“Sound the alarm!” he shouted. “We’re being attacked!”
The man stared at him in surprise for a second or two, then he saw the corsair leader drawing the arrow back and taking aim at the incoming ship and was galvanized into action.
“Alarm!” he shouted to the two lookouts in a tower above the wharf. “Sound the alarm! We’re under attack!”
He heard the deadly thrum of the bow as Philip released.
The corsair captain was fat, debauched and unpleasant. But he had excellent weapon skills. Without them, he wouldn’t have lasted a week at the command of his band of cutthroats. The arrow flashed across the intervening space, aimed unerringly at the helmsman holding the tiller.
Gilan saw it coming, heard the shouting on the wharf. He grabbed Hal and dragged him down just in time, as the arrow hissed overhead, through the space the young skirl had just occupied.
“Thorn!” the Ranger shouted. “Get those men up here now!”
He could see the gaudily clad figure on the wharf nocking another arrow and reached for his own quiver. But his hand fell on one of the two signal arrows that he had carelessly placed in there the day before. He cursed and fumbled for a normal shaft.
But Lydia was quicker. She too had seen the archer on the wharf. And she took note of the red gauntlet on his right hand, guessing the significance.
“Well, well,” she muttered. “It’s Philip Pattyfingers himself.”
With the speed of totally instinctive movement, drilled into her muscle memory by years of practice and thousands of shots, she selected a dart, clipped it onto the atlatl, sighted and cast in a matter of seconds.
Philip was drawing back the second arrow when he felt a massive impact against his chest. The bow and arrow fell from his grip and he looked down, puzzled, to see the long dart that had just transfixed him. He felt no pain at first. The impact was like a hard punch but the area was numb.
Then the pain came. Huge waves of it.
Then the bright sunlit day turned black and he collapsed to the wharf like a rag doll.
chapter twenty-six
Ishtfana’s bow bumped against the wharf at an angle and grated along it as the ship slewed in parallel to the stone wall. Stefan and Jesper hurled mooring ropes over the bollards set along the wharf’s edge and, with Stig and Ingvar helping, hauled the ship alongside. All four of them had their weapons ready and, with the exception of Ingvar, their big round shields slung over their backs.
Led by Thorn, the first of the Arridan cavalrymen surged up the companionway onto the deck, then leapt up onto the wharf itself. They were joined by the Herons, with the exception of Edvin, who was on board the Heron, steering her behind the galley. Kloof remained with him, just in case there was a repetition of the flanking attack that had happened the previous day. With Kloof remaining on the ship, it would have to be a bold Tualaghi who dared to try and board Heron. Or a foolish one.
Hal was the last to step ashore, held up by the surge of cavalrymen as they clambered awkwardly onto the wharf, hampered by their knee-high riding boots. He slipped his own shield, the blue Gallican kite-shaped one, over his left arm and drew his sword from its scabbard.
Briefed by Thorn on the journey up the coast, the Arridan troops formed two lines behind the Skandians, who were in their traditional wedge shape, with Thorn at the apex, flanked by Stig and Ingvar, who was reveling in the fact that he could take an active part in the fight. The dark brown, opaque circles over his eyes gave him an ominous, skull-like look.
There was a small group of harbor guards facing them, perhaps nine or ten men. They began backing cautiously away from the new arrivals, their eyes darting nervously along the line, bristling with weapons.
Then the whole picture changed.
There was a rattle of boots on stone and a jingle of mail and equipment and a file of blue-clad Tualaghi emerged from a side alley, running quickly onto the wharf and forming up in a single line in the shape of a shallow crescent. The harbor guards, their confidence boosted by the unexpected reinforcements, fell into place with them.
Thorn estimated their numbers. Close to sixty, he thought. And most of them would be hardened desert warriors, not fat, under-trained garrison troops.
“This could be a problem,” he muttered.
Gilan had shouldered his way through to stand beside him, one of the signal arrows ready on his bow. Lydia stood with a flint and steel ready to light the fuse.
“Should I send up the signal?” he asked.
Thorn hesitated, then came to a decision. “Do it. If we wait any longer, Selethen won’t be in position in time.”
Gilan half turned and held the cloth-wrapped arrow tip out to Lydia. She struck her flint against steel, and the sparks caught the oil-soaked fuse, setting it spluttering and hissing as it burned its way toward the explosive powder wrapped in the cloth. Gilan swung the bow up to near vertical, drew back and released. The arrow soared upward, trailing an almost-invisible thread of gray smoke behind it.
All eyes swung up to watch it. All except Thorn’s. His eyes were slitted as he watched the Tualaghi facing them, waiting for the moment when the exploding arrow would distract them.
“Ready . . . ,” he growled.
It came. The arrow, almost at the apogee of its flight, suddenly burst in a cloud of white smoke. A second later, they heard the dull crump of the chemicals erupting.
There were exclamations of surprise from the men facing them, and in that moment, while their attention was on the drifting cloud of smoke, Thorn gave his time-honored command.
“Let’s get ’em, boys!” he yelled, and charged full tilt at the half circle of Tualaghi facing them.
The flying wedge of Skandians slammed into the center of the enemy line, driving half a dozen of the Tualaghi back, leaving four of them on the stone surface of the wharf. Axes rose and fell, shield smashed against shield, swords flashed and cut. And, in the center, Thorn’s terrible club-hand rose and fell and swept from side to side, breaking bones, cracking ribs, sending enemies flying.
The Tualaghi line buckled and folded around the Skandian force on either side, to be met in turn by the Arridan troops arrayed behind them. The fighting became general, with men on either side seeking an opponent and hacking and thrusting and shoving at him.
Gilan and Lydia stood back, one on either side, watching to see if a sneak attack might threaten one of their comrades. Gilan’s bow and Lydia’s atlatl were both loaded and ready. But in the confused mass of fighting, shoving troops, it was too difficult to single out an enemy. The odds of hitting one of their own were too high.
It was the Skandian wedge that made the difference, as was so often the case. Thorn’s club, Stig’s ax and Ingvar’s thrusting, hacking voulge took a terrible toll of the defenders. The defensive line wavered, then broke as the blue-robed warriors began to retreat. At first they went a step at a time, still facing their attackers. Then, as more of them fell to that dreadful trio of weapons at the head of the wedge, they began to move more quickly.
Then they were running for the shelter of an alleyway behind them, leading away from the wharf.
“Come on!” yelled Thorn, leading the charge after them. But as the group surged forward, he roared another order. “Don’t break formation! Maintain the wedge!”
It was the wedge formation that gave them the strength to break the line, with each man in the wedge capable of supplying support and assistance to the men beside him. If they broke that pattern, they could be isolated and picked off as individuals by their more numerous enemy.
Accordingly, Thorn slowed the pace of their advance to a fast walk, with the wedge still in place and the Arridans supporting either side.
And it was this delay that gave Dhakwan the chance to rally his men and launch a counterattack.
The lieutenant shoved his way to the head of the jostling mob as they struggl
ed through the narrow alley. By the time the retreating Tualaghi emerged into a small plaza at the end of the alley, he was in position to confront them. He stood before them, arms spread wide to contain them, his scimitar gleaming a threat in his right hand.
“Stop!” Dhakwan screamed. He dragged the blue veil down from his face so that they would recognize him. “You’re running like women! Now stop. Turn and face the enemy!”
Gradually, the panic began to seep away. The warriors looked at the men either side of them, shamefaced. Seeing their returning confidence, Dhakwan seized the opportunity.
He pointed to another, narrower alley leading out of the plaza, on the far side. “We’ll make a stand there!” he shouted. “At the far end of that alley is another plaza. We’ll meet them there where they’re restricted in the alley and we have room to move. And we will annihilate them!”
He pointed with his sword at the dark entrance to the alley across the plaza. From the far end of the one his men had just taken, he could hear the steady tramp of feet as the Skandian wedge, supported by the Arridans, advanced.
The Tualaghi began to stream across the plaza. Again, Dhakwan’s booming voice, echoing off the buildings surrounding them, nipped any incipient panic in the bud.
“Move quickly. But steadily!” he shouted. “Hold your formation. Rear ranks, turn to face the enemy. Those in front, steady them as they march.”
Obediently, those in the rear of the Tualaghi force turned to face their pursuers. The men in front of them placed hands on their shoulders to guide and support them as they walked quickly backward to the alley.
They had just plunged into the second alley, moving at a steady pace, when the Skandians emerged from the first. Thorn glanced around, saw the last of the defenders drifting back into the shadows of the second alley, and motioned his men forward.
“Come on!” he shouted. “At the double!”
The Skandian wedge, followed by the Arridans, double-timed across the small plaza. From upper windows, veiled women and curious children peered out at the two groups of foreigners engaged in a battle for their town.
Thorn plunged into the shadows of the alley. At the far end, he could see the Tualaghi force emerging into the sunlit open space of yet another plaza. Slowing down a little more, to make sure their formation remained intact, he led the combined force forward.
“This is all taking too long,” he muttered. It had been some time since Gilan had shot his signal arrow. Selethen and his men must now be engaged at the main gate, with no sign of any help from within. He had hoped to scatter the Tualaghi defenders who faced them, sending them running in panic at his sudden, unexpected attack. But the alarm had been raised too soon and he could see that the leader of the enemy group had his men well in hand, and was staging a carefully controlled retreat.
On top of that, he estimated that they were facing nearly sixty men—out of a reported force of two hundred. Iqbal could hardly manage to commit such a large proportion of his available troops away from the main attack. Somebody must have got the numbers wrong, he thought grimly. There were more Tualaghi in the harbor town than they had been led to believe.
He reached the end of the second alley and stopped. In the sunlit plaza outside, the Tualaghi had stopped retreating and were formed up in a crescent line again, facing their pursuers.
“Shields!” Thorn bellowed, as the line facing him surged toward him, swords swinging, spears thrusting. Instantly, he found himself engaged in a desperate battle. He had nearly thirty men behind him but no more than half a dozen could force their way out of the alley at any one time.
Fortunately, that half dozen was made up of some of the finest warriors he had ever served with. Stig and Ingvar hacked and thrust and stabbed at the surging line of Tualaghi. Hal fought with his usual controlled ferocity and skill, deflecting attacks and darting his sword forward in lightning thrusts that sent enemy soldiers reeling or sprawling to the cobblestones. The four of them forced their way forward and Ulf and Wulf emerged to widen the line, facing out on either side at the warriors who were trying to envelop them. As the Herons fought their way forward, more of the crew joined the battle, slowly forcing the enemy line back.
Then the Tualaghi came at them with renewed energy and desperation, and they were forced to give ground. Behind them, confined in the alleyway, the twenty-five Arridans shouted in frustration, desperate to get into the clear and join the battle.
Gilan and Lydia, unable to take part in the battle without endangering their own men, met at the rear of the force.
“We should have taken a dozen men down one of the parallel alleys,” Lydia said. “That way, we could have launched a flanking attack on them.” But Gilan shook his head.
“There are too many of them. We’d need a bigger force to make that work. A dozen men attacking from the flank would be cut down in short time. We’d need thirty or forty and we don’t have them.”
Lydia frowned, then looked up at him. “I think I know where I can find them.”
She turned and, running lightly, headed back across the plaza for the wharf.
chapter twenty-seven
Selethen saw the white cloud of smoke blossom over the town, then heard the muted thump of the exploding chemicals. He drew his sword and turned to one of his lieutenants.
“They’re in the town,” he said. “It’s time for us to go. Make sure the riders with the ladders are close behind us.”
His subordinate turned in his saddle and checked the line of riders ready to follow the Wakir into battle. Devoid of any heavy siege towers or assault machinery, Selethen’s men had constructed three light ladders to aid their attack on the walls of Tabork. Each one was supported between two riders. He made eye contact with the ladder carriers now and received their nods of confirmation. They were ready.
“Stay close!” he called.
Selethen’s plan was a simple one. They were currently hidden from sight on the reverse slope of a shallow hill some two hundred meters from the southern gate—the main access way into the town. On his command, the troop would gallop across the open space to the town, trusting to their speed to minimize any losses from missiles shot by the defenders. Once at the walls beside the main gate, they would dismount and turn their horses loose. The three ladders would be placed against the wall, and with a little luck, some of them might reach the top and give cover to their comrades below. The Skandians, reinforced by twenty-five of Selethen’s troopers, would hopefully fight their way through to the gate from the opposite direction, taking the defenders by surprise and opening it to admit the bulk of Selethen’s men into the town. Success depended on speed and surprise, catching the defenders from two sides.
“Stay close to the walls!” Selethen called to his men. He’d already dinned this into them. If they stood out from the walls, they would be easier targets for the defenders above. Huddled close in the lee of the fortifications, they would be protected, unless the Tualaghi leaned out through the battlements to shoot at them. And when they did that, they would be exposed to return shots from the attackers’ short but powerful bows.
“Ready!” He raised his sword, then swept it down to point straight ahead. “Charge!”
He jammed his heels into his stallion’s ribs and the horse leapt away, going from a dead stop to full speed in a matter of a few meters.
Behind him, he heard the thunder of hooves as his men followed him, spreading out in a ragged line, their pennants and headscarves streaming behind them in the wind. This wasn’t an ordered cavalry charge, where each man and horse had to maintain a strict position in the line. This was a matter of crossing the open ground between them and the walls in as short a time as possible. Out to his right, he saw a trooper overtaking him, forging ahead.
Then the man went down, his horse somersaulting beneath him and sending him flying headlong into the rocky ground. A cloud of dust obscured them and Selethen had
no idea whether it had been the man or the horse who had been hit by an arrow.
He could hear the arrows buzzing past his ears now as the Tualaghi singled him out as the leader and tried to pick him off. He swerved his horse violently and a salvo of arrows flashed through the space he had just occupied. One of his riders had unslung his own bow and was fitting an arrow to the string, controlling his horse with only his knees. Selethen shouted to him.
“Save your arrows! We’ll need them at the wall!”
Accurate shooting from a plunging, galloping horse would be virtually impossible, he knew. Better to wait until they were at the base of the wall. An arrow tugged at his sleeve, jerking him around in the saddle. He saw another two riders go down, then saw a spear striking sparks off the rocks as it hit and rebounded.
If they were within spear range, there were only seconds to go. He looked up at the wall, towering above him. He could see the blue-veiled heads of the defenders peering over it, and from time to time, a defender was visible from the waist up as he stepped into one of the crenellations for a clearer shot.
A platoon commander a few paces ahead of him reined in, drew back his arm and cast his spear at one such Tualaghi. The blue-robed figure staggered back from the wall, transfixed by the heavy spear.
Then Selethen was sliding his horse to a stiff-legged halt, clouds of dust billowing around him as his men did the same. Throwing his leg over the pommel, he released the reins and dropped to the ground, instantly breaking into a run as he dashed for the walls.
All around him, horses were neighing and whinnying as they kicked up extra storms of dust and their riders dismounted. The horses, no longer under control, trotted aimlessly as their riders scrambled for the vestigial shelter at the base of the walls.
The dust and the blundering horses served an unforeseen purpose, providing cover for the dismounted men, distracting and unsighting the Tualaghi on the walls. Selethen saw two of the ladder carriers running forward to the wall. He went with them, beckoning to a group of five troopers to follow.