Authors: David Gemmell
‘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 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.’
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.
Necklen grinned at the boys. ‘I hope you never learn to take orders, lads,’ he told them.
‘Yes, sir!’ they chorused, grinning.
But Necklen’s smile faded as he saw the Daroth hauling another catapult over the hills.
As the first of the huge lead balls crashed into the wall beside the gate Vint ordered the troops back. The two blazing Daroth catapults were now oozing thick plumes of black smoke into the sky.
‘What can you see?’ yelled Karis. Vint eased himself up, and stared through the crenellated battlements.
‘Two Daroth legions are massing,’ he shouted. ‘They are moving slowly forward.’
A second lead ball struck the gates, smashing two thick timbers and splitting the giant locking bar. ‘They are coming at a run now,’ yelled Vint. ‘Maybe three thousand of them. The rest are just waiting.’
Another lead shot smashed home, tearing open the gates and rolling ponderously into the avenue beyond. Vint ran for the steps, taking them three at a time, then sprinted down towards a line of wagons stretching across the avenue. Karis, Ozhobar and Tarantio were already there.
Two hundred crossbow-men moved through a gap in the wagons and took up positions in front of them, one line kneeling and the other standing behind. They weren’t going to stop the Daroth, thought Vint. Not 200.
The first of the enemy pushed their way past the ruined gates, saw the crossbow-men, and charged. They came in silence, save for the pounding of their boots on the cobbles. The silence itself chilled Vint. He drew his sabre, knowing that the weapon was useless against the leathery skins of the Daroth, yet feeling better for having it in his hand.
‘Wait!’ shouted Karis, her voice clear and calm. The twenty-wide mass of the Daroth attackers came closer. Seventy feet. Fifty. Forty. ‘Now!’ she cried. The kneeling line of crossbow-men loosed their shafts, which hammered home into the leading warriors. Scores went down while the rest charged on. ‘Again!’ yelled Karis. The standing line let fly, and a second black cloud of bolts plunged home. The charge scarcely faltered.
Suddenly crossbow bolts came shooting from every window on either side of the avenue. Bowmen rose up from behind the hastily erected walls across the alleys, sending volley after volley into the Daroth ranks.
Vint heard a whip crack. In an alley, hidden from sight, three oxen lunged into the traces and the wagons were hauled away, exposing three enormous steel-armed ballistae hidden behind them. The two lines of crossbow-men sprinted clear left and right, just as the Daroth charged again.
Ozhobar slammed his hammer against a release bolt and two pounds of spreading iron shot screamed into the attackers, smashing the first line from their feet. Standing to one side, Vint saw a Daroth’s face swept away in a milky blur, shards of bone spraying into the air. All around, mutilated Daroth warriors were hurled to the cobbles. A second ballista loosed its load, punching a great gap in the Daroth line. Vint stood back and watched three men smoothly drawing the deadly arms of the first ballista into position. Then the third sent its lethal missiles into the packed ranks of the enemy. Crossbow bolts continued to rain from the windows, and the carnage in the avenue continued. Now the first two lines of crossbow-men edged back along the walls, spreading out again behind the ballistae and loosing their bolts into the enemy.
One Daroth warrior, his left arm torn away, stumbled forward and then hurled his spear. It took a crossbow-man through the chest, hurling him back into a wall. Tarantio relaxed and allowed Dace to take control. He leapt forward and with one sweep of his blade disembowelled the creature, then beheaded him as he fell. ‘That’s one for Sirano and his spell swords,’ said Dace.
As the enemy charged once more, the arms of one of the ballistae snapped off. Within seconds the Daroth had reached the weapons. Then the second ballista blasted lead shot into them at point-blank range, lifting three warriors from their feet and slamming them into their comrades.
From the alley alongside the ballista Forin and his fifty axemen charged into the fray. Dace was in with them, his eldritch swords cleaving a path through the enemy. Vint, his own sword useless, scrambled back from the action and joined Karis and Ozhobar. Taking up a crossbow, he cocked it and sent a bolt through the brain of a towering warrior.
A bugle blew.
Forin and his men ran left and right, opening a gap through which a ballista could send its murderous ammunition slashing into the Daroth ranks. Hundreds of the creatures were down now, more falling with every heartbeat as the merciless hail of death continued from the windows on either side.
There was nowhere for the Daroth to run. Ahead of them were the deadly ballistae, on either side the alleyways were blocked. And as the death toll continued to rise, they fought to make their way to the only haven: the north gate.
Forin took a blow to the head which sent him reeling, his helmet flying clear. As the Daroth ran in for the kill, the giant reared up to smash his axe into his enemy’s face. The blade plunged home, then tore itself away. The spear of a second Daroth struck his breastplate, denting it deeply and bruising his ribs. Spinning, Forin lunged with his axe, stabbing both points through the Daroth’s chest. The creature’s fist crashed against Forin’s brow. Stunned, the giant stumbled to his knees. Dace appeared beside him, his sword half decapitating the Daroth. Forin struggled to his feet, dragged his axe clear of the dead Daroth and charged back into the fray.
Her face expressionless, Karis watched the battle. Humans were dying now as the frantic Daroth warriors tore at the makeshift walls, hacking and stabbing at the crossbow-men on the ground level. At least fifteen of Forin’s men were down.
Four Daroth warriors broke clear of Forin’s line and made it to the ballistae. Dace ran up behind the last of them, cutting him down. Crossbow bolts slammed into the second and third men, but the fourth leapt straight at Karis.
Vint was the closest to her. He heard his name shouted and turned to see Tarantio throwing one of his swords. The shimmering blade spun through the air and Vint leapt to catch it, his hand curling round the hilt. Even as he caught it, he knew he would be too late. Spinning on his heel, he ran towards the Daroth. The creature’s sword swept up, but Karis stood her ground, staring defiantly at him.
At that moment a hurtling black form crashed into the Daroth, Stealer’s huge jaws clamping to his neck. Off balance, the Daroth fell back. Ozhobar lunged forward to send his hammer cracking against the side of the attacker’s head. Vint sent Tarantio’s sword slicing through his spine. As the creature fell dead, the hound continued to gnaw at his throat. ‘Here!’ called Karis. Stealer backed away, still growling.
A slow rumbling began, like distant thunder. Vint glanced round to see Necklen and ten men hauling a new catapult along the avenue. Behind it were several horse-drawn wagons, the first carrying fresh shot and a burning brazier. Ozhobar ran back to them.
The Daroth were streaming back for the gates as the bugle sounded. Forin, Dace and the surviving eleven armoured warriors turned and ran back towards the ballistae. A blazing pottery ball flew over their heads and exploded just below the gate tower. Close-packed as they were, the flames engulfed twenty Daroth warriors. In panic the remaining Daroth trampled each other to escape, and the flames spread.
A second ball soared over the walls to scatter blazing oil over the warriors milling there.
The Daroth army fled back towards the hills.
‘Clear the dead!’ yelled Karis. ‘Make way for the wagons.’
Dace ran among the Daroth corpses, checking them. Several of them were still alive, and these he despatched swiftly. Soldiers began to drag the giant bodies back to the walls on either side, and three wagons inched their way to the gates. Ozhobar rode the first wagon, and when it reached the gate tower he jumped down and called for help to unload. Each of the three wagons carried interlocking sections made up of long iron bars. Ropes and pulleys were assembled on the parapet above, hauling the sections into place, lodging them into the deep grooves which stonemasons had carved in the solid stone on both sides of the gate tower.
Behind the workmen the catapult was hauled into place. Necklen ran to the gate and gauged the distance to the Daroth weapon. No more than 200 paces. Moving back to the catapult, he passed the information to young Beris.
Moments later a blazing ball soared over the walls, exploding some thirty feet to the left of the Daroth machine. Soldiers on the walls cheered as Daroth soldiers hastily roped their catapult, dragging it back out of harm’s way.
Slowly the iron portcullis was assembled, effectively re-blocking the gateway. Ozhobar stood back, hands on hips, admiring his handiwork. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all.’