Duel at Araluen Page 16

  He shook his head. “By Orlog’s earlobes, you startled me!” he said, an admiring tone in his voice. “How did you get so close without me seeing you?”

  She shrugged. “We’re trained for that sort of thing,” she said. “All right if I come forward now?”

  “Yes! Yes! By all means,” he told her, beckoning with the hand that held the spear for her to move toward him. She did so, being careful not to move too quickly, letting him get a good look at her.

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “But I couldn’t really blunder through the trees for everyone to hear, could I?”

  He grinned at her. “No. I suppose not. Just don’t tell the others that I never saw you till you called out. I’ll be a laughingstock.”

  She smiled. “It’ll be our secret,” she said. “Where’s Hal?”

  “He’ll be in that smaller tent on the left,” he said, pointing again with the spear. Most of the men slept in a large tent consisting of a tarpaulin stretched over a center ridgepole. Hal, as the leader of the force, was entitled to a tent by himself and, knowing how much his comrades snored, he inevitably took advantage of the fact. Maddie nodded her thanks and set out toward the camp. A few of the Skandians looked up at her curiously as she passed, no doubt wondering where she had sprung from. She nodded greetings to them and continued on her way, unchallenged.

  As she came closer to the smaller tent, the flaps were thrown back and Hal emerged, bending from the waist to negotiate the low opening. He saw her and his face lit up with a smile.

  “You’re back,” he said. “We wondered where you got to.”

  “Gilan thought it would be better if I waited till it was dark before I came back,” she said.

  He nodded. “Very wise. So did you set a time for the attack?”

  “Tomorrow, mid-morning. Does that give you time to get ready?”

  “Plenty. The men are getting bored sitting here doing nothing.”

  “Good. We’ll set out just after dawn so we’re in position in plenty of time.” She glanced at the small cook fire and the battered coffeepot resting in the glowing embers beside it. “Now, if you’ll pour me a cup of coffee, I’ll go over the plan with you.”

  22

  Three days passed before Dimon’s patience, already worn thin, finally gave out.

  It hadn’t been an easy time for him and his men. Forced to stay quiet and give no sign that they were still concealed in the castle, they had been largely confined to the big room on the fourth floor of the south tower, where the arched bridge connected to the keep. Conscious that Cassandra and her men commanded a clear overview of the courtyard and the bridge, they couldn’t access the keep tower or the courtyard without being seen from above.

  Nor could they move along the battlements to the gatehouse or the east tower. Those were also exposed to view from above. Plus, they needed to be on hand to intercept Cassandra and her men when they attempted to leave their refuge in the south tower.

  So they waited impatiently, keeping as quiet as possible—for any sound might carry up the stairwell to the floors above. It created an intense strain on Dimon and his men. They crept around as quietly as they could. At night, they could show no light through the lower windows, in case it was seen from above. Any dropped weapon or utensil was met with a whispered savaging from their commander. As a result, tempers frayed and nerves were stretched to breaking point. Fights and quarrels broke out, but the demand for silence and stealth meant that these couldn’t be resolved, so bad blood among the attackers grew by the day.

  From time to time, either Cassandra or Ingrid would climb stealthily down the hidden stairs and peer through the spyhole at the fourth floor. The young lady’s maid enjoyed this activity enormously. She derived great pleasure from the sight of the Red Foxes trying to remain silent.

  “They’re like great clumsy oxen,” she told Cassandra, with a broad grin on her face. “They tiptoe around, tripping over their own huge feet. And if anybody makes a noise, he gets yelled at by Dimon for his carelessness—in a whisper, of course.”

  Cassandra smiled in return. “Which usually makes more noise than the original offense.”

  Ingrid nodded. “It seems nothing is louder than someone trying to curse in a whisper,” she said. She thought for a few seconds. “When should we let him know that we’re aware he hasn’t left?”

  Cassandra shook her head. “We won’t. Let him figure it out for himself. The longer he sits waiting for us to come down, the more time Horace and Maddie have to get back here and give him a nasty surprise.” She smiled to herself. She might be a prisoner in the tower, but for the moment, Dimon was every bit as confined as she was. The fact appealed to her sense of irony.

  Finally, however, Dimon admitted to himself that his ruse had failed. Eschewing any further stealth, he crossed the bridge to the keep and climbed to the highest floor, standing by the window from which he had previously observed his enemy. He leaned out, studying the ninth-floor balcony above him. There was nobody visible there, so he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.

  “Cassandra!”

  He withdrew, wary of the archers under her command. He stood well back from the window, in the shadow of the room, where he could still watch the balcony. There was no sign of movement there. He stepped to the window, then shouted once more.

  “Cassandra! Show yourself!”

  There was a long pause, then a head and shoulders appeared above the parapet. He recognized the princess. Her long hair was uncovered and stirred gently behind her in the breeze that was always present at these higher floors. She looked around, shading her eyes under her hand.

  He called again. “Cassandra!”

  She looked down and did a double take as she saw him. The movement was exaggerated and he knew she was acting.

  “Why, Dimon, is that you?” she said, surprise evident in her voice.

  “You know it’s me!” he shouted angrily. Even at this distance, he saw her shake her head. He realized that she was using larger-than-normal movements so that he could recognize them, and his anger smoldered inside him.

  “But I thought you’d be halfway to Sonderland by now,” she said. “What happened? Did you forget something?”

  “Yes!” he grated. “I forgot to kill you and your followers. But I’m going to set that right.”

  She seemed to consider this statement. “How do you actually plan to do that?” she said eventually. “So far, it hasn’t worked out too well for you.”

  “I’ve sent for extra men!” he told her. “This time, I’m going to winkle you out of that tower, no matter what it takes.”

  “You are?” she said calmly, and that calmness infuriated him even more.

  “Yes, I am! I’m going to finish this, Cassandra, unless you surrender right away. This is your last chance!”

  “I thought last time was my last chance?” she said. “Hadn’t you better hurry? After all, you said Horace and Gilan were on their way from the north.”

  “I lied! They’re still trapped in that blasted hill fort, if they aren’t dead already! You’re on your own—and this time I’m going to finish this business.”

  Dimon stormed away from the window and, a few minutes later, Cassandra watched him striding back across the bridge to the south tower.

  She turned slightly to Ingrid and Merlon, who had been standing back from the parapet, out of sight. “Obviously,” she said quietly, “he has no idea that Maddie and the Skandians are on their way to relieve Horace and Gilan. They may even be there already.”

  Ingrid nodded, but Merlon was frowning.

  “I don’t like what he said about sending for more men,” he said.

  Cassandra shrugged. “However many he’s got, they can only come up that stairwell three or four at a time.”

  “Yes. But he’s desperate now,” Merlon said. “Really desperate. He’s likely
to try anything, no matter how many men it costs him.”

  Cassandra considered the statement. “That’s true,” she said. “We’d better be on our toes.”

  From the tower below them, the sound of hammering started once more. Cassandra leaned over the parapet, looking down. But of course, she could see nothing.

  “Sounds like he’s building again,” she said. “He’s a busy little fellow, isn’t he?” She paused. “At least that’ll give us some time until he’s finished whatever it is.”

  23

  The Skandians moved out from their camp just after dawn, maintaining a slow jog along the path that Maddie had blazed to the hill fort.

  Maddie led the way, with Hal close behind her. Stig, Thorn and Ingvar were in the rank behind them, and the others followed in two files. There was no talking. These were experienced raiders and discipline was tight—and strictly enforced. All she could hear was the rhythmic shuffle of their sealskin boots on the leaf-mold floor of the forest.

  Down among the trees, the light hadn’t penetrated fully and they moved in semi-darkness. But from time to time, when the tree cover thinned, she could see the sky lightening in the east. They were making good time and she estimated they would be in position well before the time of the planned breakout.

  Eventually, up ahead, she could see the open ground that led up to the ridge above the Red Foxes’ camp. She held up a hand and the column came to a halt. Hal had warned the rest of the men that if anyone disobeyed her signals or orders, they would have to deal with him. As a result, they obeyed promptly. She mimed to Hal what they had decided earlier: She would head up the slope to reconnoiter, making sure there were no enemy patrols who might spot the Skandians moving into position.

  Hal nodded and gestured for her to be on her way.

  As she ghosted up the slope, the Skandians relaxed on the soft ground. Several of them uncorked water canteens and took long sips. There was no sleeping. Hal knew these men well, and he knew their tendency to snore like wounded walruses. He had gone to great lengths to impress on them that they were not to doze off while they waited for Maddie.

  * * *

  • • •

  At the other side of the fort, Horace was preparing for the cavalry to sortie.

  A five-meter-long ramp had been built from the walkway timbers. It lay ready by the north wall, where a gap had been cut in the palisade. The cut section was held in place by ropes. When the time came, these would be cast off and the section would fall outward, creating a gateway in the wall. Since the floor of the fort was a meter-and-a-half below the outside ground level, they had built an earthen step to provide footing for the horses as they left the fort.

  Once the ramp was in place, the troopers would lead their horses down it, then mount and form up on the lower path. They would be seen by the enemy watchers below, of course, but as Gilan had pointed out, it would be too late for them to take any significant action. By the time they could report what the troopers were doing, Horace and his men would be halfway down the hill and in full sight of the enemy camp anyway.

  A trooper came forward to report to him. “She’s ready to lower, sir.”

  “Wait for the order,” Horace said.

  The man nodded. Already, the troopers were leading their mounts into position, ready to leave the fort. One of them was holding the bridle of Horace’s battlehorse, Stamper. Horace would be the first man out of the fort when the time came.

  He glanced at the sun. It was nearly time. He walked quickly now to the south wall and mounted the stairs to the ramparts. Gilan was leaning against the frame of the gate, studying the enemy camp below and the ridgeline farther out.

  “Any sign of Maddie yet?” Horace asked.

  The Ranger shook his head. “We should see her signal any time now,” he told the tall warrior. “Maddie knows how important it is to stay ahead of the schedule.”

  Once they knew Maddie and her Skandians were in position on the southern ridge, they would begin the attack. She would signal to them with a flashing light—the sun reflected off a small polished-metal mirror. Their reply would be a horn blast. When she heard that, she’d know they were lowering the ramp into place. A few minutes after that, the south gate would open and Gilan would lead the archers out.

  “There!” said Gilan, pointing suddenly to the ridge, where a light was flashing.

  “Signal from the hill, sir!” called one of the sentries.

  Gilan waved a hand in acknowledgment. “I’ve seen it. Well done.” He grinned at Horace. “Time we heard how musical you can be.”

  “Hah!” snorted Horace. He took the horn from his belt, raised it to his lips and blew a mighty blast on it.

  Gilan winced. “Not at all, apparently.”

  The light flashed one more time from the ridge.

  “She heard it,” Horace said.

  Gilan frowned at him. “They probably heard it at Castle Araluen.”

  Horace ignored him and turned toward the stairs. “Let’s get that ramp down,” he said.

  The archers were already assembling by the south gate. Six of them carried long ropes coiled over their shoulders—an idea Gilan had borrowed from the attackers several nights before. They would anchor them at the top of the hill and the men would use them to keep their footing on the slippery grass slope. He glanced around the ramparts now, catching the attention of the archers on duty there as sentries.

  “Time to go, men,” he called. “Get down to the gate.”

  There was a clatter of feet as the sentries hurried down the stairs from the walkway and formed up with the rest of their companions by the south gate. Gilan signaled to one of the men in the lead file, who stepped forward and raised the locking bar on the gate. The two halves moved apart a few inches. The archer looked at Gilan, a question on his face, but the Ranger shook his head, looking around to see the progress Horace’s group was making at the north wall.

  “Not yet,” Gilan said.

  As he watched, the cavalrymen released the ropes that held the cut section of the wall in place and shoved at it with long poles. It moved a few inches, stopped, then moved again as the troopers pushed harder. It swayed for several seconds, then fell outward with a resounding crash. Half a dozen men took hold of the ramp and ran it out through the gap in the wall, setting it down so the end overhung the edge of the path. They shoved it outward, until gravity took hold and the end tipped, falling to rest on the next terrace down.

  Horace took hold of Stamper’s bridle and led the horse as he scrambled up the earth step to ground level, then out through the newly made gap in the palisade wall.

  “Come on, boy,” he said.

  Stamper’s ears twitched nervously. He hesitated at the edge of the makeshift timber ramp, but Horace’s firm hand on his bridle reassured him and he stepped onto the ramp, clip-clopping carefully down, head held low to watch where he was going. Horace felt the ramp vibrate as the next trooper followed him with his horse, then the next.

  Stamper scrambled down the last meter or so, legs braced and moving clumsily until his hooves felt firm earth beneath them. He whinnied triumphantly, then followed Horace as he led the horse away from the ramp to a clear spot where the others could form up behind him.

  Moving two at a time, the other troopers led their horses down the ramp. In five minutes, they were all assembled on the second tier of the path. At a signal from Horace, they swung up into their saddles, and he led the way down the spiraling track. Looking to the bottom of the hill, he saw two of the watchers who had been stationed there running to inform their commander at the main camp that the Araluen cavalry was coming out. He smiled grimly. They had a lot of ground to cover and he could see that he and his men would be in position on the southern face of the hill before the watchers reached the Red Foxes’ camp.

  Seeing the last of the cavalry leading their horses out through the gap, Gilan turned
back to the archer at the unbarred gate.

  “Open up,” he ordered, and the man shoved against the two gates, pushing them wide-open. Gilan led the rest of the force out through the gate.

  “Get those ropes fastened,” he said.

  Six men hammered pegs into the ground, then tied off the ends of the long coils of rope they were carrying. That done, they tossed the ropes downhill, watching them uncoil as they sailed through the air.

  “Take hold,” Gilan ordered.

  The group of archers split into six files, moving to take a firm grip on the ropes, then beginning the descent. The long grass was slippery and the footing was treacherous, but the ropes kept them steady and stopped them falling. They half ran, half slid down the terrace to the second level of the path, then continued over the edge of that section and on downward.

  * * *

  • • •

  Vikor Trask was resting in his pavilion. He had risen at dawn, as usual, to check on the hill fort and make sure the enemy were making no attempt to leave. Satisfied that the situation was unchanged, he had breakfasted, then returned to his pavilion to catch up on the sleep his early rising had cost him.

  Now he was brought rudely back to wakefulness by the breathless arrival of one of his men, who shoved past the sentry outside the tent and hurled back the canvas door flap. The noise startled Trask, who sat up blearily on his camp bed.

  “What is it?” he said angrily. He disliked being disturbed, and his men had strict orders not to enter his tent without permission. But the man’s words soon dispelled his momentary annoyance, replacing it with a jolt of alarm and fear.

  “General, they’re coming out! It’s an attack! The enemy are coming out of the fort!”

  Trask threw his legs over the side of the bed and rose rapidly, fastening his shirt and looking around for his sword belt. Finding it, he buckled it around his waist, belatedly hauled on his boots, hopping awkwardly around the sleeping chamber as he did so. He grabbed the messenger by the arm to regain his balance.