Besieged
Page 20
Castoff scratched his head and separated one person from the five remaining. Then he put his front legs over his ears and moaned. Watcher Reg chuckled, “My apologies, Castoff. Please don’t try to divide one of our loyalists in two.”
With a woof, the dog moved three toward Reg.
“Very early the next morning before there was even a rosy tint to the sky—the Caparian loyalists stood in a semi-circle on the high ground looking down.”
Castoff nudged the three into the second step. Father moved up one step to accommodate them.
“At the general’s signal, the music began with a song of praise and triumph.”
Pointing his nose toward the bells, Castoff warbled. The crowd clapped.
“Roused from a deep sleep—perhaps an extra deep sleep compliments of The Masters—their enemy stumbled from their tents and began attacking each other. By the time they realized what they had done, most lay dead or dying.
Castoff chased his own tail before collapsing with all four feet waving in the air. The loyalists cheered.
“Those not mortally wounded rushed to their ships and sailed away, never to return.”
Castoff slunk toward the door on his belly.
The loyalists stood tall, eyes bright.
“Why did The Masters deliberately reduce the size of the Caparian army to less than five hundred, Father?”
“So that all would realize who the true hero and victor of the battle was. It greatly displeases Them when men take credit for Their deeds.” Father’s voice rang out like a bugle’s call.
“You are saying They prefer to work through a small, select group such as those assembled here?”
Reg opened his arms wide as if to wrap them all in a hug. “Yes. They look for the weak who will not boast of victories they didn’t win.”
She smiled into the eyes of her fellow warriors. “We in this tower have been hand-picked for our lack of skill and experience so that They might receive all the accolades?”
Cantor, surrounded by the fulcarry fighters bellowed, “For The Masters and Capular.” Weariness dropped away as the rest took up the chant.
Reg brought his hands together in a resounding clap. “This is an ongoing story of The Masters’ intervention on our behalf. What a tale of miracles. Once this battle is won, I will commission our best storyteller — second only to your dog—to add this epic to the Caparian annals. He will include your picture warnings, Kyam’s bold defense, the supernatural river, and…”
“Here they come.” An archer posted near the front door shouted.
Cierra bolted to her feet and raced for the stairs. The loyalists raced after her, all at their stations in a few foot-pounding minutes. Archers and fulcarry fighters stood at every window on the second floor, as well as a few well-crafted dummies poised to accept arrows. The elderlies crouched beneath the windows, ready to administer aid to those hit by arrows.
She leaned out a front facing window. Tellus came first. Then row after row of armored men crested the knoll and marched toward them. She looked beyond them. No signs the citizens were stirring.
Tellus stopped a farthong from the door. “This is your last chance. Surrender or die.”
The loyalists responded with a “whoop” usually reserved for a successful hunt against wild beasts. Cierra shouted, “Surrender is not an option.”
Tellus moved back, raised his arm and let it fall. Six men carrying a large tree trunk moved into position. They aimed its thick base at the door and charged.
Boom. The sound bounced off all seven walls.
She hurried to the stair well and called down. “Does the door hold?”
Cantor’s grinning face appeared, looking up at her. “Sound as a stallion’s chest.”
A cheer arose behind her. All four dummies were down, filled with arrows. The elderlies extracted each one intact and handed them to the archers. “Is anyone injured?”
“Only the dummies sustained wounds.”
“Excellent. Choose your targets well; focus on those in command who present a clear and close target.”
“Yes, Lady Kyam.”
Next she panted her way up to the ringer’s platform. The ringers bowed and rose in time with the bells. Faces intent. “Rella, rotate your ringers, half ringing and half resting. Now we settle in for a long test of endurance.”
Mother arrived carrying a tray with mugs of water.
Another boom. The bells were vital, but the door had to withstand the assault. Where was she most needed? The platform felt like a haven of peace while the front door was at the center of a violent storm. She had the skill and experience to aid with the bells. What did she know about defending the tower against aggression?
Climb your mountain, Mela Dolsi.
How clearly she heard Kyam’s voice in her heart. Very well. She would face her fear, leave the comfort of the bells, and join the fighters. She returned to the second floor and, back to the wall, turned her torso to peer out a window, so that she could look out while not making a target of herself. The men with the battering ram were preparing to make another run at the door.
Cierra motioned to the archers. “See if you can hinder Tellus and the rammers.”
Bows were drawn and released. Shouts and grunts followed.
One archer turned to her. “Two rammers down. Tellus has an arrow in his shoulder.”
Mince looked out the window. “Fresh backs are carrying the ram. Some of their archers are readying flaming arrows.”
Cierra yelled down the stairway. “Water and assistance in the archer’s perch.”
Footsteps immediately responded. Cantor led the charge. “Your father has things well in hand at the door. ‘Archer’s perch’?”
She smiled. “I will soon grow weary of counting—and remembering—floor numbers and identifying them as such.”
A fiery projectile landed at their feet. Loyalists rushed to slap out the flames with dampened cloths. Cierra backed out of the way. “Very efficient.”
Cantor nodded. “They anticipated this need and formed a plan.”
More arrows landed. Each quickly extinguished.
She smiled. “Well done. I had nothing to do with its execution. I no longer feel as if I must be everywhere at once.”
“We felt The Masters’ touch as we prepared. A truly exhilarating experience. What have you named the other floors?”
“The ground floor is fortress. The third, Paro’s kitchen. Fourth, wounded retreat. Fifth, storage. Then the ringers’ platform. Seventh, harps. And lastly the belfry.”
“I understand all but harps.”
“The taut bell ropes remind me of their strings.”
Another boom. Soon their ears would be ringing…and heads pounding.
✽✽✽
The morning seemed endless. The boom of rams began to cause tension and head pain. Paro and Mother distributed cheer along with water because, “Refreshing their souls is every bit as important as water for their bodies.”
The bells changed to joy.
Father shouted, “Cierra, tell Rella well done. This song is having a great impact. The mercenaries are running in circles. Their movements are as frenzied as if attacked by bees.”
From her position in the archer’s perch, Cierra eased to the side of a window and peered out. The soldiers appeared irritated. Arguments were breaking out. Best of all, the rammers were growing uncoordinated, like a centipede that had forgotten how to organize its legs. Finally, the bells were working. And the change to songs of joy seemed to be especially potent. Cupping her mouth she yelled, “Keep ringing, Rella, the bells are working.”
The bells started a new tune. One that celebrated The Masters care and protection. It was fast-paced, with all the bells pealing one on top of the other. Basses wove with sopranos. Tenors danced with altos. Beautiful.
One of the tenors missed its time. The song changed, faltered. A soprano fell silent.
Cierra and Castoff charged for the stairs. Cantor was on her heels.
Rella held up a rope with a frayed end. “I checked each and every one myself before we started.”
Cierra motioned the fulcarry fighters to follow her and Castoff up the stairs. Cantor brought up the rear. Another bell fell silent.
In the dim recess of the harp’s platform a figure hunched over a rope. One arm moving furiously in a sawing motion. Eight ropes should have been strung taut. Only three stretched from ceiling to floor slots.
The saboteur glanced toward them. Mince. Then he continued cutting the rope.
“Stop him.”
Castoff charged past her. Moments later, Mince was on the floor, the dog at his throat. When the fighters moved in, Castoff backed off. They led the bound Mince to Cantor.
“Traitor.” Cantor’s face was red.
“Realist.” Mince sneered. “You can’t win. The bells are merely prolonging the agony.”
“Forgive me, Lady Kyam. I trusted the wrong man. His words and raiment deceived me.”
“We have all been misled by the outward.” She grinned. “A savvy werf would be a great asset.”
“Werf?”
Cierra shrugged. “A long tale for another time.”
“Your dog knew something smelled wrong with Mince. If I’d honored his instincts, the bells would still be…
Cierra held up her hand and wrinkled her nose. That horrible, familiar smell. “Fulcarries are coming.” She turned to the nearest fighter. “May I borrow your weapon?”
The smell grew more pronounced. She looked at the ceiling. “It’s in the belfry. Soon we will know if it can navigate the stairs.”
The scratch of claws, the rustle of feathers, and the creak of dry leather came closer and closer. The stench grew overwhelming. Cierra fought the need to gag. Could she keep it from gaining the landing?
She transferred the whip to her other hand so that she could wipe sweaty palms. A choked sound behind her—the fulcarry fighters. Without taking her eyes off the stairs, she whispered. “You two to the left of the stairs. I’ll swing first. Then each of you—but not at the same time. We don’t want our weapons to tangle.”
“Give up stupid vermin.” The voice had the high, strangled tone she remembered. It sent familiar shudders down her spine.
Castoff howled.
“What insult is this that you send mere dogs to fight me?”
“There is nothing mere about our noble friend nor is he alone. You are the one who should give up.”
“He-he-he. Humans are no more capable of defeating me than a dog. I shall kill you very slowly as a lesson to others foolish enough to rebel.”
Black claws crusted with scales appeared at the top of the steps. Poor werfs, to have been carried for hundreds of melars in those talons.
Next came the dull black feathers of the fulcarry’s legs and chest. Its body filled the opening. How fortunate that these stairs were less wide and accessible than those of the first floors. The fulcarry ducked its head and stared into her eyes. It slowly wove its head from side to side. That awful mesmerizing movement.
She dared not be drawn into its undulating rhythm. She twitched the whip—no kinks in it or her hand. The creature seemed supremely confident. Did it not know Kyam and she had killed two? Was it unaware of who she was?
If that were true, it gave her a wonderful advantage. She should use it wisely. “What kind of creature are you?”
“We are fulcarries, under lords of the Kilnor Isle. We know only conquest and spoils. Human blood is one of our greatest delicacies.”
All the time it spoke, its long neck and head swung and curled, moving insidiously closer until it was within striking distance. In the next second it would lunge at her.
Her whip hand came up. Crack. It wrapped around the fulcarry’s neck.
The creature thrashed and screeched. It yanked so violently, Cierra barely kept her feet. She tried to pull the whip tighter to strangle the bird, but instead the whip began to slip.
“Quickly, swing your ropes. Tear its throat.” Her words came out in fits and jerks.
The female fighter’s rope moved in increasing pendulum swings. She released it. It caught and tore. Black fluid flowed from the wound.
Gurgling screams of rage filled the room. With one lunge and yank it slipped free.
“Ustle, get out of the way. Don’t tell me you have allowed yourself to be bested by these rodents.”
Two fulcarries. She had not considered that. They had to keep them bottled up in the stairway. If they both gained the freedom of the room it would be next to impossible to defeat them.
Ustle tried to turn, probably to retreat, but it was too large and its body too cumbersome.
“Why have you stopped? Move.”
Ustle opened its mouth, no words came.
A huge claw pushed Ustle from above. He stumbled down several steps. To discourage him from moving beyond the woman fighter’s reach, Cierra cracked her whip over and over.
The woman took aim. But missed.
The man swung his rope, letting it gain momentum and greater reach with each pass. The rope flew from his hand. The metal scraps sank into Ustle’s neck. The man pulled his rope back with both hands. Black fluid rained down on them. The fulcarry slumped. Its eyes rolled back in its head.
Thump. Bump. Thump. Bump. The body hit every step.
Cierra was smothered in foul smells and irritating dust. She rubbed her eyes. The second fulcarry would be upon them before they could ready themselves.
The woman screamed. A stream of blood flowed from her chest.
“Rella! Cantor! Take her down to Paro.”
“You’ll not kill me as easily as Ustle. I’m bigger, smarter. I’ll not fall for your tricks.”
The remaining fighter backed up, shaking, before bolting for the ringers’ chamber. Cierra clenched her teeth against a sob.
Go for its feet.
She eyed the black claws, her hand in motion before she even thought it through. The whip snaked out and caught the fulcarry’s legs. She tugged. Off balance, the bird toppled head first down the steps. She scrambled to get out of its way.
Thud. It landed at her feet, gasping. It struggled to get up, but flopped back down.
How to kill it while she had the advantage? She had neither knife nor sword. Castoff dove for its throat and sank his teeth in. He shook it like a cat does a mouse. She was enveloped in a cloud of nauseating stench and rank feathers.
The fulcarry squawked.
Feet pounded up the stairs. Cantor entered the room with a roar, a long knife in his hand. With a rush he advanced to the bird and drove his weapon hilt-deep into its chest.
One final, awful screech and it lay dead.
“My apologies, Lady Kyam. Twice today I have misjudged men. I had no idea that Scrim would turn tail and run.”
“The Masters provided me with both a strategy and a worthy companion.” She hugged Castoff. “Can you find men able to toss these creatures from the belfry? And find others to repair the bell ropes?”
Cantor bellowed. “Scrim, get up here now. There are carcasses to be dealt with. And bring three other brave souls with you.”
Rella pelted up the stairs. “I will oversee the ropes, Cierra. You are needed below. She examined the cut rope ends. “The bells will be ringing within fifteen minutes.”
No matter what emergency waited her at the front door, she must see Mother first.
“Cierra, you are drenched in filth. Where are your wounds?” Mother picked at her clothing with pinched fingers. “Those dreadful birds.”
“I’m well. This is merely the result of standing too close to a wounded fulcarry. The fighter— how is she?”
Mother shook her head. “Her wounds were too deep, too mortal.
“The river water…” Cierra stopped at Paro’s white face.
“It’s gone.” The cook wrung her work-roughe
ned hands. “I know I put it in a secure, special place where it was safe but with quick access. When I reached for it, it was gone.”
“Masters have mercy.”
“Forgive me, Lady Kyam.”
“It is not your fault, Paro. We’ve discovered one spy in our midst. There may be others. Mother, see what precautions you can make that more resources are not lost. Consult with Castoff before assigning guards, please.” Cierra slumped. Black ooze dripped from her hair, hands, clothes, even her toes. Failure. Father had trusted her.
Mother stood in front of her, clean clothes in one hand a bucket of water in the other. “Close your eyes, daughter.”
“What…” The word ended in a gurgle as Lady Reg upended the bucket over Cierra’s head.
“No time for sensibilities. Get out of the clothes and into these. Your father has need of you.”
With both Mother and Paro stripping and clothing her, she was on her way in a mere blink of time.
The last she heard as she headed for the fortress floor was a spirited debate as to what was the best use of the fulcarry filth as a weapon. Some of their ideas were both creative … and not the least expected from gentle, middle-aged women.
Father smiled as soon as he saw her. “Well done, daughter. The Masters say you won a fierce battle. But our adversaries have not given up.”
“The door—it still holds?”
Father shrugged. “For now.”
“Once it is gone, it is only a matter of time—a short time—until they clear a way through the sludge. If the bells don’t wake the citizens very soon, we have no hope.”
“The Masters have not deserted us. There is still hope.”
She drew a deep breath and forced a smile. “I have no idea what possible means They would use to rescue us if not the citizens. But that is not our concern. Ours is loyalty and obedience.”
“Well said. And here they come.”
She looked through the nearest slit. Two battering rams, archers accompanied by men carrying torches, and foot soldiers with gleaming swords raced toward them like a tidal wave. And Tellus in front, his face twisted into a snarl.
Cierra trudged to the archer’s perch and found chaos. Men and women were yelling and swiping at a dozen or more fires.