The Clocks of Iraz

by L. Sprague DeCamp

  "An we win here, I am sure the king could protect you."

  "Perhaps, perhaps. But suppose he find himself straitened for money to pay the cost of the war and hear of the price the Xylarians have placed on my head?"

  "Oh, he is a kindly man—"

  "For the present; but the day may come when he loves his little Jorian less than the cash I could bring. My taste of kingship has taught me never to trust any ruler. They can always justify any perfidy by saying, 'It's for the people's good.'"

  The battle continued for hours in ever-deepening darkness and confusion. Then the surviving Penembic ships broke off and fled up the Lyap. The pirates swept the decks of the anchored ships, both naval and merchant, and invested the shoreline outside the wall of the city.

  Next day, a Free Company in flashing armor marched down the Novarian Road from the north; Mazsan's peasant army straggled up from the south; and a swarm of robed, camel-riding nomads from Fedirun approached from the east. The siege had begun.

  Chapter Seven

  THE SIEGE OF IRAZ

  THE BESIEGERS SPREAD AROUND IRAZ, OUT OF CATAPULT range, and set up their camps. That of the Free Company was an orderly fortified square of tents, surrounded by a ditch and an embankment. It stood in the fields northeast of the city, where a bend in the Lyap gave the mercenaries room to camp between the river and the wall.

  The camp of the Fedirunis was a sprawling city of brown camel's hair tents set every which way, whence sounds of drums and wailing music arose at night. From eastward, a stream of Fedirunis rode camels, horses, mules, and asses down the East Road to join the besiegers. The news that Iraz might be sacked had spread over the eastern deserts and had drawn all the sand thieves of Fedirun like flies to honey. The city of camel's-hair tents grew and spread like a fungus.

  Mazsan's peasants had not brought tents. Instead, they built rude huts of fieldstone and brushwood or else slept, bundled in sheepskins, in the open. The Algarthian pirates slept aboard their ships.

  The suburb of Zaktan across the Lyap, whose people had all fled to Iraz proper, was plundered and some of the houses were burnt; but a rainy spell prevented a general conflagration. The beacon atop the Tower of Kumashar was dark, for the only incoming ships were additions to the pirate fleet.

  The besiegers assembled mantlets, which they extended in lines towards the city. From behind these defenses, their archers sniped at Irazis on the walls. Since this part of Penembei had few trees, the besiegers' engineers broke up some of King Ishbahar's biggest war galleys for timber to build their engines.

  Beyond the lines of mantlets, siege engines—catapults, tortoises (wheeled sheds), and belfries (movable siege towers)—began to take shape. The sounds of sawing and hammering continued day and night.

  Meanwhile, the wizards on both sides tried out their arts. The besiegers' magicians conjured up illusions of vast, winged monsters, which swooped with bared fangs and fiery breath at the battlements. At first, the defenders scattered with cries of alarm. But Karadur and his assistant wizards quickly identified these monsters as mere harmless phantasms and dispersed them with counter-spells.

  The besiegers' sorcerers then cast a mighty spell, which evoked a horde of bat-winged, scaly demons from the Sixth Plane, to assail the defenders with fangs and talons. But the defending thaumaturgists cast a counter-spell. This spell caused all the bees, wasps, and hornets within ten leagues of Iraz to swarm to the city and attack the demons. With shrieks of pain and croaks of outrage, the demons fled and vanished back to their own plane.

  The men of the Free Company, as the best-disciplined soldiers among the attackers, were the first to complete a catapult. The skeins, slings, and fittings they had brought along in their baggage wagons, and for timbers they used wood from the dismantled battleships.

  This catapult was of the two-armed, dart-throwing type. They levered it forward on its ponderous wheels. A big wooden shield, hung with green hides, was fastened in front of it to protect it against counter-bombardment. Karadur's wizards, collected on the wall, sweated and mumbled and gesticulated in attempts to cast a spell upon the device.

  Early one morning, under an overcast sky, Karadur stood watching from the wall. He said to Jorian: "I fear me, alas, that they have already placed a protective spell over yonder engine, so that all my wizards' efforts will go for nought. The advances in magic of recent centuries have given the defense great advantages in wizardly conflict."

  Jorian, in silvered scale mail, peered through his spyglass. "Methinks they're ready to shoot," he said. "Take a look."

  "Ah, me! You are right."

  "Get ready to duck. One of those darts would skewer you like an olive on a toothpick… Here it comes!"

  The Free Company's catapult discharged with a crash. The missile— a three-foot bolt of wood and iron, with wooden vanes—whistled over their heads, to curve down and fall inside the city.

  "If that be the best they can do," said Karadur, "I doubt that they will soon beat us down by hurling darts at random into this vast city."

  "You don't understand," said Jorian. "That was a mere ranging shot. When they get the elevation right, they'll use that engine to scatter defenders on the wall and thus hinder the servicing of our engines. Now, do you see that other catapult a-building, back of the first one?"

  "Aye."

  "That one will be twice as big and will throw balls of stone or brick instead of darts. They'll wheel it forward and set it to battering a breach in our wall, whilst the dart-thrower protects it 'gainst our counter-measures by a covering bombardment. It may take a fortnight; but soon or late, the wall will crumble and fall at that point."

  "What can we do?"

  "I've already told Colonel Chuivir to start his masons building a lune behind the threatened point. Whether he'll do it is another thing. He suspects that, when I tell him 'tis the king's will that he do thus-and-so, it is really my idea, and he bubbles with resentment."

  "How is our defending army coming?"

  Jorian spat. "Lousy! The Royal Guard have had at least formal training, but they're a mere handful. The militia companies are drilling; but the two stasiarchs are more interested in blackguarding and plotting against each other than they are in winning the war. There have been many affrays betwixt Pants and Kilts, with several wounded and a couple slain.

  "They're just urban rabble anyway: splendid at rioting, looting, and arson, but as soldiers worth no more than so many rabbits. They argue every command and take a perverse pride in slovenliness and indiscipline. Had I but a few thousand of my sturdy Kortolian peasants…" Jorian laughed shortly. "Perdy, kimmer," he said, falling into his rustic Kortolian dialect, "a grew up in little Ardamai and kenned the farm folk well. Then a thought them the crassest clods, dullards, and skinflints on earth. When a first saw Kortoli City, a said, aha! City life be the life for me! And indeed, a still find city folk better company. But, when it come to the push of the pike, gie me yeomen wi' dung on their boots and na thought but the next harvest in their heads!

  "Now, take those houses built against the West Wall, along the waterfront street. That was strictly illegal, since such dwellings provide cover for attackers; but Ishbahar's inspectors doubtless pocketed bribes to overlook…"

  Jorian fell silent for a moment while he swept the besiegers' lines with his telescope. Then he said: "Were I boss of yon besiegers, 'stead of wasting time in building catapults and belfries, I'd make hundreds of scaling ladders and send the whole force against our walls at once."

  "Why, my son? Such ladders are easily overthrown, to the scathe of the men clinging to them. I have never understood how any number of men could take a defended wall. Why cannot the defenders simply push over the ladders as fast as they are erected?"

  "Were numbers anywhere near even, they could. Stout-hearted defenders can beat off several times their number of attackers. But the foe now outnumber us fifteen or twenty to one—at least as far as real soldiers are concerned; I count not Vegh's and Amazluek's rabble. With the de
fenders so few, they could not man all parts of the wall at once. By throwing up ladders against parts of the wall that are bare for the nonce, the assailants can get a lodgment on the top. Once a few sections are taken, the attackers can stream down into the city and make their numbers felt.

  "If the foe strike now, he'll have an excellent chance of overrunning the city; whereas, an he fool around with all these beautiful engines, he may find his advantage lost by Tereyai's arrival… Speaking of whom, has your scryer, what's his name, found out whether our messengers have yet reached General Tereyai?"

  "Nedef has been at his crystal from dawn to sunset, but the scrying has been poor. I daresay the foe's wizards have cast spells to block it. Now and then Nedef gets a fix on some spot in northern Penembei, but all he sees are bare brown hills, with no sign either of our frontier army or of the messengers."

  "Hmm." Jorian stared so long through his spyglass that Karadur said:

  "What is it, O Jorian?"

  "See you that thing between the camps of the Free Company and that of the Fedirunis?"

  "It looks like another line of mantlets, does it not? My dim old eyes—"

  "Aye, but what are mantlets doing so far back? Even a catapult couldn't reach 'em. They seem inordinately high, and methinks I detect activity behind them." Jorian turned on Karadur. "Could your scryer get a glimpse behind that fence?"

  "He can try, whilst I essay to counter the interference of the foe's magicians."

  An hour later, Jorian and Karadur sat in Nedef's chamber in the House of Learning. The scryer sat cross-legged on a bench, hunched over his crystal sphere, which rested upon a small stand of ebony carved into coiling dragons. Karadur sat, also cross-legged, on a cushion on the floor, leaning back with his eyes closed and moving his lips. Jorian sat in a chair, holding a stylus and a waxed wooden tablet. He leaned forward tensely, holding the stylus poised.

  The scryer spoke just above a whisper: "The scene ripples and shifts, although it is not so confused as yesterday's… Methinks their wizards who cast interference upon me have been recalled to other tasks… Ah, now I see Iraz… The scene pitches and tosses, as if I were an insect riding an autumnal leaf borne along on the wind… Steady, steady… Nay, that is the wrong side of the besiegers' ring… Now I have the nomads' tents in view… More to the left! The left! Ah, here we are. Here is your fence, whereon I look down… Curse this interference; it is like trying to see the bottom of a river through the waters of a rapid. I see a great pile of long things; long things with crosspieces… Ah… Now I see men working on these objects… From my height, they look like ants; but… They hammer and saw…"

  "Ladders?" said Jorian.

  "Ah, that is it! Ladders! I could not be sure, because of bad scrying, but ladders they are."

  "Can you estimate their number?" said Jorian.

  "Nay; but there must be hundreds…"

  Jorian looked at Karadur. "They're doing just what I said I should do in their place. The siege engines are a diversion, to make us think we have plenty of time to ready our defenses. Instead, they'll rush us early some morn with all those ladders and scramble over our walls ere we've rubbed the sleep out of our eyes. Once inside, they could stand off Tereyai for ay. With command of the sea, they could not be starved out.

  "Keep Nedef at his crystal and command him to try to learn the foe's precise plans. If he could eavesdrop on a conference amongst the leaders, that might be helpful. Meanwhile, I must forth to tell Chuivir to build crutches."

  "Crutches?"

  "That's what we call those poles with a curved or forked crosspiece at the end, for pushing over ladders."

  "Beware of arousing Chuivir's jealousy!"

  Jorian had thitherto been careful to report back to the palace before issuing royal commands to Colonel Chuivir. But, as he strode through the streets between the House of Learning and the palace, an uproar drew his attention. A group of armed Kilts was chasing three Pants along the avenue, waving swords and shouting vengeance.

  "Heryx blast them!" snarled Jorian to himself, stepping out into the street. As the Pants ran past him, he threw out his arms in a commanding gesture and roared: "Halt, in the king's name!"

  At least, he thought, his glittering parade armor did have its uses. At the sight of his regalia, the pursuing Kilts halted. The three Pants clustered behind him, panting:

  "They… would… slay us… good sir! And… for nought!"

  "What is all this?" barked Jorian.

  "Thieves!" screamed the leading Kilt. "We found them sneaking and snooping around our armory, to steal our weapons!"

  "They lie!" cried a new voice. Jorian turned, and there was the plump Lord Vegh, stasiarch of the Pants. "I sent my trusty lads thither to ask a few civil questions of the other faction, as to what armament they thought most suitable—"

  "Now it is ye who lie!" cried the gaunt, goateed Amazluek, pushing through the gathering crowd. "Civil questions, forsooth! Mere questioners need not try to pick the lock on the armory door—"

  "There was no one on guard," shouted a Pant. "None to answer our questions, so we sought to—"

  Amazluek: "Liar again! There is always a man—"

  "Thou callest me liar?" yelled Vegh, drawing his sword.

  "Liar, thief, and coward!" screamed Amazluek, drawing likewise.

  "Stop it! Stop it!" shouted Jorian over the rising din. "Put up your blades, in the king's name!"

  The clash and ring of sword against sword answered him. Spectators began to shout and to cheer on the combatants according to which faction they supported. They also began to bark threats and insults at each other. Jorian saw one man kick another's shins, another tweak another's nose, and a third seize another's hair and pull it. A full street battle was in the making. In desperation, Jorian drew his sword and knocked up the crossed blades of the stasiarchs.

  "Keep out of this, dirty foreigner!" snarled Amazluek, making a thrust at Jorian's chest. Not expecting the attack, Jorian was slow in parrying. But his corselet saved his life as the stasiarch's point skittered off its scales and tore the sleeve of Jorian's jacket.

  Vegh lunged at Amazluek, who had to leap back and make a hasty parry to save his own gore. Jorian unhooked his lead-pommeled dagger. Holding it by the sheath, he stopped behind Amazluek and brought the pommel down on the stasiarch's head.

  Amazluek wilted to the cobblestones. When Vegh made to run the prostrate man through, Jorian knocked his blade aside and thrust his own point into Vegh's face.

  "Get back, or I will give you some of the same!" he said.

  "Who are you to order us about—" sputtered Vegh.

  "I am who I am. You five Kilts, carry Lord Amazluek back to your headquarters. If water in the face fail to revive him, fetch a chirurgeon to tend him. Lord Vegh, will you be so good as to send your men back to their barracks? Meseems they need every waking hour for drill, if they are to withstand the foe."

  The Kilts, cowed by Jorian's size and air of command, silently picked up their fallen leader and disappeared. Vegh grumbled some threat or curse under his breath. Being a full head shorter than Jorian, he seemed indisposed to carry the argument further. He and his trio also departed, and the crowd broke up.

  Jorian hurried on to the palace. The sun had passed the meridian, and Jorian felt oppressed by the need for haste. The attack with scaling ladders might come at any time, and the disparity in numbers of hardened fighters grew with every additional Fediruni who halted his camel in the growing tent city east of Iraz.

  It was urgent that the crutches be prepared forthwith. It was also urgent that something drastic be done about the command of the militia, before the factions began a civil war.

  At the palace, Jorian was told that King Ishbahar was taking his nap after lunch and could not be disturbed. Jorian chewed his mustache in frustration. He considered forcing an entrance to the king's private chambers on grounds of emergency, waiting until the king awoke, or going directly to Chuivir without clearing his intentions with the king firs
t. The dangers of the last course seemed to him the least.

  He found the handsome colonel in his chamber in the topmost level of the huge, cylindrical keep built against the wall on the eastern side of the city. Thence Chuivir could watch the entire length of the East Wall, including the East Gate. Chuivir, wearing gilded lizard mail even more gorgeous than Jorian's, was checking payrolls.

  Jorian saluted by bringing his fist to his chest. "Colonel," he said, "it is the king's pleasure that his forces prepare for an imminent assault on the walls by scaling ladders. In particular, he desires that hundreds of crutches be prepared and placed on the walls to overthrow these ladders."

  Chuivir frowned. "Where got he any such idea, Captain Jorian? Any fool can see that they are readying a prolonged attack on the walls themselves, by catapults and ram tortoises, in order to make a breach before mounting his assault."

  Jorian told of the server's discovery of the ladder work going on behind the fence to the northeast. Colonel Chuivir picked up his own spyglass and leaned out the window on that side of the tower. After a while, he said:

  "Nay, your seer must have been mistaken. Even if they be preparing ladders, it were incredible that they should essay to use them so early upon our walls."

  "His Majesty," said Jorian, "thinks they are fain to make a sudden assault in hope of carrying the city ere General Tereyai arrive with his army."

  Chuivir stubbornly stuck to his point. "My good Captain, it says right here in Zayuit's Military Manual"—he waved a copy—"that the chances of carrying a wall over forty feet high with ladders alone were negligible. And our walls measure forty-five feet."

  "A city this size should have at least sixty-foot walls," said Jorian.

  "Perhaps; but that is beside the point."

  "Well, are you going to set men to making crutches?"