Duel at Araluen Page 7

  Someone below began shouting commands, and the trebuchet began to move slowly as the men sheltering behind it seized hold and began to shove it back toward the corner of the keep tower. It was awkward going, with all the pushing happening on one side, and the siege machine moved crabwise, slewing away from the direction they wanted. Then three more men raced out from the cover of the keep and grabbed the towing ropes that still trailed behind the platform.

  “There!” shouted Cassandra, pointing suddenly. The archers had been fixated on the trebuchet itself, waiting for one or more of the men behind it to move incautiously and expose himself to an arrow.

  At her cry, they shifted their attention to the newcomers, sending arrow after arrow hissing down into the courtyard. But they were rushing and they shot without proper care. The iron-headed arrows struck sparks off the cobblestones and skittered past the men on the drag ropes without hitting any of them.

  Cassandra cursed softly in her turn now. She realized that she was used to the shooting of archers like Gilan and Will and Halt—men who could aim and shoot in a fraction of a second and invariably hit their targets. The garrison’s archers were good. But they were nowhere near as good as Rangers.

  As the old saying went, Most people practice till they get it right. Rangers practice till they never get it wrong.

  Under the double impetus of the men on the drag ropes and those crouched on the far side of the siege engine, pushing on the frame, the trebuchet rolled faster and faster. Within twenty seconds or so, the men on the drag ropes were concealed by the corner of the keep. More of their companions joined them once they were under cover, and the trebuchet disappeared around the corner of the tower.

  All the while, the three archers peppered the trebuchet with arrows, but to no real effect. The only reward for their efforts was the sole figure lying unmoving on the flagstones.

  And the burned rope and cracked main beam of the trebuchet.

  Thomas lowered his bow, realizing there were no further targets on offer. He was displeased. He felt he and his men hadn’t acquitted themselves too well. And they had failed under the gaze of their princess.

  “Not very good, I’m afraid,” he said, and the other two mumbled in agreement.

  Cassandra shook off the disappointment she had felt and waved away their apologies. “You did your best,” she said.

  Thomas shook his head. “We can do better than that,” he avowed. “We will do better than that next time. Trust me.”

  It galled him that he had let her down—at least, that was how he saw it. Cassandra was a popular leader with the men. She was fair-minded and generous in her praise when they served her well, and as she had just demonstrated, she was unruffled and considerate when they were less successful. On top of that, she had impressed them with her skill and leadership as they had fought their way back up the stairs to the eighth and ninth floors. And she had shown an ability to think quickly and effectively in the fighting on the stairway.

  She was no mere figurehead, they all knew. She was a courageous and clever leader and an excellent tactician. She had effectively countered every one of Dimon’s moves so far, and they had developed a blind faith in her continuing to do so until help arrived. And now that her father was advising her, their confidence grew even stronger.

  They stood, lining the parapet beside her, as the hammering began again from below.

  “Not much we can do here,” Cassandra said after several minutes had passed. “You men might as well go back inside and get some rest. I think we’ll be busy again in a few hours.”

  Dejected, they trooped back inside the tower to their quarters. Cassandra and Duncan remained on the balcony.

  “How long do you think we’ve held them up?” she asked.

  Duncan pursed his lips thoughtfully and considered his answer before replying. “They’ll need to replace that beam. And wind new rope onto the windlass. And then they’ll have to mount those shields they’ve been hammering away at. The beam shouldn’t be too much trouble. All they’ll need is a sapling cut down and trimmed. It doesn’t have to be squared off. I’d say we’ve got three hours—maybe four—before they’re ready to try it again.”

  She nodded. “That’s pretty much what I thought,” she said. She leaned down, resting her chin on the parapet, listening to the hammering and the occasional shouted order from below.

  “Well, let’s see what Dimon does next,” she said.

  Her father laid a hand on her shoulder. “Whatever it is, you’ll find a way to counter it,” he said.

  She looked up at him, uncertainly. “You think so?” she asked.

  He smiled at her. “I know so.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It was closer to four hours before the sound of hammering and sawing stopped again. Duncan, still weak after his long convalescence, had returned to his room and was sleeping soundly. A few minutes later, Cassandra heard shouting from behind the keep tower, and the familiar groaning rumble of the trebuchet’s big wooden wheels moving across the flagstones.

  “Merlon!” she called, not taking her eyes away from the corner of the keep tower. Slowly and ponderously, the trebuchet reemerged, now transformed.

  The beam had been replaced. As Duncan had predicted, the enemy had used another large sapling, smaller branches cut but not as neatly trimmed this time. The windlass, what she could see of it, was now wound with white rope—with no sign of the flammable tar that had made it vulnerable to fire arrows. But now the entire platform was shielded by a two-piece inverted V-shaped roof, which protected the platform below from archers high overhead. There was a gap between the two halves of the roof that allowed room for the beam to rise and fall as it was cocked and then released.

  The big weapon was being pushed along by men sheltering on the far side of the platform. Cassandra could catch fleeting glances of them, but they offered no easy targets for arrows from the south tower.

  Merlon frowned as he watched the ponderous machine move out into the courtyard. There were large rocks piled on the platform, between the two front wheels—obviously ammunition for the catapult. The three archers had come out with the sergeant and they moved restlessly around the balcony, trying without success to find an angle where they could sight a target among the men tending the machine.

  “I think he’s got us foxed this time,” Cassandra said. She frowned. Dimon wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. Now they would find out how effective his siege machine might be.

  “Should I wake your father, my lady?” Merlon asked. She considered the suggestion, but shook her head. Duncan needed to rest. Once they saw what Dimon had in mind, she might rouse him for advice. But until then, it was better to leave him.

  Under the commands of whoever was in charge—she assumed it was Dimon—the trebuchet was wheeled around until it was facing the tower. The front of the framework was also covered by wooden panels, shielding the men as they moved about the platform. Guided by the unseen commander, the trebuchet moved ponderously back and forth until it was aligned. Then a figure darted out from under the sheltering roof and hefted one of the large sandstone rocks piled on the platform, scuttling back into the shelter of the roof before anyone could take a shot at him.

  The watchers on the tower heard a massive creaking noise as the windlass was turned and the rope began to stretch. Then the counterweighted end of the beam began to inch its way up, as the longer end was hauled back down. There was a pause when the counterweight reached its uppermost position.

  “They’ll be loading that rock into the sling now,” Merlon said under his breath.

  After several seconds, they heard a sudden shouted order. The counterweight dropped, slamming into the timber stop on the deck of the platform, and the longer arm whipped upward. When it reached the apex of its travel, the rope sling swung out behind it, the weighted canvas pouch describing an arc as it
whipped upward.

  As the rope came to the end of its arc, the massive boulder was hurled from the canvas sling and hurtled up toward the tower.

  10

  Maddie rode steadily through the morning, pausing at intervals to allow Bumper to rest.

  After several hours, she reached the banks of the Wezel. The river ran fast and deep, and she knew she’d have to look for a ford.

  She checked her map and then the surrounding countryside, finding the deep bend in the river they’d picked as a rendezvous point. It was a half a kilometer to the east. The hill fort was approximately five kilometers west of her current position.

  “Might as well look closer to the fort,” she muttered, and turned Bumper’s head to the left, riding westward along the riverbank in search of a place to cross.

  In less than a kilometer, she found a spot where the river widened. The current ran more slowly in consequence, and she could see the sandy bottom, barely a meter and a half below the river surface. Checking upstream and downstream to make sure she wasn’t observed, she urged her little horse into the river. At first, the water reached barely to Bumper’s knees. But after ten meters or so it rose rapidly, until it was just below the saddle.

  “Steady now, boy,” she crooned. “Take it easy.”

  If the water level continued to rise at the rate that it had, she would be swimming before too long—and the prospect of a night in wet clothes didn’t appeal to her. Under her cautious urging, Bumper went on, a pace at a time. The water came up a few centimeters more, then stopped rising. With increasing confidence, Bumper strode on, sending wide, V-shaped ripples out across the placid surface.

  “Take it easy, I said,” she ordered.

  He shook his mane at her. I’m fine. I can see where I’m going.

  She was about to argue when she realized he was right. Logically, if the water grew deeper, the current would flow more slowly. Bumper could feel the river bottom underfoot and sense the strength of the current against him, so he could tell by the force of the water whether the river was growing deeper or shallower. After a few more meters, the water level fell until it barely reached his belly.

  Told you so.

  “Just keep walking—slowly,” she told him. If the water suddenly became deeper, she wanted plenty of time to stop him and to keep herself relatively dry. Bumper snorted derisively, but he moved more slowly and more carefully.

  Then the water was shallowing rapidly and he bounded forward across the sand bottom, showering silver spray into the air as he made his way toward the far bank.

  And here we are.

  He trotted the last few meters through water that was now only ten centimeters deep, pausing as his feet touched dry ground to shake himself massively. Water cascaded in all directions. A lot of it landed on Maddie.

  “Did you have to do that?” she asked.

  Bumper craned his head round to make eye contact. Not really. Just felt like it.

  Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to have a horse who wasn’t fond of practical jokes. She brought him to a halt and, taking her feet from the stirrups, removed her boots one after the other and poured the water out of them. Her tights would have to wait until later. She wriggled uncomfortably in the saddle, feeling the wet cloth squishing against the leather.

  The terrain here was similar to what she had been traveling through for most of the previous days: thickly wooded areas interspersed with open meadows and grasslands. She stood in the stirrups and surveyed the ground on either side. There was no sign of any movement, no sign of people.

  She nudged Bumper around so that he was pointing west and set him to a slow canter along the cleared land of the riverbank. Later, when she judged they were closer to the hill fort, she would reduce the pace to a walk to keep the noise down. As it was, the horse’s hooves thudded softly on the thick grass underfoot, making barely any sound.

  It was a warm morning, and with the wind of their passage, her clothes quickly began to dry. They were still damp, but not uncomfortably so. The squishing had stopped, at least. After a while, the trees closed right down to the riverbank and she had to swing north, looking for a game trail or a farm track to follow. She found one that meandered through the trees in a general westerly direction. The ruts made by generations of farm cartwheels passing this way were all too obvious.

  After several kilometers winding through the tree trunks, stooping low in the saddle to avoid low-hanging branches, she checked the reins softly.

  “Ease down a little, boy,” she said in a low voice. They had made good time and the hill fort must be close by now. That meant that the Red Fox Clan’s camp must be getting closer too and, for all she knew, there might be hunters or foragers from the camp moving through the woods, searching for small game. They continued on at a reduced pace. Then she stopped Bumper altogether and swung down from the saddle.

  You’re leaving me here?

  “’Fraid so. I might have to take cover in a hurry. Bit hard to do that with a walloping great horse along.”

  He sniffed derisively but, for once, let her have the last word as she gestured for him to move off the track they had been following and to conceal himself among the trees.

  “Don’t go anywhere. I won’t be long,” she told him.

  She unslung her bow and ghosted down the track. Her feet made barely a sound on the soft ground. After years of training with Will, it was second nature for her to set them down carefully and softly, no matter how fast she was moving, avoiding twigs and deadfalls in her path, sensing those she didn’t see and stopping herself from placing any weight on them. That long practice meant she could move this way at a normal walking pace.

  Every so often, she paused, turning her head this way and that to see whether she could hear anyone else moving along the track or among the trees to either side. She kept her cowl tossed back on her shoulders so she could hear more clearly. There was nothing but the normal forest sounds—birds chirping in the undergrowth, small creatures scuttling to avoid her through the leaf mold that formed the forest floor, and the occasional whispering rush of a larger animal—perhaps a badger or a fox—as it paralleled her trail through the trees.

  The trees began to thin out until she could see for a hundred meters to either side as the forest gradually gave way to grassland. Eventually, she emerged on a wide meadow that sloped away uphill. She stopped within the tree fringe, concealed in the shadows, and checked the open ground ahead, searching once more for any sign of people moving. She must be close to the Red Fox camp by now, she reasoned.

  And as she had the thought, two figures appeared over the rim of the hill above her, striding down the slope toward the spot where she stood.

  The temptation to duck back into the cover of the trees was almost overpowering. But she knew it would be a fatal mistake to do so. Movement would draw their eyes to her in an instant. They might not see who she was, but they would know that someone had moved and had retreated into the shadow of the trees. And if she were seen to retreat, she would be seen as a possible enemy. After all, if she was a friend, or another member of the Clan, there would be no reason to move into concealment.

  Heart pounding as they approached, she stood frozen in place, against the trunk of a large oak. She was in shadow, and the cloak draped around her, concealing her form, blending with the mottled bark of the oak tree. Her cowl was up—she had pulled it up when she reached the more open ground—and her face was hidden in its shadow. Now the only course she had was the one that had been drummed into her brain repeatedly over the past three years by her teacher and mentor.

  Trust the cloak.

  She followed the path of the two approaching men, moving only her eyes to keep track of them. At first, they had seemed to be heading straight for her, but now she could see that they were veering off to her right. They would pass close by the spot where she stood—barely four m
eters away—if they maintained their present direction.

  That should be far enough, she thought. Should be. The words echoed in her brain. Briefly, she wondered what she would have done if they had continued straight toward her. Probably, her best course of action would have been to inch slowly around the tree, moving so slowly and so gradually that the movement would be almost imperceptible. She was glad it hadn’t come to that. Movement was the last course open to her. It was better to stay stock-still, wrapped in the cloak, blending into the background.

  She could hear the men talking now. At first, their voices were a low mumble, the words indistinguishable. But, as they drew closer, she began to make out what they were saying.

  “. . . why we should bother with an attack. We can simply wait them out. They must be short of food by now.”

  “The general says it’s to keep them off balance, to keep them guessing. We’ve hit them from the front, so tomorrow night he wants a raid on the north wall. Get behind them. Make them edgy.”

  “Waste of time, I say.”

  “Maybe not. We’ve not tried anything for a few days. Who knows? We might catch them napping and put an end to this whole thing.”

  “Or we might not. And those archers are too good to mess around with. We’ve lost too many men already. Now he’s risking another forty.”

  “That’s why he wants a night attack. What they can’t see, they can’t shoot.”

  “I suppose that’s right. Still, first chance I get, I’m pulling back. Dark or not, one of those archers is a Ranger. They can hit their target in the dark. They’re demons, some folk say.”