He peered more closely, framing his hands around his eyes to help him focus on the trebuchet.
“Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully.
She looked quickly at him. “What is it?” she asked.
He pointed down into the courtyard. “The rope they’re using. It’s coated with tar.”
She frowned, not seeing the significance. “That’s normal, isn’t it?” she asked. “I assume they’d do that to stop it fraying.”
“Yes. It’s quite normal. But usually the rope on a trebuchet is old and the tar has dried and hardened. This is newly applied. It’s fresh.” He paused for a few seconds, then added, “And flammable.”
Slowly, the significance of what he was saying dawned on her. “So . . . if we were to hit it with fire arrows,” she said, “it would probably burn quite nicely.”
He smiled at her. “Exactly.”
Cassandra turned away to the door. “Merlon!” she called.
The old sergeant appeared almost immediately. “Yes, my lady?” he replied.
She gestured to the interior of the tower behind him. “Get those archers out here again, will you?”
He nodded and disappeared back into the tower room. She could hear him calling out as he went. He reappeared with the archers a few minutes later. Cassandra beckoned to them to join her at the balustrade, then looked expectantly to her father, waiting for him to explain what they had in mind. Duncan took her arm and, limping still, led her a few paces away, then spoke softly to her.
“You’re in command,” he told her. “You need to tell them what to do. I don’t want the men looking to me every time you give an order to see if I approve. You need to appear confident and positive.”
Cassandra nodded and moved back to where the archers were waiting. Duncan remained where he was. She pointed to the trebuchet in the courtyard below.
“The rope on that windlass is freshly tarred,” she said. “The tar is still soft and wet. That means it’s highly flammable.”
They all nodded, beginning to see where she was going. “Do you think you could . . .” Duncan cleared his throat meaningfully behind her, and she recalled what he had said about being positive and confident. “I want you to put a few fire arrows into that rope,” she amended. “I want you to set it on fire.”
Delighted grins spread across the three men’s faces.
“No problem at all, my lady,” Thomas, the senior among them, replied.
The others murmured agreement.
“You have a wicked mind, my lady,” Thomas continued.
She shrugged, taking the comment as a compliment.
Merlon snapped his fingers at the three archers. “You start preparing some fire arrows,” he said. “I’ll go fetch a brazier.”
8
“If you’re coming with us, you’ll have to leave your horse here,” Hal told Maddie. “We’re already overcrowded with Wolfbiter’s crew onboard. There isn’t room for a horse.” He could see Maddie didn’t like the idea and he waved an arm around the riverbank. “There’s plenty of grass and water here for him,” he said. “He’ll be fine for a few days.”
Maddie hesitated a few seconds longer, than came to a decision. “No,” she said. “I’m not leaving him.”
She couldn’t explain to the Skandian that a Ranger and her horse were inseparable. Already, in recent days, she had left Bumper on his own for too long. She didn’t want to make it any longer.
She had no idea what they were going to find at the hill fort, but she and Bumper were a team and she felt more confident when he was with her. Hal raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders at her refusal. In the past, they’d carried horses aboard Heron. They could take up planks in the central deck to create a pen. They had even carried several horses at once on occasion. But that was when there was only the Heron brotherband aboard. Now, with over thirty men in the crew, with their equipment, weapons and baggage, there was simply no room to do it. Heron was, after all, smaller than a standard wolfship.
Maddie strode back to the map, still spread out on the tree stump, and with several rocks holding down its edges. She studied it for a moment, then beckoned Hal to join her.
As before, she used her saxe to point out positions on the map.
“I’ll travel across country,” she said, indicating a route running northeast from their current position to the hill fort. “It’s a good deal shorter than the way you’ll have to go—you’ll be heading out to the ocean, turning north and then coming inland again when you reach the mouth of the Wezel.”
“That’s true enough,” Hal agreed. “Although we’ll probably move a lot faster than you. We’ve got a lot of extra rowers onboard.” He paused, studying the map, mentally measuring the distances involved. Then, inevitably, he checked the telltale ribbon at Heron’s sternpost before coming to a decision. “We should reach this point”—he took the saxe from her hand and indicated a position on the Wezel River about five kilometers to the east of the hill fort—“by the end of the day tomorrow. Will you make it by then?”
Maddie nodded. “The map doesn’t show any hills or difficult terrain,” she said. “That’ll give me plenty of time to make that rendezvous. If I get there much before you, I might take a look at the fort and see what we’re up against.”
“Don’t let them catch you,” Hal said, without thinking. Then, seeing Maddie’s pained look, he added, “Sorry. I forgot. Rangers don’t do that sort of thing, do they?”
“We try not to.” But Hal’s apologetic grin made it impossible for her to take any real offense. “You’d better get going,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
“We’ll be there,” he said, and turned away toward the river, calling for Stig to get the crews back onboard. She watched Hal striding down the riverbank. There was something in his manner, confident and capable, that lifted her spirits. With allies like these, she thought, she’d have no trouble breaking her father out of the fort.
She turned and walked briskly toward the trees, where Bumper waited for her. She’d unsaddled him when they’d first reached this spot and she hefted the saddle now, heaving it up onto his back, settling it in position and leaning down to tighten the girth straps.
So we’re not going on the boat? he asked.
She shook her head. “No room for us. It’s full of big, hairy Skandians.”
Just as well. I probably get seasick on boats.
“You’ve never been on one.”
That’s because I probably get seasick.
She went to reply, then realized that she had no answer to this twisted logic, so she let him have the last word.
Again.
* * *
• • •
She found a minor road—little more than a rough track, really—heading roughly northeast, and followed it for the rest of the day. The countryside varied between open grasslands and moderately wooded areas. Whenever she came into the open and could see the sun, she checked her direction. It was all too easy for a winding road like this to gradually diverge from its initial path, so that she might find herself inadvertently heading due east, rather than the original direction. She was pleased to see that the road maintained its general heading of northeast, although she determined not to rely on that fact, but to check whenever possible.
She made good time, and around the late afternoon she started looking for a suitable campsite. It would be best to spend the night in among the trees, she decided. She was not too far away from the hill fort and the Red Fox camp. There could well be foraging parties out gathering food or firewood, and she didn’t want to run across one of them.
She finally found the ideal spot, a small open glade set about ten meters off the track. She left Bumper in the opening and returned to the track, peering through the trees to see if she could spot him, but he was well concealed. Once it was dark, the glade would be even mor
e invisible to anyone passing by. After all, she had only spotted it with difficulty in the full light of day.
She unsaddled Bumper and hung his bridle over a tree limb. The grass here was thick and lush, and he set about cropping it, grinding it between his big square teeth with a satisfied sound.
Maddie peered up through the canopy of trees to where she could see the sky. It was clear, with only a few small clouds dawdling by overhead. She sniffed the air experimentally. Often, that was the surest way of sensing approaching rain. But the air smelled reassuringly dry, so she decided against pitching her travel shelter and hammock. The thick grass would be soft enough underneath her. And her cloak would keep her warm and dry—and concealed, she thought.
She considered lighting a cook fire but discarded the idea. The smell of woodsmoke would linger for hours and be a sure giveaway, if anyone was searching the area, that someone was camped here. Instead, she ate a frugal meal from her travel rations: smoked meat, dried fruit and flat bread.
The lack of a fire meant no coffee, of course, and for a moment she nearly relented. Then she realized that the smell of brewing coffee would be even more of a giveaway than woodsmoke. Smoke might come from an accidental fire. Fresh brewed coffee could only indicate someone nearby. Reluctantly, she washed her meal down with fresh water from a nearby creek, filling her canteen from the same source. Will had taught her that it was always wise to top up your fresh water supplies whenever possible. Having experienced the taste of water left too long in the wood-and-leather canteen, she understood the sentiment.
“You’ll owe me for this, Dad,” she said quietly.
Bumper looked up from his grazing. You said?
“Nothing. I was talking to my dad.”
The little horse appeared to look around the glade. Who is not here.
“I know that. I was speaking rhetorically.”
He inclined his head, peering down at her where she sat cross-legged on the grass. I’m not sure that’s the accurate meaning of rhetorical.
“So bring me up before a magistrate and charge me. It’s close enough to what I had in mind,” she said.
He shrugged—insofar as a horse could be said to shrug—and put his head down once more, teeth busily cropping and tearing at the grass, jaws grinding.
It had been a long day’s ride, and once the sun set, she settled back, head on her saddle and folded saddle blanket, and rolled her cloak around her.
Her bow was unstrung, hanging in a tree close by—the damp night air would play havoc with a tensioned bowstring—but her sling was coiled loosely around her right wrist and several lead shot were arranged on the grass beside her saddle. In addition, her saxe and throwing knife were within easy reach.
“Keep your ears open,” she said to Bumper. If anyone approached during the night, he would hear them or smell them and give her plenty of warning. He snorted agreement and she closed her eyes and was almost immediately asleep.
She was awoken by the predawn chorus of birds. She lay on her back for a few seconds, enjoying the joyous sound and stretching luxuriously. A gray light filtered through the trees, and there was a thick ground mist. A few meters away, the dark shape that was her horse moved quietly about the glade, keeping watch, as he had done all night.
“Did you get any sleep?” she asked. She knew that he could be asleep and still hear or sense someone approaching. He snorted and nodded his head.
She rolled out of her cloak, stretching once more and groaning slightly as she rose to her feet. As ever, the old wound in her hip twinged slightly after several hours of being immobile. She rubbed it absentmindedly and contemplated the day. Once the sun rose, this mist would clear and it would be another fine day, she thought. That was all to the good. She didn’t enjoy traveling in the rain.
The previous afternoon, she had collected sticks and twigs to use as kindling, and a couple of larger deadfalls, hiding them from the dew under the low branches of a leafy bush. She dragged them out now and started building a fire. The smell of woodsmoke and coffee wouldn’t be a risk for her now, as she was moving on from this spot. There would only be a problem if there was somebody in the immediate vicinity, and she knew that, if that were the case, Bumper would have warned her.
“Nobody around, is there?” she asked, striking her flint with the edge of her saxe.
Would have told you if there were.
She got the fire going and filled her small coffeepot from the canteen, setting it in the edge of the fire to boil. When it was bubbling cheerfully, she tossed in a handful of coffee and stirred the pot with a green stick. The delicious aroma filled the air and she smiled in anticipation. She had caught the Ranger’s curse of addiction to coffee. She might manage to spend the evening without it, but mornings were a different matter.
She filled her mug with the fragrant liquid, spooned in honey and stirred it vigorously. Then, sitting by the fire, hands wrapped around the mug, she drank deeply.
“Oh, that’s good. You don’t know what you’re missing,” she told her horse, after several more sips.
Bumper shook himself. By the same token, you don’t appreciate the rich flavor of fresh green grass.
She concealed a shudder at the comparison. “That’s true. Funny that didn’t occur to me.”
She ate more of the flatbread from her pack and a handful of dried fruit and nuts. They would keep her going until about midday. But the coffee was the real restorative. She checked the pot, found another half cup still in it and poured it into her mug.
When she finished, she rinsed her mug and tossed the dregs of the pot onto the fire. She repacked her things, kicked dirt over the now-smoldering fire and saddled Bumper. She took her bow down from the tree limb where it was hanging and strung it. The air was dry now and the string wouldn’t suffer—and, as she had been repeatedly told by Will, An unstrung bow is a stick.
She swung lightly up into Bumper’s saddle. Now that she had been moving around for some minutes, the stiffness in her hip had faded.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I want to take a look at this hill fort.”
9
The first fire arrow streaked away. The oil-soaked rag wrapped tightly around its warhead created a hissing sound as it whipped through the air. It left a thin trail of gray smoke behind it as it flashed down to the trebuchet. But Thomas, the archer, hadn’t allowed enough for the extra weight and drag of the burning cloth and the shaft fell short of its target, smacking into the timber decking of the trebuchet platform.
“You missed,” said Dermott, one of the other archers.
Thomas eyed him balefully. “You try then.”
Dermott dipped his arrow into the flaming brazier Merlon had set on the balcony beside them. Waiting until the rag was fully alight, he leaned over the parapet, drew and released. Again, a thin trail of gray smoke was left behind it. The arrow struck true, burying itself in the coils of tarred rope that wound round and round the windlass. But it was buried too deeply and the flame was extinguished before it could spread to the rope.
“Hah!” Thomas said scornfully.
Dermott, who was considerably the younger of the two, went red in the face and cursed quietly. Then, realizing who was standing beside him, he nodded his head apologetically to Cassandra. “Your pardon, my lady.”
She shrugged. “I’ve heard worse from my father,” she told him. The archers grinned and Duncan snorted indignantly. Then she looked at the third archer, standing ready by the brazier. “Third time’s a charm, Simon.”
He nodded, dipped his arrow into the flames, waited a few seconds to make sure it was burning properly, and then took his shot.
Like its predecessor, the arrow smacked into the coils of rope around the windlass. But this time, the flame, which had been subdued by the wind of its passage, flared up again. The watchers on the balcony gave little cries of triumph and waited.
After se
veral seconds, they were rewarded by the sight of flames creeping across the tarred rope. The tar burned with a black smoke, and the flames quickly grew in intensity. Then they reached the point where a single strand of the rope ran up to the trebuchet beam. The flame licked upward, burning more fiercely on this exposed section of cordage, which had better access to the air around it. Thomas nocked another arrow and stepped toward the brazier, but Cassandra held out a hand to stop him.
“Wait. We may not need it.”
Flames were now running freely along the entire length of the rope. And, as the tar burned away, they began to eat into the fabric of the rope itself. Suddenly, with an audible TWANG, the rope, which was under tension, gave way and the beam whipped down and hit the timber block that acted as a stop when it recoiled. There was a massive crash and Cassandra was sure she heard a splitting sound as well. A moment later, she saw she was right, as the beam sagged at the point where it crossed the axle.
“Oh, well done!” said Duncan. “Well done indeed!”
“You’ve cracked the beam,” she said triumphantly. “That’ll hold them up.”
A moment later, the sound of hammering ceased and several men ran out from behind the keep into the courtyard to investigate the crashing sound from the trebuchet. There were cries of anger and frustration as they saw the damage. Then they summoned more of their companions to drench the smoldering rope with buckets of water and help drag the damaged machine back behind the keep tower.
Cassandra eyed her three archers, who were watching the confusion below with enormous satisfaction. “Are you waiting for something in particular?” she asked.
“Sorry, my lady!” said Thomas, and he and his two companions nocked, drew and shot at the confused crowd below.
Two men went down. One of them stayed down. The other hauled himself to his feet, holding on to the framework of the trebuchet, an arrow through his lower leg. As the archers released another volley, the men in the courtyard below scuttled to take shelter behind the trebuchet, crouching on the side farthest from the south tower. Arrows continued to hiss furiously about their ears as they inadvertently showed themselves for a second or two. Then there were no more targets visible, and the three archers stopped shooting without further orders.
Duel at Araluen Page 6