The Red Knight (43 page)

She remembered discussing their effectiveness with Trenham and Althus back in Suvia. They were simple constructions comprising a wooden frame covered in fresh cow hides and dowsed in water. They could protect large groups of warriors from arrows and other light missiles, while allowing them to approach defences carrying cumbersome scaling equipment instead of shields.

She pulled on her gauntlets. Talin rolled the quilt around himself another turn, but didn’t wake. She wanted to kiss him, but she let him lie. Today would be a long, ugly day; he’d need all the strength sleep could give him for when it was his turn to take his place on the wall. She had to leave this quiet haven, angle her mind away from gentle thoughts and plan for the misery they would stamp on the bones of the bastards massing outside.

Alyda, Cassian and their officers crouched behind the battlements on the barbican to watch the advancing Guthani. Stones ricocheted off the walls, gouging great chunks from the masonry and shaking the building to its foundations. It was strangely liberating knowing that at any moment a well-aimed boulder could smash her to pieces and that neither skill nor will could save her. What scared her was making a bad decision. The bombardment eased. She peered over the wall at the crawlers.

“Have the wall commanders been briefed?”

“Aye, Captain,” Cassian shouted above the thunder of a stone smashing into a nearby section of wall. “I’ve put some veterans in with the volunteers to steady them up. We’ve three groups in reserve and half the Lancers ready to mount up.”

“Good. Keep a watch on the river side. I doubt they’ll attempt to cross the ‘Run, but they may try to dam it upstream. We need to be ready for that.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Look on the bright side, at least the stones will stop when the crawlers get closer.”

Cassian swept his gaze across the ranks of enemy fighters. “Aye. That’s when the real fighting will start.”

Chapter Fourteen

“Hoy, Snowfoot!” Skani bawled at the Talespinner. “Hurry up you sluggard, we’re forming up. D’ you still have my dagger?”

Garuld Snowfoot patted the ornate hilt of the dagger sheathed at his hip. He’d considered selling it to pay his dicing debts, but he knew it would break the big fool’s heart. He’d either win the sword to match it, or lose it back to Skani at some point, but he wasn’t going to tell him that.

The Talespinner nestled his behind into a tangle of tree roots. He was in no mind to hurry; he hadn’t broken his fast yet. He flipped the oatcakes cooking on the hot stones at the edge of the fire. He’d made a half dozen, which was more than he would eat, but he knew Skani would come snuffling around like a pig in an orchard when he smelled the food.

“When will you give me the chance to win it back?” The hirth hung his shield on a branch and squatted down beside the fire.

Snowfoot shrugged and turned the cakes.

“You know, for a Talespinner, you don’t say much.”

“You don’t pay me, Skani Felar. I’m saving my voice for those who do.” Snowfoot pulled a hot cake from the fire and offered it to the hirth. Felar accepted it with a grunt of thanks.

“The fucking Ants in their nest. Why don’t they come out and fight like real warriors?” Skani sprayed a mouthful of crumbs into the flames.

Snowfoot poked at the fire. “To be fair, they did come out, if only briefly. But to answer what I think you’re trying to ask; it’s because they lack all sense of drama and have no concept of true heroism and, mostly, because we significantly outnumber them. They aren’t like us; they probably think it’s stupid to meet us on the field when we are at least four times their number. Whereas we would see it as an opportunity to win fame and a glorious death were our situations reversed.” The Talespinner scarfed down an oat cake. “Hard to fathom, I know.”

Felar snorted and helped himself to another. “I hate this fucking country and I really hate these Arths. Stinking stone rat holes. It would shame my shadow to cower behind those walls rather than stand shoulder-to-shoulder with my brothers and sisters on the open battlefield.” Felar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook the crumbs from his moustache.

Snowfoot smiled as Skani carefully rearranged the little brass beads threaded into his greying yellow beard.
Hirths: always so vain
.

Unlike his shield brother, Garuld thought Antia was a beautiful country, one that had already provided the inspiration for a dozen new songs. When they were back home, he’d live well for months on the booty he’d earned and the tales he’d spin of this adventure. For Skani, being in Antia granted him an opportunity to have something new to complain about. Gods love him, but he was the kind of person who would never see the glory in a sunrise, merely the spots before his eyes.

“So when your turn comes to go against those walls with the arrows falling like rain, you’ll stroll along in the open, instead of getting in a crawler, eh?”

His friend’s mouth fell into an angry pout. He really shouldn’t tease Skani. Funny though it was, it was far too easy.

“Aye, damn right!” Skani narrowed his eyes. “And don’t try t’ confuse me with twisting words, Garuld big ears. I see that glint in your eye; I’m wise to your tricks, Raven’s Son.

Snowfoot chuckled.
Is Skani finally learning?
It had only taken ten years and a few sacks of coin for the lesson to sink in.

Snowfoot swatted his friend’s suspicions away with a casual wave. “No, no, I was just curious, but seeing as you’re so confident—will you wager the sword that matches my nice dagger on it? Because I think you’ll scamper inside after the first beehive explodes next to you. If you’ve still got legs to scamper with.”

Skani frowned, unsure. “And if I win, do I get my dagger back?”

“Of course, and the most priceless possession you own… your honour. Unless you’re scared…?”

“You’re on! A hirth fears nothing! Although…the dagger is smaller than the sword—there must be something more you can throw in. My honour is mine to win or lose; what else will you add?”

“How about a warrior’s funeral?” Snowfoot threw back his head and laughed. “I can’t believe how easy it is to trick you, Skani. Will you never learn? I’m surprised you aren’t dead or walking around naked and weaponless, I really am.”

“Shut up, fatty, I’d have done it,” the warrior protested. “These Ants don’t frighten me.” He looked both embarrassed and relieved.

“They
should
frighten you.” Snowfoot hunkered closer to Skani, drew down his brows and lowered his voice. He spared a nervous glance over his shoulder, to confirm the presence of unwelcome and unseen guests. It worked every time. Skani was drawn in, as wide-eyed as a child. “Tis said that the pale knight is a Fey who drinks the blood of children and can kill with but a look and that Stenna is the battle-born daughter of the Mountain God and cannot be defeated and…” He let the pause lengthen. “…Who are
you
calling fatty? Face it Skani, you’re twice the man you used to be—and not in a good way.”

“Bah!” Skani thumped his stomach. “‘Tis pure muscle! My Gardu says I have the body of a god.”

“A slightly chubby, past his prime god, maybe.” the Talespinner chuckled.

A horn blared, summoning the warriors to arms. Snowfoot doused his fire and donned his coat of bronze.

Felar grabbed his shield, slung it over his shoulder. “Come, old friend—time to make the worms fat, one way or the other.”

“Aye. I hear you brother.” The Talespinner felt the weight of his armour drag on his shoulders. Time was he wouldn’t even notice he was wearing it. He was getting old. These days his love of fighting was more often outweighed by the desire to sit by a fire, eating oatcakes and telling stories.

It was bright and cold, the air as sharp as flint. Sunlight glazed the battlements, turning steel to silver and bronze to gold. The glorious weather seemed at odds with the bloody promise of the day. Talin shivered. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the cold or because he was scared witless. The knights of the Hammer and the Black Lancers gave no sign that they were in the least perturbed and were exchanging crude banter and brave words as the enemy edged closer. Nevenna tapped the butt of her halberd on the stones and gave him what he imagined was supposed to be a reassuring smile.

“How many do you think are in those things?” he asked as they watched the crawlers slowly approaching the moat.

The herald squinted against the sun’s glare. “By the size of them I’d say maybe… thirty warriors, Highness.”

“I count twelve.”

Despite his mother’s pleas, Talin had joined the fighters on the wall. There were twenty knights in his unit, plus militia. The civilians were easy to distinguish from the career warriors; they were the ones wearing mis-matched armour and who looked as nervous as he was. His gut told him fighting was the right thing to do, but his bladder wasn’t convinced.

Their orders were straightforward enough even for him to remember: hold the wall. His unit was on the right of the barbican. It wasn’t where the fighting would be heaviest, but he was embarrassed to see that when he joined them, a handful of the Hammer quietly replaced some of the civilians in the group.

Bear had promised she’d be there, but as ever she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. The fat cow was probably snoring her face off in a Pel-induced slumber, but he wished she was there—or that he was with her. This time last year he would have been. Hard to believe how much had changed in a year; most of it for the better, but not this. This was bloody terrifying.

The Sergeant-at-Arms counted off the range markers as the enemy came on. An icy shiver ran through Alyda, her muscles twitched in anticipation of action. The Sergeant signalled that they were in range.

“Loose,” she ordered, and the ballista sang. Bolt after bolt tore through wood and canvas, flesh and bone, crippling the crawlers in the vanguard. Warriors who escaped the wreckage were nailed to the ground by a storm of arrows.

The effectiveness of the Antian ballistae did not go unpunished and after a few near misses, the bow mounted on the east tower took a direct hit and exploded in a shower of riven timbers and smashed bodies.

The first battered crawlers reached the moat. Alyda took her place in the line as bridges were extended across the water. Defenders hurled rocks from the walls, smashing planks and breaking bodies. Archers had their pick of targets and thickened the air with shafts. This slowed, but didn’t stop the advance.

Iron hooks bit into the Arth side of the moat. Guthani swarmed across the planks. Screaming war cries, they hoisted scaling ladders over the crushed bodies of fallen comrades. Alyda shouted herself hoarse urging the defenders to stand firm, willing them to hold the line. The gatehouse was shaking in time to the rhythmic pounding of a new battering ram as it was driven again and again into the portcullis.

A shout went up. Guthlanders had gained the walkway east of the barbican. Clad in shining bronze, shields strapped to their backs, they hauled themselves over the wall bellowing to their gods for blood and victory. Alyda slammed down her visor, the clasp locked into place. It had begun.

The scarlet plume in her helm drew the Guthani to her and into the teeth of the First. Time slowed when the first attacker came within reach of her blade. She sidestepped a spinning axe and thrust her sword at a bronze helm that appeared above the wall. Her blade found its way into an ocular. There was a spray of blood and the helm dropped from sight. Something bright arced towards her; she swayed back. The whistling blade bit stone, bowing its wielder before her. She hacked through the offered neck and moved to meet the next attacker.

Talin had almost died in the first bloody exchange when his sword snagged on a fellow defender’s armour. Frozen with fear, he’d closed his eyes and braced for the blow that would send him to the Void.

Instead of the cruel kiss of steel, he felt a rush of air and heard the ringing clash of metal. He opened his eyes to see a spiked buckler locked against a sword inches from his head. The buckler twisted the blade away, swept back round and smashed into the face of his attacker. Blinded by her own blood, the Guthani fell backwards over the wall clutching her bleeding face. His saviour was Bear. She winked at him, gore streaked buckler in one hand, falchion in the other.

“Sorry I’m late, Highness. I couldn’t find my gauntlets anywhere.”

The Antians fought with a fury borne of desperation and held the Guthani at bay for hours, but as the day wore on Talin could see that the tide of battle was beginning to turn against them.

The sun was slipping below the horizon when the battering ram smashed through the gatehouse’s outer portcullis. Pressure eased on Talin’s section as the Guthani concentrated their attack on the damaged gate. Exhausted, he leaned on his sword and watched the attackers drag the ram into the passage. He was grateful that he couldn’t see the mixture of oil and tar being poured on them from the room above the passage, or see the torches being dropped. It was enough to hear the agonised screams and see flames blast through the portcullis facing the Arth.

As the fire took hold, two ropes uncoiled from the windows above and either side of the gate and two unarmoured figures dressed in hunters’ green descended. Without a backwards glance at the inferno, they sprinted across the bridge, grabbed the ropes that had been lowered from the barbican walkway, and climbed up. Behind them, burning hands clawed at the spiked and chained portcullis before charring to stumps. Thick black smoke quickly enveloped the gatehouse. The screaming stopped.