by A. J. Ponder
Tick…tick…
The Westmisery defenders were close—but that’s what my fellow riders are for. Swords clashed, horses screamed…
…tick…
Sylvalla let the bag go. It went flying toward its target, hit King Reginald and bounced. Disappointment blossomed in that instant—before the explosion rocked the battlefield.
Her ears rang. Horses reared, streaking across the battlefield to the nearby orchards and scrublands. Sylvalla had enough presence of mind to turn back and see the damage. King Reginald, still on his horse…was reaching up to a hole in his torso. The area below his sternum had been blown away, exposing his ribs and pumping blood into the air. But he was still riding and stuffing his guts back into his abdomen with a mangled hand. His horse was badly injured too—brains everywhere, and yet it, too, was still on its feet.
How in the Seven are they still alive?
“Take that witch!” King Reginald roared.
A wave of cavalry spurred away from King Reginald of Westmisery toward her, her soldiers—and Dirk. None of the soldiers seemed the slightest bit worried about their king’s condition.
What’s the matter with them?
“Run, Dirk! I’m following.”
She wasn’t the only one who thought it was time to go. The Avondale trumpet signalled for urgent retreat.
“Fast as we can!” Sylvalla yelled, urging Thunderbolt to catch up to Dirk.
Nimbler than the horses, Dirk had pulled ahead. It was only temporary. Terrified Avondale cavalry rushed past him.
Is the injury from the arrow the raiders put in his leg slowing him down? Controlling her fear, Sylvalla slowed Thunderbolt enough to ride alongside Dirk. Soon there were half a dozen riders staying with them, glancing back nervously at the West Mist archers, not nearly far enough behind.
“Two more armies coming!” one shouted, and tore off toward Torri’s chunkers.
“We’ll make it,” Sylvalla said, teeth gritted in determination. It wasn’t going to be easy, hundreds of fresh cavalry were riding like fury in an attempt to cut off their escape route. What are Torri’s chunkers waiting for? Fire already.
The Avondale trumpets attacked their ears with more urgent bugling.
“I know,” Sylvalla yelled at nobody. Any minute the blue and green Riverdale riders would cut them off from the safety of the Avondale walls.
Arrows were falling. The enemy kept on, undeterred.
Faster. Sylvalla headed for the gap. Dirk’s breath was ragged. Thunderbolt’s sides foamed white. It was all or nothing.
Sylvalla and her small company smashed into the Riverdale riders, swords flailing, trying to break through the Riverdale riders. Dirk, running alongside, had the most success. He cut through their ranks like butter until his foot caught in some kind of net. He fell.
“Dirk!” Sylvalla yelled, flailing at the swordsman as she galloped past.
Thunderbolt, ploughing toward home, was not in the mood to turn back. By the time she’d stopped his headlong flight, Dirk had shredded the net. His cloak tattered and his loincloth gone, he sprinted to safety with Riverdale’s forces hot in pursuit.
“Let’s go!” he yelled, running toward the looming trebuchets and the ground forces protecting them.
“Fire!” Sylvalla yelled up at the engineer corps, knowing her voice would be buried in the racket, but yelling anyway. “What are you waiting for?”
Bolts and arrows whistled down from the city walls into the oncoming enemy.
Their horses stamping and rolling their eyes, Sylvalla’s company crossed the wooden bridges covering the trench. Sylvalla tried to relax and let her body follow the rhythm of her horse’s gait, but her knuckles were white and her back ached. She hated the oppressive feeling of being under the four terrible contraptions.
The women manning the chunkers had winched the missiles into place and were lining up their shots.
Why are they taking so long?
“Go!” Sylvalla yelled.
Krumph!
Krumph!
Krumph!
Krumph! Bang!
Where the rocks and missiles landed, horses screamed. Sylvalla didn’t look back at the carnage, she rushed over the trench that’d been dug around the machines.
The first stage of siege was about to begin. Later, they’d have to pull these machines down and fire the trenches to give their crew, and the soldiers protecting them, time to retreat—but right now they were doing their job and keeping the bulk of the armies at bay.
The five armies backed off to a spot just out of reach of the chunkers, kings at the front, butterfly pennants flying, their kingdom banners rippling beneath. Avondale’s attackers ranged as far as the eye could see. Flanked by horses, they were beginning to unite themselves into a single fighting force.
Sylvalla raised her sword. “Well done, everybody. We gave them something to think about.” Slowly, she led her horse back to the castle stables, doling out congratulations to all the returning soldiers.
Francis and Grimmo pushed their way through the crowd. “Where’s Mac?” Grimmo demanded.
“Last I saw him, he was in battle, doing well.”
Dirk shook his head. “Sorry, Grimmo. He didn’t make it.”
“But he was…” Sylvalla said.
“Sorry,” Dirk said. “I saw him fall. Brave to the last.”
“Not Mac…” Francis said. “Mac’s resourceful, a fall would never stop him.”
“Resourceful wasn’t the problem. It was the sword through his chest that stopped him,” Dirk said. “And he wasn’t the only person we left behind today.”
“Good man, Mac,” Grimmo said. “A good man.”
Sylvalla mumbled something about Mac’s bravery.
“Yes, he was brave,” Francis said, tears streaming down his face. “Bravest man I know. We’d better tell Amarinda. He was like a brother to her.”
“Tell her…tell her I’m very sorry for her loss.” Will Amarinda blame me for his death? Possibly, but at least Amarinda will still be alive. Sylvalla looked up at Torri. “Do you think Torri will be all right? If we pull the chunkers back now we can save—”
Dirk shook his head.
“Maybe—” Francis said.
“No,” Grimmo cut him off. “Dirk is right. We need the chunkers out there if we’re to have a chance. Once the enemy’s here in full force, we’ll be in real trouble.”
The Bell does not Toll
Listen to the screams of the brave
Amarinda put Mac out of her mind again. He’d died yesterday, and today the wounded and dying didn’t stop coming. The good doctor was busy removing a spear head, and she had to keep on working, too.
A patient reached out to grasp her hand. “There were monsters!” He glanced fearfully up at Fergus, happily munching on poppy seed cakes.
Amarinda flinched. Fever dreams were infectious. It was best to give them no air. “It’s all right,” she said. “You’re safe now.” So long as that arrow in his shoulder didn’t sicken him.
“The dead fought. Monsters and devils, I tell you. We’re not safe.”
“Fergus is perfectly safe,” Amarinda reassured the injured man. “He’s here to protect us.” At least, Amarinda hoped so. He seemed to enjoy her company, and she felt safer when he was by her side. Maybe because everyone else shied away. Maybe because of the poppy seed cakes. Goodness knows what I’ll do when Cook runs out of poppy seeds.
Amarinda smiled down at the injured young man grasping her hand.
“She rained fire down upon them, our queen,” the man said as if confessing a sin. “And the enemy shied away in terror. If she’s a witch, she is our witch. The gods will it.”
“Now, take a swig of this, hold still, and bite down.” She smiled in a way she hoped was reassuring. With the news of Mac’s death, she wasn’t much up for smiling. Still, he took a swig of the good doctor’s analgesic and bit down on the leather-wrapped wood.
“I need you to be brave,” she said, wriggling
the arrow to confirm it was up against bone.
“Fergus?”
He nodded.
A quick cut, a little tug from Fergus, and only a small amount of panicked squealing, and the ordeal was over.
“You rest now, and get better,” Amarinda said earnestly, and moved onto the next injury.
Not so far away, the sounds of battle raged.
From what Amarinda knew about sieges, they were supposed to take months, even years. So why are Arrant’s armies pressing so hard and fast?
Much as she’d blamed Sylvalla for Mac’s death, the enemy threw away lives with a profligacy that could only be described as evil. If it wasn’t for the soldiers’ faith in their queen, Avondale might have fallen already. Nearly every soldier here had a story about her bravery.
Amarinda wiped away the foolish tears before somebody saw. It was time to get to work.
Francis poked his head around the door. “Um, I dropped in to see if you were all right. Do you need anything?”
“What’s happening?” Amarinda asked, wiping her face and hoping her eyes weren’t too red.
“Sylvalla says the chunkers will have to be torn down and set on fire soon, along with the barricades.”
Francis looked around and stopped, presumably noticing his audience. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be saying anything. But you know Torri’s a marvel, and we have plenty more defences.”
Fergus glowered at Francis. “That is good. You got the wizard to make that axe for me yet?”
“Um…” Francis said. “Right. Sorry, I just…” He hurried away, leaving Amarinda with one of his charming grins.
He’s wasted on Sylvalla. Does she even know how dashing he is?
Stretchers carrying wounded arrived. She quashed the thought. He was a prince, and she was a spy and a scullery maid.
Focus. Triage.
Sword through the gut. Impossible. Sword through the shoulder. Broken leg.
She should focus on the shoulder wound, but she couldn’t walk away from the sweaty gaze of the fellow with the sword through his gut. He reached up to clutch her hand. “I saw a dead man walking. Well, he tried to drag himself over the trench with no legs… He…he…”
Amarinda patted his hand. He wasn’t the only soldier spouting unlikely stories of men with horrific injuries and unbridled strength.
It had started yesterday with tales of a dead king riding a dead horse, and the stories had got worse from there. What were they supposed to say? That they’d allowed the enemy through and it was inevitable, or worse—their own fault? Much easier to believe in the animation of dead warriors.
Trumpets bugled, and Sylvalla swept in, her beautiful red dress ruined—as if she’d taken a sword to it and hacked. She probably had. “There you are, Amarinda. I need a word.”
“Sorry, busy,” Amarinda said before whispering to the physician. “Gut wound. Can you take a look? If anyone can save him, it’s you.”
“I’m sorry about Mac,” Sylvalla said. “And if we get through this…anyway, if the bells ring, we’re evacuating Avondale. Anyone who can needs to run for the castle. Please run for the castle, Amarinda. I don’t want to lose you again.”
Amarinda shook her head. “M’lady, I’m sorry, but…ah, I’m not going to run. I’d never leave my patients.”
Sylvalla opened her mouth to argue, when a dozen burn victims were rushed through the door.
“They’re at the walls already?” Sylvalla said.
“Told you, they’re demons,” an old warrior muttered. “Didn’t I say?”
“I know,” Sylvalla replied. “But you were always so brave against demons.” She spoke as if she knew him, and maybe she did. Then Sylvalla turned back to Amarinda, eyes glistening. “Stay if you must, but I won’t forgive you if you die.”
“I’ll be fine. You go defend the city.”
“No one else will stay. It’s…it’s…”
Don’t say it’s suicide.
“I’ll stay,” the royal physician said. “If it comes to that, one person won’t be enough.”
“Me too,” the thurgle insisted.
“But Arrant will—”
“Maybe, but these men and women will die if they’re moved. And surely even Arrant needs good medics.”
Sylvalla nodded. “I almost forgot. After the bell has been rung, keep away from the town square—unless you want to get caught in friendly fire. And you should have someone ready to bar these doors. Give yourselves some time.”
“I will,” Fergus said, nodding solemnly. “Rescue the maiden. Those are the rules.”
“Good.” Sylvalla turned heel. “Sorry, I’d stay, but I have a kingdom to save.” She ran fast, her tattered red dress fluttering behind her like fire.
§
Sylvalla rushed to the city walls to find Dirk and discuss when to pull Torri and her crew back—only to find Torri had already set the chunkers and barricades aflame.
Torri, her crew and defenders were scrambling to get to the city gate. One enemy squad didn’t even wait for the flames to die down, throwing down water-soaked ladders and scrambling across the fire to attack the defenders. Other crews threw buckets of dirt and rocks at the burning pit and doused it in water.
Torri choked on a wave of smoke, and slowed. The fighting intensified near her as the burned and burning enemy ran to attack her heedless of any danger.
“Run!” Sylvalla shouted, sprinting to help. Two engineers got there first, pulling Torri to the gates. Sylvalla joined the defenders, holding the enemy back until the gate slammed down.
Sylvalla waved to Torri, but didn’t stop. Dirk was up on the wall with the fighters scrambling to throw the enemy down from the battlements.
How can they be scaling the walls already? And in such numbers, many blackened from the fire.
Four units, each carrying heavy ladders, rushed across the smouldering gap. As soon as the ladders were down, four contraptions the size of carriages and swathed in water-soaked covers were trundled across the gap. Black iron in the shape of a ram’s head stuck out from the covers.
“Battering rams!” Dirk shouted. “Flame them.”
A volley of burning arrows swept toward it.
Steam billowed from the foremost ram. It burst into fire—its handlers not letting it go but continuing to push it forward as they, too, burst into flames. It crashed into the gate.
But more were coming—and more soldiers too. Nothing seemed to deter them. Nothing seemed to frighten them. Not fire. Not arrows. Like the old soldier had said, they fought like devils.
Worse, they were relying on fire, and the weather was turning from cold wind to miserable, sleety rain.
Sylvalla tapped Dirk on the shoulder, and he stepped back, allowing another soldier to take his place. “We can’t stand for long,” he shouted. “It’d help if the people we were fighting had the good sense to die.”
“How long?” Sylvalla asked. “Can we last the day?”
“I don’t think so,” he yelled over the din of battle. “There’s too many, and they keep coming. I think you should ring that bell soon. Unless the wizards—”
“Unless we’re under magical attack, the wizards won’t do a thing. They practically have Jonathan and his father in headlocks.”
“They’re hammering us,” Dirk said. “You still think Grehaum will turn up? Not that I blame him, anyone with half a brain would stay away.”
Behind them, a brave Avondale soldier fell backward, screaming.
Dirk stepped back into the breach.
By the gods, Dirk’s right. Even if the archers burn all the battering rams, we won’t last much longer. Sylvalla did not want to face it, but Avondale was about to fall. Avondale needed Torri’s traps ready.
Leaving Dirk to rally the soldiers manning the wall, Sylvalla rushed toward the courtyard where she hoped Torri would be.
Torri and her crew were in the courtyard, keeping people out of danger while they completed last minute checks on the explosives for this first trap. They
looked like beetles with their blue uniforms and bright blue backpacks.
“Are you ready?
Torri adjusted her huge backpack. “Probably. How long?”
“Hard to say. I’m surprised the people in the bell tower aren’t tolling the warning bell already,” Sylvalla said. “But in the meantime, I’ll head to the barracks to tell the soldiers their shift’s going to start sooner than expected.”
Torri adjusted her huge backpack. “Where’s Grehaum’s lieutenant? What’s he said?”
“Wish I knew,” Sylvalla replied.
“Estha and the children? Remember how Estha said she needed help with all the, you know, Tomases?”
“Um,” Sylvalla said. “They should be all right. They’re waiting at the castle ready to flee with everyone else. If you want to get out safe, you’d better look to join them fast.”
“Not now, Yer Majesty. If I’m to slow them down, I have to give them something to think about.”
“Hurry, then.” Sylvalla waved Torri back to work. “Promise me you’ll get back safe as soon as you can.”
Torri half-nodded and got back to work.
Wizards lounged around on a nearby balcony, watching Torri and doing nothing. Useless old fools, yammering at each other.
“Stop quibbling.” Capro’s voice rose over the noise as Sylvalla approached. “If we don’t do more, we’ll all be facing death, too.”
“It’s about standards,” another said. “And sticking to the rules Bairnsley was founded on.”
“Look around,” Capro said. “We’re not in Bairnsley anymore. “And I wasn’t talking about blowing anyone up, I was talking about delaying them.”
The noise of battle changed—the screams and the clash of blades were getting slowly closer. Enemy soldiers had made it inside the city.
Sylvalla turned. If the wizards were going to do something, they’d better do it fast. Soldiers were coming over the walls to attack the city. If things went to plan here, the brave Avondale defenders and hastily erected fences would funnel them toward Torri’s trap.
“Hells. Torri, are you ready?”
Torri wiped the sweat from her face. “Places, people!”
Skirmishes had broken out. Fire was rising from houses.