“We shouldn’t have made love,” she said. “It was a mistake, and I cannot afford such mistakes. If it is any consolation to you, it was a wonderful night, and I will never forget it. But it will never be repeated. So stop following me around like a moonstruck idiot!”
She expected anger and his laughter surprised her. “I am not moonstruck, Karis. I never was a great believer in love at first sight—or indeed at any sight. And, to be honest, I don’t know what I feel for you. Had you stayed that night, and we had talked, there might have been no need for a meeting like this. But you didn’t. You ran. Why? Why did you run?”
“It is late, and I am too tired for this,” she said, turning away.
“Not afraid to die, but terrified to live. Is that it?” he asked her.
She whirled on him then. “What is it with you men?” she sneered. “Why can your egos never cope with rejection? I don’t want you, I don’t need you. You helped me to relax. That was your role and you did it well.”
He laughed again, the sound rich and unforced. “Of course no man likes rejection. And I have known my share. What I find hard to understand is not that you reject me, Karis; it is that you are frightened of me.”
“Frightened? You arrogant pig! Nothing on this earth will ever frighten me again. My father saw to that. Now get out of my sight!”
He gave a rueful smile and turned away. She heard his voice drift back across the moonlit street. “I am not your father, Karis.”
Angrily she strode back to the palace and to her apartments, where Necklen was waiting. “You have chosen the men?” she asked, stepping inside. Stealer had to leap aside as she slammed the door.
“Yes. A hundred stretcher-bearers, and sixty orderlies to assist with the wounded. You know there are only four surgeons left in the city?”
“I do now.”
“You want me to come back tomorrow, princess?”
“Don’t call me that!” She slumped into a chair. “Do you think I am frightened to live?” she asked the old man.
Necklen gave a wide grin. “What do you want to hear?”
“The truth would be pleasant.”
“I never met a woman yet who wanted to hear the truth. Are we talking about Vint, or the dog-ugly brute in the dung beetle armour?”
“You think he is ugly?” she asked, surprised.
“You think he is not?” countered Necklen. “He has a nose that looks as if it has been kicked by a bull, and a broad flat face and small eyes. Green, if I recall. Never trust men with green eyes.”
“How did you know it might be him? Has he been speaking of me?”
“No, princess. But, if you want the truth, I learned it from you. Whenever he is close you cannot keep your eyes from him. Did he accuse you of being too frightened to live?”
“Yes. You agree with him?”
“How would I know?” asked Necklen. “But you do surprise me, girl. You obviously want him, and I’ve never known you to be coy.”
“I slept with him once. Now he wants to own me,” she said. “I won’t be owned. I won’t be used in the name of love.”
“Did Giriak use you?” he asked, softly.
“Of course he didn’t. But then, I didn’t love him.”
“And you love Forin?”
“I didn’t say that!” she snapped.
“I’m not sure what you are saying.”
Relaxing into her chair, Karis let out a long sigh. Then she chuckled. “Neither am I. Pass me the jug, my dear old fool. It is time to get drunk!”
Just before dawn on the morning of the fourth day, Vint left his quarters in the palace and strolled the half-mile to the northern wall. A cold wind was blowing down from the mountains and he held his sheepskin cloak tightly around his slim frame. Passing the old barracks building, he saw three men hauling a hand-cart on which was set a metal drum, and the smell of hot onion soup drifted to him.
As he neared the gates he saw scores of workmen laying stone walls across the entrances to the alleyways leading off from the main avenue. Karis and Ozhobar were moving among them, checking the work. Vint walked past them, trying to control his feeling of irritation. Karis had not invited him to her bed in days. His annoyance surprised him. He was not in love with her, nor had he any wish to build a lasting relationship. What then? he wondered, as he climbed the rampart steps. The answer was not hard to find. He smiled ruefully. She is not in love with you either. It was a blow to the morale to be so casually discarded.
At the top of the steps he saw the sentries squatting down below the ramparts, hiding from the bitter bite of the north wind. “Soup is on its way, lads,” he said.
“Not onion again, sir, is it?” asked one veteran.
“I am afraid so!”
The dawn sun crept into view, its rays cutting through the wind. “Are the scouts back?” he asked.
“Not yet, sir. They should be in sight any time now.”
Vint turned towards the north, scanning the hills. Nothing was moving there. Glancing back, he saw Karis striding across the avenue with the huge form of Ozhobar beside her. Her dark hair was drawn back into a tight ponytail, and she was wearing a rust-coloured tunic of wool, and green leggings; a wide leather belt emphasized the slimness of her waist. How many women have you discarded in a similar fashion? Vint asked himself, trying to ease his troubled mind.
“Why are they doing that, sir?” asked a young soldier, coming alongside him and pointing to the workmen building new walls to block the alleyways.
Vint swung on the man. “The Daroth can read minds,” he said. “Do you think that it is a good idea to voice such questions?”
“I don’t see as it makes a lot of difference,” replied the soldier, with a shrug. “We’re not going to stop them with a few stones. Nor crossbows. Nor catapults. They butchered thirty thousand people at Prentuis. The entire city—and its army. They’ll do the same here.”
“Then why do you stay?”
“It’s what I’m paid for,” said the soldier grimly.
“Have you ever served with Karis?” asked Vint.
“No, but I know men who have and they say she’s never lost. But then she’s never faced a Daroth army either.”
“She will surprise them,” said Vint.
“Really? I don’t think so. She told one of the scouts about a group of wizards who are going to destroy the Daroth. He was simple-minded and believed every word. Wizards! You think if we had anything that powerful we wouldn’t have gone out after them? You think we’d be shut in here building pigging walls?” The soldier brought his hand up to his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What’s wrong?” asked Vint.
“Stinking headache,” said the man. “It’s this wind.”
Sudden pain struck Vint. Grabbing the man, he hauled him below the ramparts.
“What are you doing?” shouted the soldier, angrily.
“Where is your head pain now?” snapped Vint.
The man blinked. “Well, it’s gone,” he said.
Vint swore and then, keeping low, he moved to the steps and ran down to where Karis and Ozhobar were standing. “Can we talk?” he asked her. Together they moved away from the group and Vint told her about the exchange with the soldier.
“I’m surprised it held them this long,” she said, turning away.
“You sent out a man knowing he would be taken by the Daroth? I hope you had the decency to bed him first.”
Her eyes were cold as she stepped closer to him. “No, Vint, I liked him. It is a rule of mine never to bed a man I like.” Swinging away from him, she called out to Necklen. “Find your crew, old man. The Daroth are coming!”
Twenty minutes later Necklen was climbing the rickety ladders to the roof of the old barracks building. Climbing with only one hand was difficult, and he was breathing heavily when he stepped out onto the roof. The four boys of his team were waiting for him. They were all young and beardless—just children, he thought. But they were nimble and quick, and they
took his orders well.
“Are the wheels greased?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. And we brought the oil up last night,” answered Beris, a small lad with a shock of ginger hair and a freckled face.
“Good. Take to the handles!” Two boys on each side grabbed the iron handles and began to turn them. Slowly the great arm was winched down into place, then Necklen pushed the iron locking bolt through the metal hoops. Two boys ran back to where the pottery balls were covered by a tarpaulin. Pulling back the sheet they rolled one of the balls to the catapult, then carefully lifted it to the bronze cup. “Oil!” ordered Necklen. Then he swung around. “Where is the brazier?”
“Sorry, sir, I forgot,” said Gelan, a thin, pockmarked boy.
“Fetch it. And do it now!” The boy ran to the ladders and swung down out of sight as Necklen strolled to the edge of the roof, staring out over the hills. Soon they would come. Walking back to the catapult, he checked the sighting wheel. The weapon was aimed at the first of the two probable sites for the Daroth catapults. So far Necklen and his team had loosed more than thirty practice missiles, and the accuracy rate was high, eight out of ten landing on the target.
Gelan came scrambling back into view with a small brazier strapped to his back, a lantern held in his right hand. Necklen set the brazier alongside the catapult, filled the lower half with oil-soaked rags, then kindling, and lastly added several handfuls of coal. Taking the lantern from Gelan, he lifted the lid and held the naked flame under the soaked rags. Flames seared up. Ginger-haired Beris brought five torches made from dried reeds and laid them alongside the brazier.
Satisfied the fire was going well, Necklen called again for the oil and watched as Beris poured it through one of six round holes in the pottery ball. Three more jugs of lantern oil followed; the holes were then plugged with rags.
The sound of shouting came from the walls below, and Necklen saw the first line of Daroth horsemen breast the northern hills. Ahead of them rode ten warriors, each carrying a long spear.
Impaled upon the spears were the bodies of the ten Corduin scouts sent out the night before.
Necklen glanced at the boys, seeing the fear on their faces. “You be steady now, my lads,” he said softly.
“Why did they do that to those men?” Beris asked.
“To frighten us, lad.”
“Are you frightened, Necklen?” asked Gelan.
“There’s no shame in fear,” said the old man. “But understand this—the coward is ruled by fear, while the hero rides it like a wild stallion. You boys are born to be heroes. Trust me. I am a fine judge of men. That’s why I chose you.”
“I don’t feel like a hero,” admitted Beris.
“You don’t have to feel like one, boy. You live like one!”
As the full Daroth army crested the skyline and spread out along the slopes, Vint stood on the walls and tried to estimate their numbers. They were moving in columns of fours towards designated positions. They pitched no tents, but waited in five huge groups, each around 1,500 strong. Three of the groups were foot-soldiers, in black armour; they carried long spears with serrated heads. The other two groups were horse-soldiers.
The sound of running men could be heard behind the walls and some soldiers turned to look. “Stare straight ahead!” bellowed Vint. The men swung back. Forty Daroth warriors put aside their spears and removed the packs from their backs, taking short-handled shovels and moving to two areas on the hillside, some 200 paces from the walls.
“What are they doing?” someone asked Vint. The swordsman shrugged. Swiftly the Daroth began to dig away at the hillside. They moved with great energy that did not slacken. Other Daroth moved in, removing their cloaks and filling them with earth, before carrying it away. The digging went on for almost an hour before Vint understood their plan: the Daroth were levelling two sections of ground.
Up on the barracks roof, Necklen realized what was happening. “They are not going to use the ground we picked out, lads,” he said. “They are building new bases for their catapults.”
Moving to the iron rails, Necklen pulled clear the retaining rods. “Let’s move her round,” he called. “Beris, line her up with the first new site. Gelan, you and the others lift clear the ball. We’ll need to loose her; the range is wrong now.”
The boys struggled to roll the ball clear. It was big and unwieldy, and oil was seeping from the rags. Necklen moved to help them. Once the ball was clear, he hammered the trigger bolt. The catapult snapped forward, the great arm thudding home against the sand-sacks roped to the frame. “How far would you say to the site?” Necklen asked Beris.
“Around two hundred and . . . forty paces?”
“My eyes are not that good anymore. I’ll take your word for it. Heave her back into position.” The boys set to at the handles and, slowly, the arm was winched into place.
“We are in line,” said Beris. Necklen slid the retaining rods home behind the wheels and climbed onto the platform alongside Beris.
“Looks good,” said the older man. “Replace the ball.” Gelan and the other two boys heaved the ball into the bronze cup.
Two Daroth catapults were pulled into view: huge machines, painted black. Necklen’s throat was dry. He had seen these before, at the fall of Prentuis, the boulders of lead smashing the walls to fragments. Slowly the Daroth pulled the first of the catapults into position. “Get back, lads, and we’ll let her go!”
“Shall I light it, sir?” asked Gelan.
“Not this one, boy. This is a scout. We’ll see where she lands.”
Taking up the small hammer, Necklen rapped it against the trigger bolt. The red pottery ball sailed high into the air, the wind whipping through the holes and creating an eerie scream. For a moment Necklen thought they were right on target, but then the ball dropped some twenty feet to the right and twelve paces short, smashing into hundreds of pieces. “Haul her back, and bring the setting down one notch,” he ordered.
“Left one mark,” shouted Beris.
Necklen and the boys drew out the retaining rods, swinging the huge machine on its wheels. In their excitement they pushed it too far. “Steady, lads!” he called. “Take it slow!”
“They are arming their catapults!” shouted another boy.
Necklen did not pause. Applying the last rod he called for a second ball. It was rolled to the catapult, then lifted into place. Beris filled it with oil.
“It’s coming!” yelled Gelan, and this time Necklen did look up. A huge ball of lead was sailing through the air. It passed over the wall, and only at the last second did the old soldier realize the Daroth were aiming at the catapult. The ball slammed into the edge of the roof, dislodging masonry and sending chips of stone screaming over their heads.
Necklen grabbed a torch, lit it from the brazier and applied it to the oil-soaked rags which Beris had rammed into the holes. “Here comes another!” shouted Gelan.
“Well, let’s send one back!” snarled Necklen, hammering the trigger bolt. The red ball, flames and smoke hissing from it, soared high—passing within yards of the Daroth shot. The black ball of lead struck the rooftop, hit a beam and crashed through to the empty second floor of the barracks building.
“Haul her back! Don’t wait to look!” shouted Necklen, though he himself could not resist following the flight of their blazing shot. It struck the top of the first Daroth catapult—and shattered. Flames rippled down the black machine. The Daroth ran forward to hurl earth over the blaze.
A great cheer went up from the battlements.
“One more!” shouted Necklen, and the second ball of flame flew into the sky. The Daroth scattered as it smashed down, fire exploding out in a huge circle. The wooden catapult was engulfed now.
But the second enemy machine loosed another shot which thundered against the side of the building, ripping away an entire corner which slid away to crash to the street below.
“Right three marks!” shouted Beris. “Take her down two more notches.”
&nbs
p; Slowly they swung the machine. “One shot is all we’ll have,” said Necklen, trying to keep his voice calm. “Make it a good one, boy!”
“Yes, sir,” said Beris. Once they had loaded the ball and Gelan had filled it with oil, Necklen ordered the boys from the rooftop. Another huge lead ball soared by them, missing the catapult by inches and destroying the store of pottery ammunition. “Get out now!” shouted Necklen.
The boys ran to the ladders as Necklen slammed the trigger bolt clear. He should have followed them, but he could not resist watching the flight of his last missile. Once again the Daroth loosed a shot. It left their catapult just as the pottery ball exploded over it, spraying burning oil over the machine. Two Daroth warriors were engulfed, and ran across the hillside like living torches.
“Yes!” shouted Necklen, punching the air. “Did you enjoy that, you bastards?”
The last Daroth shot hammered into the platform, smashing the catapult. One of the retaining bars burst clear, striking Necklen in the shoulder and spinning him across the rooftop. As his legs slipped over the edge he threw out his hand, scrabbling at an edge of masonry, and clung to it with all his strength.
There was no way back. The old warrior did not possess enough strength in one arm to haul himself to safety. His strength was ebbing away when a face appeared above him and little Beris reached down and grabbed his arm.
“Let go, you fool! You can’t take my weight. You’ll be dragged over with me.” But the boy clung on.
“Gelan is getting . . . a . . . rope,” said Beris. “I can hold you till he comes.”
“Please, boy! Just let go. I couldn’t bear to take you with me.”
“No, sir,” said Beris, his freckled face crimson with the effort of holding on. Necklen gripped the ledge more tightly, fighting to stay calm. His fingers were tiring, and his arm began to tremble.
Just then Gelan appeared and threw a loop over Necklen’s head. Pushing his useless left arm through it, he hooked himself to the rope. “It is tied to a beam,” shouted Gelan.
“Good boy,” said Necklen. “Now let go, Beris, there’s a good lad.” When Beris did so, Necklen dropped around four feet; but the rope tightened and he dangled there, feeling sick with relief. Moments later three strong men dragged him back to safety.