be repaired. For all that the attack had been daring, they had only won a respite, not a reprieve.
At sunrise it began to rain stones. Alyda wasn’t surprised; the only way to permanently put a trebuchet out of action was to destroy the main timbers, but that hadn’t been an option. She had hoped it would take them longer to make the repairs, but the sortie hadn’t been in vain. The trebuchet’s volleys were neither as numerous or as concentrated as they had been the previous day and the mercenaries were making a more cautious and more importantly, slower, advance across the field, protected under crawlers.
She remembered discussing their effectiveness with Trenham and Althus back in Suvia. They were simple constructions comprising a wooden frame covered in fresh cow hides and dowsed in water. They could protect large groups of warriors from arrows and other light missiles, while allowing them to approach defences carrying cumbersome scaling equipment instead of shields.
She pulled on her gauntlets. Talin rolled the quilt around himself another turn, but didn’t wake. She wanted to kiss him, but she let him lie. Today would be a long, ugly day; he’d need all the strength sleep could give him for when it was his turn to take his place on the wall. She had to leave this quiet haven, angle her mind away from gentle thoughts and plan for the misery they would stamp on the bones of the bastards massing outside.
Alyda, Cassian and their officers crouched behind the battlements on the barbican to watch the advancing Guthani. Stones ricocheted off the walls, gouging great chunks from the masonry and shaking the building to its foundations. It was strangely liberating knowing that at any moment a well-aimed boulder could smash her to pieces and that neither skill nor will could save her. What scared her was making a bad decision. The bombardment eased. She peered over the wall at the crawlers.
“Have the wall commanders been briefed?”
“Aye, Captain,” Cassian shouted above the thunder of a stone smashing into a nearby section of wall. “I’ve put some veterans in with the volunteers to steady them up. We’ve three groups in reserve and half the Lancers ready to mount up.”
“Good. Keep a watch on the river side. I doubt they’ll attempt to cross the ‘Run, but they may try to dam it upstream. We need to be ready for that.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Look on the bright side, at least the stones will stop when the crawlers get closer.”
Cassian swept his gaze across the ranks of enemy fighters. “Aye. That’s when the real fighting will start.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Hoy, Snowfoot!” Skani bawled at the Talespinner. “Hurry up you sluggard, we’re forming up. D’ you still have my dagger?”
Garuld Snowfoot patted the ornate hilt of the dagger sheathed at his hip. He’d considered selling it to pay his dicing debts, but he knew it would break the big fool’s heart. He’d either win the sword to match it, or lose it back to Skani at some point, but he wasn’t going to tell him that.
The Talespinner nestled his behind into a tangle of tree roots. He was in no mind to hurry; he hadn’t broken his fast yet. He flipped the oatcakes cooking on the hot stones at the edge of the fire. He’d made a half dozen, which was more than he would eat, but he knew Skani would come snuffling around like a pig in an orchard when he smelled the food.
“When will you give me the chance to win it back?” The hirth hung his shield on a branch and squatted down beside the fire.
Snowfoot shrugged and turned the cakes.
“You know, for a Talespinner, you don’t say much.”
“You don’t pay me, Skani Felar. I’m saving my voice for those who do.” Snowfoot pulled a hot cake from the fire and offered it to the hirth. Felar accepted it with a grunt of thanks.
“The fucking Ants in their nest. Why don’t they come out and fight like real warriors?” Skani sprayed a mouthful of crumbs into the flames.
Snowfoot poked at the fire. “To be fair, they did come out, if only briefly. But to answer what I think you’re trying to ask; it’s because they lack all sense of drama and have no concept of true heroism and, mostly, because we significantly outnumber them. They aren’t like us; they probably think it’s stupid to meet us on the field when we are at least four times their number. Whereas we would see it as an opportunity to win fame and a glorious death were our situations reversed.” The Talespinner scarfed down an oat cake. “Hard to fathom, I know.”
Felar snorted and helped himself to another. “I hate this fucking country and I really hate these Arths. Stinking stone rat holes. It would shame my shadow to cower behind those walls rather than stand shoulder-to-shoulder with my brothers and sisters on the open battlefield.” Felar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook the crumbs from his moustache.
Snowfoot smiled as Skani carefully rearranged the little brass beads threaded into his greying yellow beard. Hirths: always so vain.
Unlike his shield brother, Garuld thought Antia was a beautiful country, one that had already provided the inspiration for a dozen new songs. When they were back home, he’d live well for months on the booty he’d earned and the tales he’d spin of this adventure. For Skani, being in Antia granted him an opportunity to have something new to complain about. Gods love him, but he was the kind of person who would never see the glory in a sunrise, merely the spots before his eyes.
“So when your turn comes to go against those walls with the arrows falling like rain, you’ll stroll along in the open, instead of getting in a crawler, eh?”
His friend’s mouth fell into an angry pout. He really shouldn’t tease Skani. Funny though it was, it was far too easy.
“Aye, damn right!” Skani narrowed his eyes. “And don’t try t’ confuse me with twisting words, Garuld big ears. I see that glint in your eye; I’m wise to your tricks, Raven’s Son.
Snowfoot chuckled. Is Skani finally learning? It had only taken ten years and a few sacks of coin for the lesson to sink in.
Snowfoot swatted his friend’s suspicions away with a casual wave. “No, no, I was just curious, but seeing as you’r
e so confident—will you wager the sword that matches my nice dagger on it? Because I think you’ll scamper inside after the first beehive explodes next to you. If you’ve still got legs to scamper with.”
Skani frowned, unsure. “And if I win, do I get my dagger back?”
“Of course, and the most priceless possession you own… your honour. Unless you’re scared…?”
“You’re on! A hirth fears nothing! Although…the dagger is smaller than the sword—there must be something more you can throw in. My honour is mine to win or lose; what else will you add?”
“How about a warrior’s funeral?” Snowfoot threw back his head and laughed. “I can’t believe how easy it is to trick you, Skani. Will you never learn? I’m surprised you aren’t dead or walking around naked and weaponless, I really am.”
“Shut up, fatty, I’d have done it,” the warrior protested. “These Ants don’t frighten me.” He looked both embarrassed and relieved.
“They should frighten you.” Snowfoot hunkered closer to Skani, drew down his brows and lowered his voice. He spared a nervous glance over his shoulder, to confirm the presence of unwelcome and unseen guests. It worked every time. Skani was drawn in, as wide-eyed as a child. “Tis said that the pale knight is a Fey who drinks the blood of children and can kill with but a look and that Stenna is the battle-born daughter of the Mountain God and cannot be defeated and…” He let the pause lengthen. “…Who are you calling fatty? Face it Skani, you’re twice the man you used to be—and not in a good way.”
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