The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (29 page)

“It’s a hard thing, being a cadvridoc,” Nevyn said. “But if your lords take offense and ride out—”

“Oh, true enough, but ye gods, I don’t have to relish it.” There was something of a snarl in his voice. “Oggyn, I’m leaving you in charge of the camp. Get it packed up and ready to move out, but stay here until I send a messenger back.”

By the time the men who’d suffered no significant injuries were ready to travel, a good three thousand of them, the sun sat at zenith, and Burcan had a long start. When they reached Burcan’s old camp, they found that he’d left his wounded behind, but with chirurgeons to tend them and supplies of food at their disposal. When Maryn stopped to parley with the captain of the camp, the Boarsman surrendered willingly enough and promised to give the prince no trouble.

“There’s only about twenty of us who can ride at all,” the Boarsman said. “You’ll not be needing to worry about us attacking your rearguard.” He hesitated for a moment, then went on. “Your Highness, could you deign to tell us if the Boar still lives, or do you hold him prisoner?”

“Tibryn?” Maryn said. “He’s dead. I’m sorry. We tried to save him.”

The captain nodded and wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

Maryn sent messengers back to Oggyn with orders to bring the camp along and take over Burcan’s wounded, then led his army out. Through a long summer’s afternoon they pushed on northward, but when the sun was lying low in the west, they were still ten miles from Dun Deverry with Burcan far ahead. Nevyn joined the prince and the captain to consider what they should do with the last of the daylight.

“If we press on now, Your Highness,” Caradoc said, “we might catch them just at dark, but there’s no guaranteeing the result of a scrap like that.”

“Just so, and we’ll be too far from our baggage train,” Maryn said. “If we turn back now, we can reach camp by twilight.”

“That sounds wise to me, Your Highness,” Nevyn said. “Since Burcan knows where he’s going, he can travel in the dark. We can’t. I fear me we’ll have to concede them the siege.”

•   •   •

It was late on the following day that the Red Wyvern finally reached the Holy City. The fleeing Boarsmen had left the gates to the city itself standing open, but just outside the prince called a halt. He rose in his stirrups and peered through the opening, then sat back in his saddle. Riding just behind him, Branoic could see little but a dusty road leading into burnt-out ruins.

“I fear a trap,” the prince said. “What about you, Captain?”

“A rearguard at least,” Caradoc said. “A few picked men to harry us all the way to the gates of the dun. But in this rubble, my liege, you could hide half an army.”

“We’d best send in scouts, then. I’ll wager the townsfolk are long gone.”

Although Branoic volunteered to scout, the captain turned him down because of his all-too-noticeable size. Twelve men, all short and on the skinny side, went in on foot, three at each gate. The army pulled back about a quarter mile and let the slower-moving baggage train catch up while they waited. Not long before sunset, the twelve brought back similar reports.

“There’s not a soul living in the ruins, Your Highness, not that we could see. We got all the way up to the outer ring of the dun, and all the gates are shut, all right. We saw plenty of guards up on the outer wall, patrolling, like. It’s blasted long, that wall. Must run a good three miles round the hill.”

“Well and good, then,” Prince Maryn said at the last. “My lady’s father was the last man to take this city, some twenty years ago now, but the siege held and he withdrew. I’ll pray to every god that this time things are different.”

“I will, too, Your Highness,” Caradoc said. “But the gods won’t mind if we lay a few plans of our own. Three miles long, is it? Huh, interesting. You know, I think I’ll just take a stroll up there myself.”

When the captain returned, the prince called a council of war. Branoic learned its decision late, after the captain returned to the silver daggers’ campsite. After they secured the city, Maryn wanted to seize the outermost ring of the dun fortifications in one swift move.

“The Ram told us all how the dun lies,” Caradoc said. “There are five circles. The first three enclose empty land and not much else. Inside the fourth one—counting from the bottom of the hill, that is—there’s a village, where all the false king’s servants live, and they’ve got cattle and pigs in there, or so Peddyc said. Inside the fifth ring is the king’s dun proper, and by all the ice in the hells, we’re going to have a cursed lovely time taking it. Lots of little walls and wards and towers, his lordship tells me.”

“Ah horseshit,” Owaen said. “Ah well, first things first.”

“Just so.” Caradoc glanced at the silver daggers, pressing close around him. “And one ring at a time. I’ve walked round the dun now, and I’m wagering Burcan doesn’t have the men to hold that outer wall. After that, well, we’ll see. We’ve been in sieges before, lads, but this one is going to give our bard plenty to sing about.”

In the morning the army packed up its camp and prepared to move into Dun Deverry. To a chorus of silver horns the banners of the Red Wyvern led the army to the open gates. As he rode through, Prince Maryn raised his sword high. Branoic could see his face, as wide-eyed as a child seeing his first tourney, head turning as if he wanted to look in all directions at once. We’re here, Branoic thought. This is what we’ve fought for all these long years. Ahead of them the city spread out in row after row of broken houses, roofless walls, and piles of ruins where you couldn’t tell wall from roof. How many times had the city been set on fire by design or accident? Plenty, Branoic figured. That’s what sheltering an army did to a town.

Just inside the gates a broad street ran round under the walls, large enough and clear enough for the army to ride in behind them; contingents split off to approach the dun from different directions. The prince and the main body waited to give them a solid head start. Branoic looked up at the dun itself, towering above the town, its dark towers grim against the glittering sky. He could just pick out the final ring of stone walls that encircled the hill crest below the brochs.

Distantly horns called from off to the west and east. Maryn raised his sword again.

“Forward!” he called out. “For Deverry and glory!”

The army cheered him as they set off, heading up the long deserted streets to the dun’s south gate. Close to the dun Branoic saw houses that seemed to have been inhabited until a few days past. Some still had kitchen gardens out in front, welcome patches of green in the destruction. The only living creatures he saw, though, were a pack of half-starved dogs that barked at the army’s passing.

The outermost wall of the fortress itself stood a good forty feet high, a rough rise of stone topped with merlons. Over the gate no banners hung, and no pennants flew from the wall. Guards, however, stood along the catwalks on the far side. Branoic could see them moving between the merlons, and occasionally he heard them calling out to one another as well. Since the fortifications marched up the side of a fairly steep hill, he could see the upper walls, dark rings of stone against grass. The third wall carried the banners and flew the pennants, though at his distance Branoic couldn’t see the device. He caught the captain’s attention and pointed them out.

“Good for you, lad,” Caradoc said. “And your young eyes. I think me the regent knows what he can defend.”

For two days the army camped in the ruins and held a precarious investment while they readied themselves for an assault on the outer wall. The prince had brought two rams, each the trunk of a young tree equipped with iron handles and a heavy iron sheath at one pointed end. Twelve men each would run them up against the gates while others climbed the siege ladders and tried to overwhelm the guards. Although they’d brought some ladders with them, they needed a good many more now that they’d had a look at the extent of the dun’s outer wall. Squads searched through the ruins and stripped timbers from the abandoned houses.

The morning of the third day dawned cloudy with ordinary weather, a mackerel sky slipping in from the southwest with no help from Nevyn’s dweomer. The army split itself into four unequal parts. The two larger assembled at the north and south gates, where the rams would set to work; the two smaller, at the east and west to prevent Burcan’s men from sallying. While the rams attacked the gates, half the Red Wyvern men, unmounted of course, would raise ladders and try to scale the walls. It was not a job that Branoic would have relished. He found himself thanking the gods of war that had made him a member of the prince’s guard instead. After the gates went down, picked men would charge to gain the ground inside. With his usual guards the prince would follow the wedge, while his allies led their men in after—provided, of course, the gates did go down.

By mid-morning, everyone had taken their positions, with the prince and his guard at the south gate. While the trained assault men readied the “turtle shells,” hides stretched over wooden frames to protect the ram bearers from rocks and garbage thrown down from the walls, Caradoc picked men for the wedge that would charge the broken gates on foot. Up on the high walls, the regent’s men were walking back and forth in full mail. Branoic could see them between the merlons as they paused, looking down at the enemy preparations, waiting for the assault.

The protected ram waited ready to charge when, at last, a messenger came from the contingent at the north gate.

“We’re ready, Your Highness.”

“So are we,” Maryn said. “Captain, blow the signal.”

When Caradoc’s horn rang out, the Red Wyvern army shouted aloud. The men with the ladders raced for the walls, and the ram crew took off running for the gate. The heavy iron head slammed hard into the wood and bounced back. Up on the walls the regent’s men screamed out warcries and threw down stones in a hard rain. A few had bows, but their short hunting arrows glanced harmlessly off mail. Since Branoic had been expecting javelins, he was surprised until he remembered that the dun had four more walls to defend and a limited number of weapons for the job.

When the ladders went up against the wall, the defenders wielded long poles and shoved them off again. At the gates the ram retreated, then charged once more. The men with the ladders spread out and rushed the walls a second time. Behind them the lords rode back and forth, shouting orders and encouragement. This time some of the ladders held long enough for men to start climbing, but defenders heaved them off again, men and all. The shouting grew louder still as a third assault formed and hit, then another, until the attack turned into a series of waves beating against stone. Here and there a few of the prince’s men gained the top like a few drops of deadly water splashing from the wave, only to be mobbed and killed.

Yet as the fighting continued, every man there could see that the defenders were spread too thin. They were running back and forth on the wall; no one could pick a position and hold it, everyone had to scurry this way and that. The ladders kept coming; the rams kept pounding. Messengers rode in to tell the prince that the assault on the north gate was going well. He sent others back to say the same about the south.

In the long stretches of wall between the gates, the scaling ladders were winning handily. From his position on horseback, Branoic could see a sudden burst of attackers gain the wall off to the west. Fighting spread along the top of the wall itself. At the gate the prince’s men suddenly cheered. The ram smashed through the thick wood and shattered one plank. Again the ram charged; another plank tore away; they aimed lower and with their next blow snapped off the remnant of the first. Branoic could see the defenders on the wall turning and suddenly disappearing from his view as they climbed down to hold the breach.

With that, the men on the scaling ladders took control. Like the wave reaching high tide they climbed up and over to race along the wall. Screaming for reinforcements, squads of defenders rushed to meet them, but the attackers held. Down below, the ram charged again and smashed through wood so hard that it stuck. When a mob of the prince’s men swarmed to its aid, some of the regent’s men charged outside the wall to fight them off. From inside the dun horns sounded in a frantic cacophony.

“Ready and arm!” Caradoc screamed out. “Silver daggers, to the prince!”

Ahead the picked men of the wedge charged forward on foot to take the breach. Branoic drew his sword and readied his shield. Under him his horse shifted uneasily at the danger ahead. Still more men climbed the unguarded walls, then disappeared as they hurried down to attack the gates from within. All at once, the smashed remnant of gates began creaking open.

“We’ve got the winch!” Prince Maryn crowed. “Steady, men! Steady, steady—now!”

With a scream of warcries the horsemen charged the open gates. Men on foot scattered as they plunged through into chaos. At the far wall the regent’s men—Green Wyverns and Boars—were fighting a rearguard action at those inner gates. Regent’s men were climbing down the catwalks, leaping the last few feet to the ground, then running for the gates and safety. From round the other side of the hill mounted men galloped to meet the prince—Glasloc shields, Ram shields, the twined ivy blazon of Yvrodur. The north gate, too, lay shattered and open.

Screaming like a madman, the prince spurred his horse and galloped along his line with silver daggers streaming after him.

“Open the east gate!” he was yelling. “Let our men in! We can take the second ring! Hurry, run! Open the west!”

The regent’s men had abandoned the winches. Men with Cerrmor blazons took them over and began cranking. Mounted men poured through all four gates like water through a broken sea-dike. Silver horns were blaring; captains and lords were yelling at the tops of their lungs. The last of the regent’s men mobbed around the gates in the second, inner wall, yelling and screaming as they tried to push through to safety.

“Speed, men!” the prince cried out. “If we rush them, we can take those gates!”

The prince turned his horse so hard that his guards rode right past him. Swearing, they swung out in an arc to turn and ride back. The dust of the retreat hung like smoke, but Branoic could see the prince charging straight for the gates of the second ring at the head of a straggle of riders.