by Damien Black
Kneeling slowly he placed the falchion on the ground. Only one of the two tapers remained alight; its expiring flames guttered at the feet of the ostler. Adhelina moved slowly into the fading circle of light.
‘Know when you are beaten,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Release my companion and let us leave peacefully. You still have your reward money.’
The ostler turned towards her, his face full of fear. As he did so he instinctively brought Hettie around with him, exposing his flank to the mysterious mercenary.
The latter did not need a second invitation. Picking up a nearby rock he flung it with unerring accuracy at the ostler’s head. Letting go of Hettie he took two tottering steps sideways before slumping to the ground senseless.
‘Three foes vanquished quickly and quietly without bringing charge of murder on us,’ said the foreigner coolly, picking up his falchion and sheathing it. ‘I think I will claim my payment now.’
He approached Adhelina, extending a gloved hand.
‘I... I don’t handle money,’ she said uncertainly.
‘Here,’ said Hettie, stepping forward. ‘Here’s two gold regums for your trouble. We don’t have enough to give you any more.’
‘But we can give you a rich reward if you get us to Meerborg unscathed,’ added Adhelina quickly.
The mercenary seemed to eye them both suspiciously in the dying light of the taper, although the depth of his hood made it hard to tell.
‘How do I know you are telling the truth?’ he demanded gruffly. ‘I could just rob you here at sword-point.’
‘You could,’ replied Adhelina boldly. ‘But then you would lose a greater reward. See us to Meerborg safely – I have goods and chattels there, and can make it well worth your while. Rob us now and you stand to gain little else – my servant is the only one of us who carries any coin. If you think the rest of her purse’s contents are worth passing up such an opportunity for, go ahead and rob us.’
Both damsels held their breath for the second time that night as the strange foreigner weighed their words.
Then he said: ‘Very well – I accept your offer. But I want five regums now. The rest of the reward we can talk over later.’
Hettie glanced at her mistress, who nodded. The taper had almost gone out, leaving them under the light of moon and stars. Hettie pressed the coins into the stranger’s hand.
‘We’d better get moving,’ he said in his strange high voice. ‘I made as little noise as I could, and yon inn is full of drunken freeswords and merchants, but all the same it is best not to take chances, yes? Here, help me get these three oafs into the stable – they can sleep where my horse has been staying!’
They did this hurriedly. As the outlander led his own horse – a swift courser of foreign breed – out into the yard, Hettie found time to whisper to her mistress.
‘M’lady, is this wise? We don’t know this foreigner from the First Son! What’s to stop him double-crossing us on the road and robbing us?’
As they stepped back into the yard Adhelina shot back a worried glance at Hettie. ‘I know – but what choice do we really have now?’
They said no more to each other as their uncertain new guardian paused to light a torch before taking to the saddle. The two damsels followed suit, the three of them passing out of the yard and making their way at a brisk trot towards the outskirts of town. Then, spurring their horses into a swift gallop, they plunged into the night-shrouded countryside.
CHAPTER IX
Battle Is Joined
From the inner wall battlements Bernal, castellan of Linden Castle, stared at the bleak spectacle bequeathed him by the fortunes of war.
All about him was a tumult of cries, the ring of steel on steel and the crash of exploding rock. At the southern end of the outer wall, the gates heaved and trembled as the attackers renewed their onslaught, undeterred by the heavy rocks being dropped through the machicolations overlooking it. From the east, belfries mounted on warships in the river pulverised the outer battlements with trebuchet and catapult, as the escalades below attempted once again to mount them. Arrows and quarrels zinged back and forth through the soot-smeared air as archers and crossbowmen searched for targets and found them.
There was burning on both sides. Firebombs catapulted from the trebuchets mounted on the castle’s outer turrets had set several of the big cogs aflame; in retaliation they had shot fire of their own high over the ramparts, setting the outer ward stables alight. That had sparked a general panic before the roaring flames were quenched into smoky silence by the best efforts of the garrison; most of the horses were now under control, although the enemy had taken advantage of the distraction to redouble their efforts to breach Linden’s first line of defences.
Bernal knew it was only a matter of time, and short time at that, before they succeeded. Corpses of slain soldiers clogged the mud on his side of the wall, but there were many more piled up on the unforgiving slopes of the rocky hill without: the beleaguered defenders had extracted a grisly toll for entrance to the outer ward.
Turning to face him, Prince Wolfram hefted his sword and grinned. His eyes burned with a zealous love of battle. ‘The time has come!’ he cried above the din. ‘The gates will soon be breached and we cannot expect the riverside wall to hold much longer. Marshall all the troops – we’re riding out to meet the rebels!’
Bernal, a stout man in early middle age, dressed in full battle armour like his prince, frowned. ‘Your Royal Highness, the first wall and outer ward are all but lost! We should conserve our strength and do our best to defend the second – it is our last line of defence!’
‘Nay,’ snarled Wolfram, his handsome features contorting with frightful passion. ‘I shall not have it said I cowered behind both of Linden’s walls and waited for the enemy to defeat us! Marshall all the men I say – we shall anticipate them in the outer ward below!’
‘But sire, your father must be nigh with his army,’ protested Bernal. ‘We cannot risk the castle being taken before he arrives!’
‘It shall not be taken!’ yelled Wolfram, already brushing past the castellan towards the stairs leading back down towards the inner ward. ‘By Reus, we’ll send these rebel traitors scurrying back over yonder walls they’ve worked so hard to breach!’
Struggling to keep up and protesting all the way, Bernal followed his youthful prince as he strode through the courtyard barking orders at every knight and man-at-arms he laid eyes on.
Compared to the besieging army they were a meagre sight: no more than four hundred fighting men altogether, besides the harried crossbowmen on the walls whose number had dwindled daily since the siege began.
But Bernal knew they would follow Wolfram in his madcap charge anyway. His prince had that rare gift: the power to inspire men with the same courage that burned in him night and day. His father had been the same – but where Freidheim was also a skilled tactician his eldest son was reckless and bold. As far as Wolfram was concerned, the Almighty was on his side: raw courage and skill at arms would take care of the rest.
Mounting his Farovian destrier, the heir to the throne he was fighting to preserve mustered knights and soldiers around him and ordered the gate leading to the outer ward opened.
Shaking his head Bernal strode over to remonstrate one last time. Though he respected his liege’s prowess, his overconfidence was going to get them all needlessly killed. Better to hunker down and protract the siege – surely the King’s army would get here soon. If they could just hold out a little longer…
When the invaders finally succeeded in breaking down the outer ward gates and came roaring into the courtyard, they found two hundred mounted knights waiting for them.
At first it seemed as though Wolfram’s foolhardy tactics would pay off: the rebels had clearly expected the garrison to remain cowering behind the inner walls. The prince and his knights cut a swathe through the unsuspecting footsoldiers, slaying on the left hand and the right until the earth was thick with an iron blanket of armoured corpse
s.
But by now the attackers on the walls had finally succeeded in gaining the purchase they had fought so hard to obtain, and in their wake came more archers. As their comrades lost no time in slaying the remainder of loyalist crossbowmen on the battlements, the rebel bowmen began picking off knights, using bodkin heads designed to pierce armour.
As more enemy soldiers began to pour in through the breached gates and down from the walls the melee thickened, and with the mounted knights presenting an easy target above the heads of the common footsoldiers they began lose to ground, pushed ever back toward the inner gates...
From his vantage point on the inner wall Bernal saw all of this. He had eventually prevailed upon Wolfram to spare him the men-at-arms, so that they might at least hold the inner ward for a while if the doughty prince should fail.
But as he saw men dismounted, their horses slain beneath them by their desperate attackers, his hopes that it would not come to that began to fade. Even now he could see the first company of rebel knights in the distance, preparing to ride up the road towards the broken gates and enter the fray; the archers positioned on the palisades were holding their fire, trusting to their better-placed comrades on the walls to do their murderous work without inflicting casualties on their own side. On the river the siege-mounted catapults were also holding off so as not to spoil this effort.
We are lost, he thought resignedly. Prince Wolfram would pay for his vain courage with his life or liberty, and most likely two hundred good knights would go down with him, slain or maimed or held prisoner for ransom. With great reluctance the old castellan prepared to give the order to lower the twin portcullises guarding the inner ward.
And then things went from bad to worse. A great cry went up from the courtyard down below.
‘Prince Wolfram is injured! His Royal Highness has been shot!’
With frantic eyes the castellan scoured the ugly human tapestry of iron and blood below him for signs of his liege, his heart quickening. And then he saw him: just below his battle standard the prince lurched in the saddle like a rag doll abandoned by its puppeteer. Protruding from the eye slit of his helm was a feathered shaft.
Dashing along the parapet the castellan yelled at a battle herald: ‘Sound the retreat!’
The herald did as he was told and Bernal prayed the men below would have presence of mind enough to remember protocol in the thick of battle: with the prince dead or incapacitated the castellan resumed command of the castle and its garrison.
As the herald repeated the summons to withdraw twice and thrice the castellan lumbered down the thick stone steps to the courtyard.
‘Erith!’ he barked at the nearest serjeant. ‘Keep the gates open to receive our sortie – get the rest of the crossbowmen to put up covering fire and have the foot ready to repulse any rebels that try to slip in!’
Turning to another serjeant he added: ‘Tokar, be ready to close both gates at my signal! Have men ready at the murder-holes! Saving the prince is a priority – you’re only to close the gates on my orders! The rest of you – close ranks in the courtyard and be prepared to fight any rebels that break through!’
Drawing his sword the castellan felt some of his old fighting spirit return to him.
‘By Reus, if this is to be our last stand we’ll make it a good one!’
The courtyard was a flurry of activity as men scrambled to obey his orders. The entrance to the inner ward was a long wide passage with the portcullises at either end. The innermost one was reinforced with a stout door of iron-shod oak. The castellan ordered another company of men to stand ready to shut it at his command.
Addressing another serjeant on the battlements above him he cried: ‘Lorbo! Keep me informed, dammit! Tell me what is passing without!’
Lorbo, a flustered young man who had been promoted early, stammered back a response: ‘Prince Wolfram’s knights are trying to get him free, sire – they’re fighting fiercely... the enemy soldiers are trying to get to them...’
Bernal tried to make out what was being described to him, but all he could see through the gatehouse’s far exit was a mass of men fighting. A sortie of rebel soldiers, suddenly breaking free of the general melee and espying the open gates, made a dash towards them.
Bernal gave the order to fire. Crossbow bolts zinged and the men fell dead and dying. Now knights belonging to the garrison began to pour in, obscuring his view.
‘Lorbo, what’s happening up there?’ barked the castellan. ‘Is the prince secure?’
The only answer he got from the hapless serjeant was a strangled cry as a shaft pierced his neck. The old castellan swore loudly as his corpse fell to the courtyard, along with those of the herald and several other men still deployed on the ramparts.
‘Dammit, the enemy archers on the outer walls must have switched their fire to target ours! Crossbowmen – get up on the battlements and give them a return volley, on the double!’
It was a forlorn hope. By now the outer battlements would be thick with enemy archers, more than a match for the rump of crossbowmen who now hurried to obey his orders.
‘Knights regroup!’ he yelled at the mounted warriors fleeing back into the courtyard. ‘Get ready to receive the enemy! Soldiers on the gates stand by to close on my orders!’
Bernal was motioning to his squire to bring his warhorse over as he barked orders; handing the lad his sword he mounted up in one swift but painful motion. He was getting too old for this. Taking the blade again he nudged his charger over to join the knights. More continued to pour through, riding down enemy soldiers as they did, though several of them were picked off by archers before they could reach safety.
As the tide of retreating loyalists began to thicken Bernal felt his heart lighten somewhat. Thank Reus, he thought, they’re obeying the herald’s summons. Perhaps they could salvage the situation after all. But where was the prince?
And then he saw. Riding through the gates they came, hell for leather, half a dozen knights including the standard bearer. Two of them supported their liege in the saddle whilst a bleeding squire led his horse by the reins.
‘Get the prince to a room and have Sandon see to him immediately!’ yelled Bernal without taking his eyes off the gates.
In truth he doubted the castle chirurgeon could do much more than ease his prince’s passing now, but with the castle about to fall he had more pressing matters to concern him.
A few dozen other loyalist knights and squires came hurtling in... and then there was a rush of enemy soldiers, making a mad dash in their wake.
‘Close the gates!’ he screamed, his voice hoarse with shouting above the mad din of battle. ‘Close the gates I say!’
With a twin screech the portcullises came crashing down. Several enemy soldiers were pinned by the innermost one; their dying screams were matched by those of their comrades behind as they fell victim to the burning pitch dropped through the murder holes. These faded as the soldiers within the courtyard pushed the oak door to with a mighty heave, ramming a thick bar in place to hold it.
‘Uthor!’ yelled Bernal, addressing the serjeant in charge of the remaining crossbowmen on the walls. ‘How are you speeding up there?’
From where he was kneeling behind the battlements Uthor shouted back: ‘Their archers outnumber us at least five to one, but they’ve no cover on the inner part of the walls. We’re giving as good as we get - ’
An arrow glanced off his helm as he said this, causing him to crouch lower as he addressed his commander in chief. ‘But they’re bringing up men with kite shields to protect them! They don’t have much room to manoeuvre up there but they’re making the best of it they can – we’ll do our best to discourage them.’
‘Good, see that you do,’ yelled the castellan. ‘We’ve a few hours before sunset. When night comes I want a watch posted on all sides of the walls – let’s get a few of our own kites up there too! Where’s Sir Orfius, did he survive the sortie?’
‘I’m here, sire.’ His second-in-command came
riding up. His surcoat was torn and stained with blood, but he appeared to have escaped injury.
‘Orfius, take a headcount – I want to know exactly how many we are left. Judging by what I see, this reckless business has cost us dear.’
‘It has cost the enemy dear too, sire, rest assured,’ replied Orfius.
Bernal sighed inwardly. Few good knights would speak ill of Wolfram’s impetuous gallantry, though it had nearly ended in disaster. But for all his misgivings, Bernal was not about to dissent – not when the heir to the throne lay dying, as was probably the case.
‘Good – at least it wasn’t all for naught then,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’ll see the Prince now.’
They had taken him to a room in the north-west tower, furthest away from the fighting. It was crowded with Wolfram’s anxious knights. The Prince was still covered in full armour – the arrow that had pierced the eye slit of his helm was precariously lodged, making the chirurgeon Sandon’s job all the more difficult. Gently nudging the knights aside the castellan gazed on the fallen royal with sad eyes.
‘Is the wound mortal?’ he asked the chirurgeon in a hushed voice.
Sandon, a slight man dressed in the blood-red robes of his calling, passed a hand through his thinning black hair and replied nervously: ‘He yet lives, my lord, though without removing the helm it is difficult to assess the extent of the damage.’
‘Well remove it,’ said Bernal simply.
Sandon licked his lips nervously. ‘I cannot do that without removing the arrow – but if I do so without being able to examine the wound first, it might worsen it.’
‘Well, what choice do we have, man?’ answered Bernal curtly. Bending to inspect the shaft more closely he added: ‘This looks like a bodkin arrow to me – a broadhead most like would not have been able to pierce his eye slit. You should be able to remove it without worsening the injury.’