Part 38 (1/2)

The marshal nodded. ”Their numbers are daunting but there's no sign of siege engines or cavalry.”

The king scowled. ”Another trick. What's the devil up to?”

But the marshal had no answer.

As if in reply, the drumbeat changed to a faster tempo. The enemy swarmed forward, marching toward the walls. Details became clear. Officers in plumed helms strode the front lines, pentacles inscribed on their breastplates. Bearded faces howled a war cry. Rows of spears bristled in a deadly thicket. Swords pounded against black s.h.i.+elds, keeping time to the drums. The thin strip of open gra.s.sland shrank to fifty yards, a narrow killing field.

”Sound the alert.” The trumpets obeyed, a trill of notes.

From the height of the second wall, the marshal watched as knights on the first wall readied for battle. Dubbed s.h.i.+eldbreaker by the men, the thirty-foot outer wall suddenly seemed a meager barrier against the surging horde.

A shout rose from the enemy. Spears launched into the morning sky. So many, they rose in a thick arc, a wave of darkness blocking the sun. Uttering an unearthly wail, ten thousand spears screamed a shrill whistle as they fell. ”Raise s.h.i.+elds!” s.h.i.+elds snapped skyward all along the first wall, a maroon bulwark raised in defense. The timing was perfect. Spearheads thudded into thick oak. A few men screamed but most roared their defiance.

”Give them our answer.” The king spoke and the trumpets sounded.

Archers on the first wall raised their bows, releasing a rain of arrows.

Trebuchets on the second wall creaked and groaned, hurling ma.s.sive boulders into the sky. As if lobbed by giant hands, the boulders tumbled upward, rising over the first wall and sailing out over the horde. An impossible weight of stone, the marshal watched them fall, clouds of blood and gore marking each strike.

Beside him, a squire yelled. ”Twenty men with one stone!”

It seemed a mighty feat, yet it was like dropping a pebble in the ocean. The enemy ranks closed and the b.l.o.o.d.y holes disappeared.

Archers loosed another volley. A wave of spears answered. The sun climbed the sky and still the rain of missiles fell. Raised s.h.i.+elds caught most of the spears but there were always a few shrieks of pain. Healers raced along the wall, removing the dead and the dying, a slow winnowing of the maroon.

Once more the drums changed their beat.

The marshal tensed, knowing what was to come.

Archers appeared in the enemy's front lines. Black fletched arrows soared skyward. A wave of darkness sailed over the first wall, reaching for the second.

The marshal stood his ground, watching the deadly arc. ”Wait for it!” The first wave was always the hardest. He summoned his courage, refusing to flinch. The faint whistle grew louder, the sound of death's herald.

”s.h.i.+elds!” He screamed the command. Braced for impact, he lifted his oaken s.h.i.+eld. Beside him, the king leaped forward, raising his own s.h.i.+eld over a fear-frozen squire. ”Sire!” He yelled a warning but death was upon them. A hail of steel tipped arrows plummeted down. Feathered shafts thudded around him, biting deep. Two struck the marshal's s.h.i.+eld, a third just missing his foot. Someone screamed a howl of pain. A few frantic heartbeats later, the rain of arrows stopped.

Lowering his s.h.i.+eld, the marshal sprang towards the king. Miraculously, the king and squire stood unscathed, but others were not so lucky. All along the wall, men screamed while others lay dead, felled where they stood. ”Sire, you dare not take such risks.”

The king replied with a frosty glare. ”Young Emmett here has learned a lesson.” The king gave the squire a conspirator's smile. ”Next time, you'll keep your s.h.i.+eld raised.”

Hero-wors.h.i.+p shown from the lad's face. ”Yes, Sire.”

”Now get to the armory and tell Steward Malt we'll be needing more arrows.”

The lad sped away, the north wind tugging at his gray cloak.

A faint whistle warned of another a.s.sault.

”s.h.i.+elds!” The marshal screamed the order, but this time he stayed close to his king. Arrows thumped into oaken s.h.i.+elds while others clattered harmless against stonewalls. But some found their mark. Beside him, a squire screamed in pain, an arrow piercing his shoulder. The marshal bellowed, ”Get him to the healers!” Two soldiers leaped to obey. Further down the wall, someone shrieked in pain.

”Ware the arrows!”

The marshal raised his s.h.i.+eld. Between each wave, the Octagon replied in kind. Trebuchets groaned with effort. Boulders and arrows hurled upward, answered by arrows and spears. The deadly war of attrition lasted for the better part of the day. The marshal figured they killed more than they lost, but the size of the horde remained staggering.

Late in the afternoon, the enemy changed tactics.

Their drums beat a wild rhythm as their front lines parted with a roar. Twenty men emerged, carrying a ma.s.sive battering ram.

”On the ram!” The king shouted the order and the trumpets gave a complicated trill.

A flight of arrows launched towards the ram like a swarm of angry hornets.

A few of the enemy staggered and fell, but the others ran on, bearing the ram toward the outer gate.

Prince Ulrich had the honor of holding the outer wall. His men swarmed the barbican above the ironshod gate, a gleam of silver surcoats and maroon s.h.i.+elds.

Another flight of arrows and still the ram came.

”Get them.” The marshal's gaze followed each flight, willing the arrows to strike true. The G.o.ds must have heard. Feathered shafts p.r.i.c.ked the men like quills of a porcupine. Skewered, they dropped their burden, falling twenty yards short of the gate.

A cheer rang from the walls, but the victory was short lived.

Another twenty men emerged from the horde. Holding s.h.i.+elds overhead, they raced for the ram. Taking up the fallen burden, they lumbered toward the gate. A thicket of arrows flew from both sides, yet the ram drew near.

Boom! Like a ma.s.sive fist, the ram came calling. But the maroon cloaked defenders knew their craft. Men scurried across the barbican dousing the attackers with oil. Fire arrows followed. Flames roared to life just beyond the gate. Men screamed and flailed, black smoke belching into the sky. Capering like fire demons, they fled from the gate, abandoning the ram.

Cheers erupted from both walls, but the king and the marshal remained silent.

Three times the enemy rammed the gate and three times they failed.

The king watched from the second wall, the marshal by his side. ”Ulrich and his men fought well this day.” He spoke loud enough for those around him to hear. The marshal knew the king's praise would be repeated till it reached the prince's ear.

The sun sank toward the horizon, calling an end to the b.l.o.o.d.y day. The drums pounded and the enemy withdrew, leaving their dead littered across the trampled gra.s.s like flotsam on the sh.o.r.es of h.e.l.l. The horde retreated beyond reach of the trebuchets. Ma.s.sive boulders studded the trampled gra.s.sland, blood spatters giving proof to their kills. A grim silence drenched the steppes, a sodden lull before the next storm.

Struck by weariness, the marshal leaned against the rampart plucking arrows from his s.h.i.+eld. ”The fighting seems done for the day. Shall we retire, my lord?”

”Not yet.”

Beyond the killing ground, tents mushroomed across the steppes, too many to count. Twilight faded and the sky deepened to purple. The marshal kept vigil with the king. ”Do you see, Osbourne?”

And then the marshal understood. Tents sprawled below but there were few campfires. ”Just as you foretold, they have no wood for campfires.”

The king nodded. ”The Mordant uses winter as a goad.”

”Yet we won the day.” The words sounded hollow to his own ears. The first day in any war was always a test, two armies trading blows, gauging the strength of the other.

The king seemed to hear his thoughts. ”They held back.”