He looked up at Gilan, who was grinning broadly.
“That’s one heck of a girl you’ve got there,” the Ranger Commandant said. “Where the blazes did she find thirty Skandians?”
Horace shook his head. He looked out at the valley again, a little wistfully. His daughter was out there, somewhere. He wished he could see her. Wished he could talk to her.
“Hal and his brotherband were planning to visit,” he said. “But there are only a dozen of them.”
“Well, thirty Skandians will be very useful if we decide to break out of here,” Gilan said.
Horace nodded slowly, then looked round at the far wall. “That’s true. But first we have to take care of this surprise attack tonight.”
“Which isn’t going to be a surprise anymore,” Gilan said. “Thanks to Maddie.”
* * *
• • •
“That should make them stop and think,” Horace said. It was mid-afternoon and they had completed their preparations for the attack. The two stairways that led up to the north-wall walkway had been removed, as had the first three meters of walkway at either end. In the compound below, they had set sharpened stakes into the ground, pointing up at an angle to deter attackers from jumping down—although the four-meter drop should accomplish that.
“We’ll post your archers at the northern end of the east and west walkways. When the enemy come over the parapet, they’ll find themselves trapped and exposed to your men’s arrows. If they try to jump down, they’ll either impale themselves on those stakes or break an ankle or two.”
Gilan nodded. “Sounds good to me. How do you plan to light those beacons?”
Horace had set three braziers full of oil-soaked wood on the walkway, spaced evenly along it. The plan was to ignite them once the Foxes were trapped on the walkway, backlighting them and making them clearer targets for the archers.
“I’ll place a burning torch on top of each one, with a cord reaching to the east and west walls, and down into the compound itself. Once they’re on the walkway in numbers, we’ll pull the cords and tip the torches into the braziers. They should blaze up immediately.”
Gilan shrugged. “We could always use fire arrows to light them,” he said.
“Fire arrows aren’t totally reliable. They can go out while they’re in the air and then you have to shoot again. This way, I’ll be sure we can light them up immediately.”
Gilan was silent for a moment or two, studying the preparations and trying to see if they had missed anything. Finally, he nodded approval.
“As you say, that should give them a nasty shock. We’re lucky Maddie was able to warn us about the attack.” He paused. “Why do you think they decided to do this now? After all, they simply have to wait us out.”
“Several possible reasons,” Horace told him. “They probably want to keep us on edge, wondering where and when the next attack might come. That could lead to our making mistakes. Plus, they’re planning to surprise us. If they did, they’d probably kill a lot of us, and they know we can’t afford to lose any men. And finally, there’s always the chance that the attack might be successful and they might drive us out altogether.”
“But now, the surprise will be on our side.”
“Yes indeed. I must say, it’s very useful to have a Ranger in the family. I can’t wait to see her tomorrow night and hear the news from Castle Araluen.”
While the preparations had been made for the defense of the fort, Horace had spent a lot of time prowling the south rampart, peering into the valley, studying the trees and the long grass, hoping for some sign of his daughter. He persisted in spite of Gilan’s assurances that if Maddie didn’t want to be seen, she wouldn’t be.
“She’ll be back in the trees somewhere, well hidden,” Gilan told the tall warrior.
Horace nodded gloomily. “I know. But it’s galling to think that she’s out there somewhere, probably watching us, and I can’t see her.”
“She’s very good at staying hidden. Unless you tread on her hand,” Gilan said with a smile, remembering Maddie’s indignation when she had been caught during her third-year assessment. Horace wasn’t familiar with the story and frowned at him. But the Ranger Commandant waved his unspoken question aside. “It’s a long story,” he said.
Horace grunted. Intent on his daughter’s being nearby, he was only half listening to Gilan anyway. Then he gathered his thoughts and focused. He’d see Maddie tomorrow night, he thought. Tonight, he had a raid to repulse. The shadows were starting to lengthen as the sun slipped down behind the trees in the distance, and he remembered a detail that he had to attend to. He looked around and beckoned a trooper over to him.
“Yes, sir?” the soldier said.
Horace indicated the framework over the gate in the south wall. “When the sun goes down, I want a yellow lantern placed above the gateway,” he said.
The man looked puzzled. “A yellow lantern, sir?”
Horace nodded. “Yes. Either wrap the lantern in yellow cloth, or paint the glass yellow. It has to be up there at sunset. Clear?”
“Yes, sir. Yellow lantern on the gate. I’ll attend to it, sir.” He actually had no idea where he’d find yellow cloth or yellow paint, but he was sure the quartermaster would find a solution to the problem. That’s what quartermasters did, after all. He saluted and hurried away to the store house.
“That’s the joy of command,” Gilan said. “You don’t have to worry about the details, you just tell a soldier to make a yellow lantern.”
“Don’t know why Maddie insisted it had to be yellow,” Horace grumbled.
Gilan grinned at him. “She’s a Ranger. And we like to make things difficult for the rest of you.”
“Well, she’s certainly learned that lesson,” Horace agreed. He cast one more look over the arrangements at the north wall. His men were just setting the torches in position on the three braziers, and running cords to the vantage points he had selected. It was the final detail, he realized. Once it was dark, the torches would be lit, then replaced when they burned down.
“Wish she’d told us when they plan to attack,” he said.
Gilan shrugged. “My guess is they’ll want darkness, so it’ll be after the moon has set. That’ll be around two hours before dawn.” The enemy weren’t skilled at the art of concealment, he knew. They wouldn’t realize the value of moving cloud shadows. Instead, they’d opt for the obvious—total darkness.
“May as well get some sleep while we’re waiting,” Horace replied, and they turned for their tents.
14
At Castle Araluen, the regular dull thud of rocks hitting the tower had continued throughout the afternoon. From time to time, the sound and vibration through the floor of the tower ceased as the attackers exhausted their supply of rocks and sent for more.
Cassandra had set lookouts to keep watch on the results of the battering. Aware that any shots that hit above the parapet would scatter broken sandstone shards in all directions, she cautioned her watchers to stay behind the curve of the wall for each shot, venturing out to inspect the results in the lull while the trebuchet was reloaded.
Initially, she would check every fifteen minutes or so herself. But as time passed and there was no apparent damage done to the hard granite walls, she relaxed and waited for her observers to report to her.
The constant impact of boulders against the wall had woken Duncan, and he sent a servant to ask what was happening. When she told him, he smiled grimly.
“He won’t scratch these walls with sandstone rocks,” he said. “He’s wasting his time trying. But as long as he keeps it up, he’s not trying something more effective. Just keep your heads down out there.”
She sat with Merlon at the big table on the ninth floor. The sergeant was nursing a mug of ale—a small mug, in view of their limited supply.
“You’ve been on the other side of thi
s sort of thing,” she said. “Any thoughts on what he might try next?”
Merlon pursed his lips thoughtfully, thinking back to his days in the artillery. “Well, if I were him, and I could see the rocks weren’t doing any good, I might try fire bladders.”
“Fire bladders?” Cassandra asked. “What are they?”
“You fill pigs’ or cows’ bladders with oil and pitch and put a burning wick in them. Then you throw them instead of rocks. The idea is, they hit the wall and burst, letting the burning oil run everywhere. The pitch makes it stick to anything it touches. Or anyone.”
“But the walls won’t burn,” Cassandra pointed out.
Merlon nodded. “No. But if he lobs them so they hit above the balcony, the burning oil could run down the wall and through into the tower itself. The floor might burn.”
“But we could always extinguish it,” Cassandra pointed out. “Remember we have the water cisterns in the roof.”
“True. But some of our men could be burned, or some of our supplies or equipment. It wouldn’t bring down the tower, of course. But it might make things very unpleasant for us. And then we’d have to flood the ninth and eighth floors, which would be a nuisance as well.”
“Hmmm,” said Cassandra thoughtfully, picturing the possible scene of confusion and damage. “Do you imagine he might try that eventually?”
Merlon shrugged. “I would.”
* * *
• • •
It was another hour before the regular, slow-paced barrage of rocks against the wall ceased.
One of Cassandra’s soldiers, who was currently on watch, came running into the tower from his vantage point on the balcony.
“My lady,” he said urgently, “you’d better come see this.”
Cassandra had been dozing in an easy chair, her feet propped up on a low bench. She stood, stretched herself and followed the trooper outside. The problem with being besieged, she thought, was that one’s life fluctuated between long periods of boredom and short moments of sudden fear and uncertainty.
The soldier went to the parapet and pointed to the courtyard below. Leaning over, Cassandra could see several men carrying what appeared to be glossy bags, filled with something. Looking more closely, she recognized the bags as animal bladders. The bladders were stacked at the front of the platform, where the rocks had been stowed earlier. But they had been moved back slightly, so that the archers on the balcony couldn’t get a clear shot at them. Now one man hefted one of the bladders and carried it to the sling, while the rest of the crew wound the trebuchet back. The loader heaved the full bag—which wobbled and surged in his hands, indicating that it was full of liquid—into the sling. Then another man stepped forward with a burning rope’s end and held it down to the bag. A thin trail of smoke curled up where he lit the wick.
At that moment, the trebuchet released with its usual crash of timber on timber. The sling whipped over on its rope and the bladder soared up toward them. Cassandra ducked below the cover of the balustrade.
It was a good shot. The trebuchet crew had had a lot of practice perfecting their aim.
Cassandra started in fear as the bladder struck the tower, half a meter above the door, and burst. Almost instantly, there was a roar of flame as the oil and pitch ignited, and a flood of fire erupted over the balcony, some of it clinging to the walls, while the rest dripped down and spread tendrils of flame over the floor. Some of it made its way under the door, and she heard cries of alarm from inside the tower as men rushed to extinguish them.
She suppressed a sudden jolt of panic as she assessed this new danger—one she had never encountered before. She wasn’t sure how to cope with it. Logic told her that the flames couldn’t do any permanent harm to the structure of the stone tower, but the oil and pitch formed a sticky, burning coating on anything it touched. If such a projectile hit one of her men, or even burst close to him, she realized, he would face an agonizing death—or at least horrific injury.
And if several of those dreadful missiles happened to hit the wooden door, and coat it with their sticky, flaming contents, they could well burn it down, opening the way for more damage inside the tower rooms.
She ran to the door and shoved it open. She was relieved to see that the fire inside had been extinguished, and she shouted for Merlon. The old soldier had been supervising the men who had put out the fire. He moved to her side, coughing with the smoke that swirled about the room.
“Get buckets full of water and keep them on hand here,” she ordered. She glanced up at the narrow, unglazed windows on either side of the door. “And stuff those windows with wet blankets.” For a moment, she considered flooding the floor with water from the roof cisterns, but discarded the idea. It would take hours to soak the floors thoroughly, and that would deplete her precious water supply. Better to use buckets to drench any fire that started up.
Merlon saluted and hurried away to obey her orders, shouting for others to follow and help him. From the courtyard, she heard the slam of the trebuchet as it released another projectile. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it. After a short pause, she heard the SPLAT! as a bladder hit the walls outside and burst. A yellow-red glow showed through the windows and under the door, and she could smell the vile stench of the burning oil and pitch.
Panic rose in her once more, the fear like a hand squeezing her chest. She fought it down, waited for the light of the flames to subside, then opened the door again. There was a patch of viscous, burning fuel on the balcony flagstones, beneath the left-hand window. More flames dripped down from the wall above it. She beckoned to the first of the soldiers who arrived, carrying two buckets of water.
“Here!” she shouted, pointing, and he dashed forward, set one bucket down, and hurled the contents of the other on the flames. She was relieved to see that the sudden flood of water smothered the burning fuel. The water hissed and bubbled and steam and smoke swirled around the balcony. But the fire was out.
“Back inside!” she ordered, then moved to the balustrade to watch for the next shot. Her instincts told her to seek safety inside the tower, but she knew she would have to observe the results of each shot, and call for help when and if it was needed.
From the courtyard, there was a ragged cheer as the trebuchet crew heard the startled shouts of the men in the tower and finally sensed some reward for their efforts. The windlass creaked as they set to with a will, winding the arm back for another shot, moving with renewed enthusiasm. Cassandra resumed her position at the parapet, watching as another bladder was loaded into the sling.
Again, the trebuchet released, and again she retreated to shelter behind the tower.
SPLAT!
The fire bladder burst against the balustrade wall, just under the balcony this time, and burning oil and pitch cascaded over onto the flagstones, in the spot where she had been standing. There was more cheering from below.
An idea was forming. As the crew began to cock the trebuchet once more, she hammered on the door and called into the interior of the tower.
“Thomas! Dermott! Simon! Out here, please!”
The three archers appeared a few moments later. She beckoned them over to the wall and pointed downward. They followed her pointing finger nervously. They had seen the sudden shower of burning oil that had spread through the doorway.
“Watch while it throws, then run like mad for the back of the terrace,” she said.
The trebuchet gave off its distinctive SLAM! as the arm crashed down and the sling whipped up and over. Cassandra waited until they could see the bladder hurtling toward them.
“Take cover!” she shouted.
She and the three men dashed around the tower to the shelter of the rear of the balcony. This shot was high and off line. The bladder struck the curve of the tower and failed to burst, deflecting off to one side, then falling into the courtyard below, where it set off a blaze of smoke and f
lame.
She beckoned the three archers back to the parapet. There would be a longer delay between shots this time as the trebuchet was realigned. She pointed down to the space behind the weapon.
“When they release it, the sling with the bladder in it swings out behind the arm,” she said. “Did you see it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Thomas said and the others nodded.
“If you could hit the bag with an arrow just after it leaves the sling, you’d burst it and shower them with their own burning oil,” she said.
Thomas frowned. “It’d have to be a good shot,” he said doubtfully.
But she punched his arm in encouragement. “You can do it,” she said. “You just have to anticipate the moment when it leaves the sling. And if all three of you shot at the same time, you’ll treble your chances.”
Thomas lost the doubting look and looked at his two companions. “What do you say, lads? Is it worth a try?”
Typically, it was young Dermott who answered. “We can do it, Thomas. Leastways, if you can’t, I can!” His eager grin robbed his words of any offense.
The third archer, Simon, was nodding. “Worth a try, Thomas.”
The three of them readied their bows and stepped up to the parapet. Cassandra watched as the trebuchet crew finished realigning their weapon and began to crank back the arm once more.
“As soon as you shoot, run like blazes for cover,” she warned them, realizing how appropriate her choice of words was for the situation.
The three archers watched intently, their bows half drawn. The sling was loaded, the throwing arm finished its last few centimeters of movement. They heard the commander below call the release.
SLAM!
Thrum! Thrum! Thrum!
Duel at Araluen Page 10