The Devil's Armour (Gollancz S.F.) (43 page)

‘Ready on the ram!’ he called. His voice strained against the din. To his men at the catapults he cried, ‘Make ready to fire!’ Quickly he galloped toward a line of archers, protected now by hastily erected siege walls. ‘Covering fire,’ he ordered them, and the lieutenants passed the order down. The archers in the field dipped into their quivers and loaded their bows one more time. Seeing what was happening, the Liirians in the bastion replied with a hailstorm of shafts. A thump-thump of arrows hit the shields. Rodrik Varl raised his hand in defiance, saw the fire burning on the tower, and gave the order.

A volley of arrows streaked into the blue. The great catapults launched their deadly loads. A hundred men grunted against the enormous ram; the weapon let out a groaning wail. Slowly, slowly, the behemoth began to move. From behind the shields the archers drew back and fired again. The exchange of missiles darkened the sun. One, two, three men fell dead from the ram. Others hurried forward to take their place, leaving the fallen on the trampled field.
Their commanders cursed at them, driving them on, while horsemen with long shields did their best to protect them.

‘Go, go!’ Varl urged. An arrow struck his shield, breaking through the wood, its iron head peeking through. The shot drove him on, deeper into the field and chaos, closer to the ram that was picking up speed, headlong like a charging bull toward the bastion’s gates. A nearby horseman rolled from his saddle, spraying Varl with gore as a bolt blew his head apart. Varl shook off the surprise, galloping in a wide circle across the field and hissing at his men to hurry.

Around the ram the world seemed to stop. Even safe in the bastion’s tower, the Liirians there paused a moment while the menacing weapon picked up speed. The fire slackened, the field grew hushed, and the sound of ten oiled wheels filled the air as the battering ram bore down.

Colonel Bern felt the world shake. The Norvan ram bashed the bastion gate with an earsplitting clap, cracking the timbers and sending men spilling from the wall. The two stout portals buckled, barely held closed by the splintered timbers. From his place in the yard, Bern could see the head of the great weapon through the breached gate and the triumphant, sweaty faces of his enemy.

The time was drawing quickly near. He had already mounted his horse, prepared to take the field. Nevins, his cavalry commander, rallied his horsemen for the coming melee. Once the ram was deployed again, the gate would breach and the bastion would be lost. It would be a slaughter for the men inside, who had all signed on to fight to the death but who deserved better than to perish for the sake of Baron Ravel.

It would not be that way, Bern determined.

At last, he had the excuse he needed. His men had defended the bastion mightily; they could all be proud. He gave a look to Nevins who nodded his beaten helm in understanding.

To the sergeant of the yard Bern gave his order, who
called to his piper to sound the trumpet. The piper put his brass instrument to his lips and blew a mournful note.

Up on the roof, Captain Aliston heard the trumpet blast and knew the time had come. One by one his archers lowered their bows. Each took up a special arrow next, one unlike any other they had fired all day. They notched the arrows to their bows and hurriedly went to the brazier. The inferno that had so far covered their plan still belched smoke into the sky, passing along a tiny portion of itself to the oil-soaked arrows. As his men prepared their weapons, Aliston saw the ram being repositioned below. His forty archers took up their positions again along the rooftop’s crenellations. This time, blazing arrows tilted skyward, they took careful aim at the green beyond the field.

Confident the arrows couldn’t reach them on the green, the Norvans had arranged themselves in dense, clumsy clusters, waiting for an order to join the battle. Aliston smiled, happily anticipating the coming blaze.

‘Fire,’ said Captain Aliston, and watched in wicked glee while the flaming arrows took flight.

Rodrik prepared himself for combat as the battering ram broke through the gate. Only peripherally did he see the glowing fireflies sailing high above. He looked skyward, following the burning arrows as they arced toward the field, and wondered dreadfully with what Colonel Bern had gifted him.

He did not wonder long. A second later the field erupted with hot light. Varl shielded his eyes, shocked by the roar as the fire spread. His horse bucked beneath him and all was suddenly chaos. A chorus of screams rose up from the field as men and horses scrambled for cover. But there was no safety from the flames. Everywhere, cool grass had turned to hellfire. Varl struggled to control his thrashing horse, aghast at what had happened. Across the field his cavalry and archers ran as the flames reached for them. Frenzied horses
rose up on their haunches, panicked by the fire and tossing free their riders. Varl reined his own beast, prancing in confused circles. The green had been a trap, and all that acrid smell had come from right below their feet. He cursed himself and rode for the green, but the heat was too great and forced him to pull back. His men were shouting and breaking ranks, trying vainly to help their burning comrades. Like a great, dead tree, one of the huge catapults stood stark among the flames, burning. Figures darted through the orange haze, their uniforms aflame. Scorched figures clawed at the earth as they pulled themselves away, only to collapse in agony.

‘Retreat!’ called Rodrik Varl. Suddenly, his every thought was of Jazana Carr. He remembered in a panic how she had promised to come up to be with him, and hoped desperately she was not inside the holocaust. He strained to see beyond the green, beyond the hellish blaze, but the light was dazzling and pained his eyes. ‘Fall back!’ he cried, hoping his men could hear. ‘Beyond the green! Back!’

Rodrik Varl had a mercenary’s sense of things, and knew that Colonel Bern had not set fire to the field without reason.

For some reason, Bern had waited before springing his trap.

To a man like Varl who was used to tricks, that meant only one thing. With the barest surprise, he looked toward the shattered gate and watched it explode outward, heralding a flood of Liirian horsemen.

With a broadsword in one hand and his reins in the other, Colonel Bern gave a wild shout as he jumped the threshold of the broken gate. Outside he found the chaos he expected. Jazana Carr’s mercenaries were in disarray, calling retreat or vainly trying to rescue their burning comrades. Already Major Nevins had led a dozen horsemen out onto the field. Dozens more followed Bern, all eager to avenge their own fallen friends. The hailstorm of arrows had ceased, replaced
by the relentless roar and heat of fire. Bern ignored the needles piercing his eyeslits. As his eyes ran red with tears he brought his sword down on a confused Norvan, cracking through the man’s breastplate and rending his chest. He could see the mercenaries running for cover around him, confused now by this new attack. Bern swung his sword in a rage, smashing through the defences of any Norvan he came against and crying loudly for his men to follow. Frantically he scanned the field for Rodrik Varl, but the mercenary was nowhere to be seen. Calls for retreat echoed over the crackling fire. Bern shouted at his men to press on, to push the Norvans deeper into the fiery green.

A forgotten sense of victory seized him. Behind him, he watched his men pouring out of the bastion, climbing through the gates or slipping down hastily dropped ladders. They came in great swarms onto the field, too many for the shocked Norvans to deter, slicing their way past the retreating mercenaries as they themselves retreated from the bastion. Colonel Bern knew his plan had worked, better than he’d anticipated.

While the archers and infantry ran for the city’s centre, Bern found Major Nevins in the crowd. Busily shouting and happy with the rout, it took a moment for Bern to get his commander’s attention.

‘Ride north,’ he told Nevins. ‘Protect the men and keep them safe. Fight your way through the northern line if you have to, but get out of the city.’

Nevins laughed as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Say again, Colonel?’

‘You heard me, Nevins, north!’

‘Sir, we’re making a final stand at the castle!’

‘We’re not,’ barked Bern. ‘We’re not fighting for Ravel any more, Nevins. We’re fighting for Liiria.’

‘But where?’ sputtered Nevins. ‘We have to make a stand!’

Bern brought his horse close to the major’s. ‘We will make a stand! But not here! You’re in command of these
men now. Take them north and fight your way out of the city. Get them to Koth. Tell them what’s happened here.’

The order bleached Nevins’ face. ‘Sir . . .’

‘Do it, Nevins. Quickly now – do it while you still have cover.’ Bern turned his horse toward the burning green. The fire was already waning. He could see the mass of Norvans beyond it, still confused but still numerous. ‘Find Breck at the library,’ he continued. ‘Help him defend our country, lad.’

As he began to ride off, he heard Nevins shout after him, ‘Sir, what about you?’

‘I’m going to the castle,’ Bern cried. ‘And don’t you dare follow me!’

By the end of the morning, Kaj and his Crusaders had made their way to the eastern wall. As expected, they found the wall fortified with Liirians and some hirelings from other countries, all surprisingly willing to die for their employer, Baron Ravel. Kaj had lost at least sixty men taking the eastern district, and by the time his mercenaries reached the wall they were exhausted and ill-prepared for a prolonged siege. They took up positions in the streets just outside the wall, bearing down on the Liirian defenders and gathering their strength for the assault. Kaj waited patiently while his reserves were brought from the rear, over a hundred fresh men who could, at last, travel safely through the streets. He supposed that Count Onikil had encountered little trouble in securing the western part of the city, and that the count was ready to march on the castle by now. As for Rodrik Varl, that was a different story. By the time noon had come, messengers began arriving from the southern bastion. They explained to Kaj that Varl had indeed secured the little fortress, but at great loss. A fire had forced his men to retreat temporarily and the Liirians inside the bastion had escaped. According to the messenger, Varl supposed they had fled to the castle for a last stand, making the job of taking down Baron Ravel even more difficult. What had at
first looked like a hard day’s work was becoming something of a debacle, and Kaj took the time to size up the situation. With Varl delayed in the south, there was no real rush for him to take the eastern wall.

Then, to his amazement, Kaj noticed something. He was in a high, abandoned building with a good view of the eastern wall just two short streets away. Looking out the window while men chatted anxiously about their plans, he saw that there were far fewer men patrolling the wall than had been there just scant minutes before. Then, when he looked down into the streets, he realised that the barriers the Liirians had erected were unmanned as well. Kaj quickly realised what was happening. He leaned out through the broken window and stared at the wall.

‘They’re abandoning it . . .’

At first his men acted as though they hadn’t heard. His friend Anare went to stand beside him.

‘Are they?’ Anare asked, bewildered.

When the rest of the men realised what was happening they headed for the street.

‘No!’ Kaj called after them. ‘We won’t pursue them. They’re retreating. That’s good enough for now.’

Assuming the Liirians were heading toward the castle, he did not bother sending scouts after them.

Lord Dugald of the twin cities Vicvar and Poolv had enjoyed an uneventful morning. As predicted, his own small army had faced little resistance in their march south, securing the north of Andola easily and waiting for word from Rodrik Varl to proceed toward Ravel’s castle. The north of the city was the most sparsely populated and thus the least built-up, making Dugald’s progress simple. With his force of only seven hundred men – mostly infantry – he had forced the outnumbered Liirians south by flanking them on both sides and squeezing them down. The lack of heart the Liirians showed did not surprise Lord Dugald, who remembered gleefully what he had told Rodrik Varl
earlier in the day: mercenaries simply couldn’t be trusted. They fought for money alone, and when their lives were really threatened they always –
always
– gave up. It did not matter to Dugald that these particular mercenaries were Liirians. Despite Varl’s ludicrous claims, they had no country to fight for.

An hour past noon, Dugald had made camp with his aides and guards in a clearing that had been a market square before strife had strangled Andola’s commerce. The square was large enough to accommodate all of Dugald’s underlings, who travelled with him everywhere and who, like their lord, enjoyed comfort wherever they went. Workers who had been slaves before Jazana Carr outlawed the practice cooked for Dugald and pampered him, while the lord himself sat around a makeshift table with his aides, commenting on how well their campaign had gone. Like Kaj, Dugald had received a message from Rodrik Varl telling him of the difficulties they had faced down south and telling him to go no further. Dugald, who was famished from the busy morning, had no intention of moving another inch until he ate, and so received the message gladly. It didn’t matter to Dugald whether Andola fell in a day or in a month. So far Jazana Carr had been a generous queen, and he saw no reason to be unhappy. He ate a game bird and drank wine while he talked with his aides, and he laughed at Varl’s misfortune, wiping his greasy beard on his sleeve and bellowing for more wine. He was a big man with no manners at all, and was often called Dugald the Great by the peoples of Vicvar and Poolv, not because of any special accomplishment but because of his burgeoning stomach.