The Road To Sevendor - A Spellmonger Anthology (40 page)

“To the inner bailey!” he called, as he pushed one retreating brother toward the next gatehouse and covered his escape.  “There are too many!”  More than a score were scrambling across the yard, now, and the infrequent arrows from the inner wall did little to deter their advance.  Warbrother Thune was backing away, his bloody axe still swinging menacingly as he heaved for breath.

But Sir Sastan . . . he showed no sign of retreating.  Instead he had found a central position in front of the gatehouse and stood, his greatsword at the ready.

“Sir Sastan!  Commander!” shouted the warbrother as he pushed the last few defenders inside.  “It is time to withdraw!”

The knight did not seem to hear, but swung his sword even more earnestly as the goblins approached.  He threw himself at them, using his body as much as his weapon to demolish them. 

Sir Sastan used his steel with the ease of a man who has spent a thousand hours with a sword in his hand.  He used his leverage and his position to make his enemies collide and then die under his blade.  Those he didn’t slay at first pass he crushed under his heavy boots.  He seemed to take a mad delight in their suffering and death.  His scarred face leered and he laughed as he struck with his fearsome blade.

But even a warrior like Sir Sastan could not bear up under the numbers that were now plunging through the gate.  Six score, at least, had made the outer bailey while the knight had been fighting.  They were coming closer and closer to the gate.  Sir Sastan fell back . . . but not quickly, and not completely.  There was still fifty feet between he and the safety of the gatehouse. 

His men called to him, but he ignored them, taunting his enemies as they continued to bring the great warrior down.  A carpet of black fur left a trail from one gate to the next – but none, yet, had crept past Sastan.  Not until their numbers were clearly in their favor did the beasts spring on him, all at once.

Sastan bellowed a war cry and waded back into his foe as he was pricked by spears.  A pruning hook, beat crudely into a point, dug into his thigh, and knives and daggers slashed at him mercilessly. 

One of the gurvani dropped his weapon and clung to the big man’s arm, dragging it down.  It threw him off-balance, and even as he tried to compensate another saw the tactic and tried it on his opposite side.  What they could not accomplish by weapons they could by the weight of their numbers.  Sir Sastan struggled, then faltered, falling to one knee.  Then he was overwhelmed.

The mean nearest the gate cried and ran toward him, the Captain and the monk.  They watched in horror as their commander succumbed.

But then a blur streaked by them, a shadow of a shadow that seemed to fade and falter in the gloom even as it moved with great purpose.  Directly in the center of the fray it went.  After a few moments of flailing and shouts of dismay, a tremendous light filled the bailey.  Hanith the Cunning had struck.

Two score of the goblins, at least, were blown back by the arcane light.  A thunderclap rang out at the same time, and those not blasted by the light were treated to a web of steel that parted limb from body and head from neck at blinding speed.  Most of the men on the wall did not understand what was happening, or who was doing what, in the darkness.  But when Thune and Antrig reached his side, no living goblin was near.  Just the form of Hanith, crumbled on the ground, gasping for breath, his bloodied mageblade cradled to his chest.

“Help me get him inside!” commanded the warbrother, grabbing the wounded knight under his arms and dragging him back.

“No!” Sir Sastan cried as his sword slipped from his hands.  “No!  I must keep fighting . . .!”

“He’s half mad!” Antrig said as he stabbed a wounded scrug through the neck before it could regain its feet.  He crouched and helped Hanith to his feet. 

Antrig had heard of the potent spells that allowed a warmage to move with such speed and determination – he had even seen them in action, upon occasion.  But he had never seen so much devastation wrought by a single man on a battlefield in such a short time. 

“Are you all right, my brother?” Antrig asked, as he helped him to his feet.  To his surprise, he found the mage grinning.  His dark green armor was barely scratched.

“I’m fine,” he smirked, tiredly.  “I’ve always wanted to try that spell.  Never had the chance before now.”

“I’d say it’s worth adding to your grimoire,” nodded the captain.  “Can you walk?”

Before the warmage could answer, a fresh knot of goblins was collecting at the far gate, and started to move to reinforce their fellows.  They were shouting triumphantly as they raced toward the defenders.

“My brother, I think I can run,” Hanith assured him, and proceeded to do so.

They gained the gate moments before the portcullis slammed shut.  For good measure the great wooden doors, six inches thick and bound with iron, were wedged into place, and the battlements above the gate were manned by archers.

The goblin band, now a hundred strong, clamored out side of the gate defying the archers – to their detriment.  The men of the Iron Ring were proficient at archery, and most were using great Wilderland bows or steel-sprung arbalests.  The answering fire from below was spirited, at first, but unorganized and unskilled.  When a score of their fellows lay dead before the gate, the others moved off out of easy range.

“There,” sighed Faris, as he readied his crossbow against another attack.  “We drove them back!”

“Dawn is but in a few hours,” Corporal Nard, who had commanded the gatehouse defense, observed as he glanced toward the east.

“That won’t stop them,” pointed out Captain Antrig, as he surveyed the occupied outer bailey.  “It will just slow them down.  Look to the walls, now: they will keep us concentrated at the gate while they scale them in secret, if we aren’t wary.”

“Let them try,” Hanith said, somewhat recovered from his exertions.  “I have them warded tighter than a temple virgin.  I’ll know the moment they make the attempt.”

“But can we get men to them in time to be of effect?” asked the Captain, as he watched his wounded and senseless commander be taken to the chapel on a stretcher, the first of several.  “We seem to be losing men.”

“They’re losing more,” Faris pointed out.

“They can afford to,” Antrig countered.  “They can get all the reinforcements they need just by whistling.  We . . . can’t.”  He did not see the need to elaborate on their situation.  It would be bad for morale.  Almost as bad as seeing their commander fall.  “As long as we keep the walls sound and the gate guarded, we have plenty of provision.  Unless you gentlemen have an urgent need to visit your barber, I think we can hold out here until . . . they find something better to do.”

Faris looked out at the growing band.  “Perhaps milord would be kind enough to suggest to them a good show in the region?” he asked, deadpan.

“I regret that I have heard of nothing that would strike their interest,” chuckled the Captain.  “Start a fire in the grate on the battlement.  I believe I saw some pitch or oil or something in the guardhouse.  If we can’t entice them away with entertainment, we can at least discourage them from cluttering our threshold.”

*

Dawn brought no fresh hope, but neither did it increase their despair.  The wounded were tended, no less than five harmed seriously enough to prevent them rising, and the hardy rested as they could.  The goblins had occupied the far gatehouse against them, but made no move to attack after dawn.

Each man got a few precious hours of restless sleep in the Great Hall, most lying on the floor in their armor, wrapped in their mantles, their swords at hand.  Cold rations were served – bread and sausage and a mug of ale apiece – and at mid-morning Warbrother Thune led a brief service in memory of the fallen, and made a plea to the divine to spare the wounded for future glory.

Captain Antrig now commanded the castle, and he saw his command dwindling.  After the loss of the gatehouse, they were down to two dozen, plus the officers.  Twenty-eight men to guard hundreds of feet of wall, day and night.  Hanith made a point to refresh the wards he’d set as he could, before retiring to the watchtower to scry better intelligence.

After a restful day, the goblins began their forays just before dusk.  Hastily-cut poles, the branches still on the trees, were leaned up against the wall the farthest from the gate, and a score of sneaking cutthroats ascended. 

They were met by seven men, led by Hastan, his arm in a sling, who had anticipated the assault and were prepared to rebuff it.  It took them only moments to dispatch the first ambitious goblins to make the summit of the wall, and a moment more to push their makeshift ladder back down into the moat.  They followed the defense with a lively volley at the survivors, which drove them back in dismay.

Within the hour a second escalade was attempted by the foe, this time with two tall pine trees.  The Iron Ring men, warned by Hanith’s sorcery, waited until both trees were as thick with goblins as a dog with fleas before splashing them with pitch and setting them alight. 

The furred goblins quickly caught fire, many letting go of their perch and falling to their death in preference to burning alive.  The fresh green boughs of the pines they had chosen took to the fire even more easily than their oily fur, and the two grand torches illuminated the night for a while as the burden they bore died screaming.

When direct assault proved fruitless, the goblins elected to snipe against the men of the castle.  While their archery was decidedly inferior to that of the men of the Wilderlands, they had captured enough arbalests to send irritating fire at whatever targets they could see in the darkness.  Two men died that night, their helms no protection against the powerfully-shot iron quarrels.  After that the brothers learned to keep their heads down.

The men gave as good as they got: three of the best of the archers, including keen-eyed Faris, sat atop the battlement and shot at the goblins as they scurried from cover.  After Hanith inspected the post and cast a charm over the men, they could see in the darkness as well as any goblin.  No less than a dozen fell to their sniping that night.

But there seemed no end to them.

The day that followed, and the day after that, continued the skirmishing attacks.  Twice the gatehouse was attempted, and twice it was rebuffed.  While the pile of stinking bodies outside the gate was growing, so was the smaller pile in the stable that had been turned into a mortuary. 

Captain Antrig did his best to keep spirits up, and while the anxious warbrother tended the commander through a fever from infection, he and Hanith kept the defense as lively as possible.  Antrig distributed a ration of spirits to the men that night, and a double ration of bread.  He also began a dice game in the Great Hall, “to while away the hours”, and then spotted each man a hundred pennies to gamble with, on the principle that they would all likely be dead in a week.  Though Brother Thune was not pleased by the game, he understood the need and did not object.  He had lived through several sieges in the past, and he knew that without something to occupy their minds, the men would go mad from despair.

Captain Antrig also made a point of turning what was left of the castle’s linens into banners, by the simple expedient of painting a black circle on their midst.  Every day a few new banners would dangle from the battlements, the walls, or poles from the watchtowers.  If the drums of the goblins heralded their numbers – truly or falsely – then he hoped the banners would have the same effect on the gurvani morale.

“How long has it been?” asked Corporal Nard, on the fifth day of the siege.

“Who can keep track?” asked Mecal in despair.  “Day and night run together, here.”

“It won’t be long, now,” Captain Antrig said, hopefully.  “We still have plenty of victuals.”

“And more per man by the day, with every man who falls,” grumbled Jagan. 

“I look forward to sharing your portion,” Nard said.  He had taken a dislike to Jagan since he’d arrived.

“Save it for the wall,” growled the priest, just arrived from the infirmary.  “I think Gedis will be able to resume light duty, soon.  But the commander . . . his fever has broken, but he is weak.  Passing weak,” he said, shaking his head.

“Just how long can we hold out?” Durwan asked, his voice anxious.

“As long as Duin says we can,” Thune responded, a touch of anger in his voice.  “Pray do not tempt him to send us more of a challenge than we can easily meet, soldier!”

The young man swallowed and made the sign of the Destroyer.

“The rest of you,” the priest continued, “you may feel like we’re trapped here.  We’re no more trapped in this castle than a sailor is trapped on his ship.  Our walls our sound, our provision adequate, and our numbers large enough to keep the walls.  Should we fail in that, we can fall back to the keep and stay safe within for weeks more. 

“So stop your complaining,” he warned, “or Duin will send you something worthy of your sorrow!”

An hour later, however, the priest spoke with Captain Antrig quietly, his manner much changed.

“We need a victory of some sort,” he said, gloomily.  “We’re running short of arrows, and falling back to the keep would see half the men ready to slay themselves – or each other – in a week.”

“What do you recommend?” Antrig asked, curious.

“We assault the outer gatehouse,” Thune proposed.  “Since they have changed their tactics and tried to gain the walls, they have left it but lightly guarded.”