The Kato stockade is one of the finest timber forts known, as well as one of the larger, being 150 by 130 yards in size. A blockhouse stands at each corner, and one midway of each wall, and from these, bowmen can shoot at attackers along the base of the walls. Thatched roofs are not allowed. Instead, all buildings are roofed by shakes, rendering them less susceptible to being set alight by fire arrows. The shakes used to roof the primary buildings are split from black walnut or white oak, because those species are slow to decay, yet readily split. Shakes for outbuildings are most often silver maple, green ash or basswood. Although they decay readily, they are even easier to split, and locally more abundant.
The individual timbers of this stockade are of either white oak, burr oak, or black walnut. These species are relatively durable when set in the ground. They can be left in place several times as long as timbers of other local species before needing to be replaced. To improve that durability, the trenches in which the cants are set are then packed with coarse sand and small cobbles, to improve drainage.
Timbers are transported in winter, on large sleighs for distances as great as 25 miles, then sawn by a water-driven circular saw into cants 15 inches on a side and 25 feet long, all sapwood being removed in the process. After squaring, the timbers are set 10 feet into the ground. While being set, every third and fourth timber has 3 feet cut from the top, to provide an "archery notch" through which a defender can shoot at attackers.
Happily, the Kato stockade has never been attacked. It is regrettable though, and to the Church embarrassing, that such fortifications are needed. For the Church has been charged by God to improve human justice, tolerance and harmony, and to increase unqualified love and compassion, so that fortifications are no longer needed, and become curiosities for future generations to read about.
From the back of his favorite horse, Mazeppa examined the stockade. It was built on high ground above the river. He'd ridden around it on three sides, and swum his horse across the river to examine the fourth side from there. His braves had occupied the nearby town, well-sheltered from further storms, but it would not suit them to stay there long with nothing to do.
Several war parties had not yet arrived. Meanwhile Mazeppa needed to decide: (1) to attack, or (2) to bypass Kato, and proceed downriver to the Misasip, and the King's Town. But if he allowed himself to be deflected by Kato's wooden walls, what would his braves think when they saw Hasty's high stone walls? While to destroy Kato and its people would add to their confidence. They were willing—eager—but it would not do to squander them, so he looked for vulnerabilities—means to victory at the least cost of lives.
From raids in the past, his people had learned ways of attacking stockades. Thus he'd sent parties to bring in wagons and carts loaded with hay, to be pushed against the stockade and set afire. Meanwhile, in town, doors had been taken from doorways, and fitted with scavenged ropes and straps to make large shields. Behind these, braves could approach the walls sheltered from Sotan bowmen.
The scouts he'd sent that spring had seen from inside what could not be seen from outside. Large water containers called "cisterns" had been built partly below ground, and walled with cemented stone. The dirt-eaters kept them filled with water. And the walls had walkways from which bowmen could shoot. Also, on the walkways, they could strike with their long knives—their "sabers"—at attackers climbing over the walls. Inside the enclosure were many houses, some backed up against the walls, others standing free. In these the dirt-eaters could take shelter from arrows shot over the walls.
But except for the cisterns, all of this was built of wood, and it had not rained for several days.
As for food . . . no doubt most of the townspeople had fled days past, warned by the treacherous Jorval. And he could hear the bawling, bleating, barking and squealing of animals inside. His braves would grow restless long before the defenders could be starved out.
The fort's most promising vulnerabilty, it seemed to him, was its flammability. So. He'd prepare several modes of attack, feel the defenders out, examine their reactions, then decide what to do next.
His options shrank, however, when the parties sent out to bring wagons and carts failed to find any. They found wagon beds, and cart beds, but the wheels had been taken away, or broken up with axes. The dirt-eaters too had learned from past raids.
In the fort, a short section of the south-side walkway was being used as a command post. General Jarvi was the senior officer and had brought the most fighting men, but he'd deferred to Captain Frazier, who knew the enemy far better than he did.
At the moment, Frazier was sweeping the edge of Kato Town with his spyglass. It was crawling with Dkota; had been since well before noon. Some were carrying doors and shutters; he knew what that meant. A little later, some approached driving cattle with them. Foragers. He saw butchering. Cookfires were lit, mostly outdoors, but some chimneys began to smoke. Near the fires, tribesmen stood or squatted, or sat crosslegged, but to send a mounted platoon charging out to scatter them would be insane. These walls were the place to fight from; here he had the advantage.
Frazier wondered what Luis was doing, and how far he'd gotten on his trip to Hasty. He'd left two days earlier, with the messengers who'd gone to order sections of road closed. He'd never made clear why he was leaving, but he'd get there today; he'd been well mounted.
Before the Dkota had arrived, Jarvi and he had agreed on the watch schedule: two hours on, six off. Each duty watch was to be preceded by a "standby" watch, napping on the walkway. At least resting. The off-watches were to rest in their crowded barracks, hopefully sleeping, so they'd be fit to stand watch later.
When the Dkota first arrived, all the men had wanted to be on the walkway watching: kingsmen, dukesmen, militia . . . and briefly Jarvi and Frazier had allowed it. Then they'd cleared off all but the duty watch and standbys, and the duke, who'd promised to take cover in the blockhouse during the fighting.
Jarvi wasn't happy about the duke's presence, a hangover from the king's attitude, but he didn't object. There were enough enemies outside; no need to make any inside.
In the latter part of the afternoon, some mounted Dkota moved in to about a hundred fifty yards, and began haphazardly and almost casually shooting arrows over the wall. For their bows it was well beyond serious killing range, but even so, you wouldn't want one of their arrows to hit you. They arced high, easily clearing the walls, and caused a lot of milling around in the bailey. Two people and several animals were hit. The Sotan bowmen answered, and with visible targets, and the greater power of longbows, they backed the Dkota away.
Why the devil did they do that? Jarvi wondered. He was annoyed at what he considered gratuitous nonsense.
It was Freddy who answered, at the same time keeping his eyes on the enemy. "I suspect they plan something more energetic in a few minutes, and want us ready."
Jarvi scowled. "That makes no sense. If they're going to attack, they should prefer us off guard."
"They want to test us before they attack all out. To see how we react. If we respond weakly enough, the test may grow into the real thing. Otherwise they'll probably back off and consider alternatives."
It was Frazier who replied to that. "Freddy, I hesitate to argue tactics with a Higuchian, but I've never seen or heard of Dkota warriors doing something as indirect as that. Or backing off to think about anything."
Freddy answered, his eyes still on the Dkota. "Those earlier attacks weren't war. They were raids by young bucks out for excitement. Now they're led by a shrewd, mature chief, a man with a mission." He paused, letting the word "mission" hold their attention. "A mission to destroy the kingdom of Sota, and drive out or kill its people."
Even as he said it, men on horseback began riding out of the streets and lanes of Kato Town, into the open ground separating it from the fort. There they began riding in flat loops, yipping, whooping, shaking bows and hatchets overhead. They did this till two or three hundred horsemen were demonstrating opposite the south wall, from which the fort's commanders watched. Probably, Frazier thought, there were similar demonstrations on the east and west sides.
They kept it up, gradually encroaching on the open space, and Frazier murmured to Jarvi, who spoke to his trumpeter, who sounded the command to nock arrows. At a hundred yards he ordered a single flight launched. Across the field, the yelling swelled. Horses reared, men fell to the ground, and a return flight of arrows, ragged but thick, was launched toward the fort. From the walkway, and the bailey inside, came scattered human cries of pain, and bellowing and bleating by wounded livestock. People headed for the shelter of buildings.
At the same moment the circling warriors ceased firing, and about half charged the stockade, lariats whirling. The defenders fired at will. Few had time to loose more than a second arrow before lariats were settling over the merlons that separated the archery notches. On the walkway, defender bows were set aside then, and sabers drawn, though from the blockhouses, the archery intensified. Warriors scrambled hand over hand up the ropes, some with knives in their teeth, moccasined feet scrabbling on the timbers. Some fell back, their ropes severed by sabers, but others reached the top, painted faces and sinewy arms struck at by sabers. Some made it onto the walkway, and were struck down.
As suddenly as the attack had begun, it ended, horsemen galloping back to safety, some after dismounting to load a wounded warrior across a horse. Perhaps a minute after the charge had been launched, the field was empty of attackers, including most of the fallen. Bodies were thrown over the parapet now, to thud down from above.
The defenders had lost two dead and four wounded by Dkota arrows; excellent archery at that range, with the targets largely protected by the parapet. A few others had been wounded or killed by hatchet or knife. In the bailey, several people and animals had been wounded. There'd been no time for a count of Dkota casualties, but observation suggested twenty or more had been killed or wounded.
All on the south side, the only side actually attacked. Almost surely, Master Freddy's prediction had been correct; the attack had been a test of the defenders. It seemed to Jaako Jarvi that Mazeppa could not be pleased.
As for Duke Edward: with the first exchange of arrows, he'd gone to the blockhouse as promised, keeping his mouth shut, and staying out of the way. Jarvi felt somewhat mollified by that.
Mazeppa Tall Man had watched from his saddle, his hunter's eyes registering everything they looked at. The dirt-eaters had shown themselves alert and quick to respond. And it seemed to him he'd squandered his option to bypass, for the dirt-eaters had more than passed a test. They'd bloodied his braves.
That night, he promised himself, would be another matter.
Night was another matter, but Keith Frazier was a creative planner with a mind for details. Among other things, he'd had sconces built years in advance. With the prospect of war he'd had them fastened to the outside of the merlons, and with the Dkota rampaging through the marches, a torch had been put in every sconce. This evening they'd been lit. And while their combined light had little effect beyond fifty yards, it was a very important fifty yards.
Among Kato Town's buildings however—none having been built within two hundred yards of the stockade—darkness hid the Dkotan piling of flammables: window shutters, furniture, straw-filled bedsacks, blankets piled with hay and kindling . . . And behind buildings, small fires had been lit, not directly visible from the fort. Mazeppa did not supervise the work; his warriors knew what was needed. Instead he sat his horse, watching the stockade, where just now the only visible movement was torch flames. From time to time, he looked westward at the waxing moon climbing slowly down the sky.
Now it was only two fingers above the seen horizon. Soon it would be out of sight.
When it disappeared, the darkness intensified, but still Mazeppa waited till the refracted moonlight had faded in the west, and only the stars and God's snow trail remained.
Then, face raised, he spoke to the sky in the voice of the old he-wolf, and from east and west was answered by other "wolf voices," alerting both attackers and defenders. From the three directions, men moved quietly, slowly forward, carrying flammables, and shielded by other warriors bearing doors. The first arrows met them about seventy yards from the stockade. At once, Dkota bowmen returned the archery in volume, aiming at the archery notches, marked by the torches beside them.
The fuel bearers and their shield bearers promptly broke into a trot. A few were shot down, but most were not. They placed their burdens against the wall, providing a focus for others, who added to the piles.
Then armsmen on horseback streamed from the sally ports to cut down or drive off the fuel bearers. They were expected, and as soon as they appeared, Dkota bowmen sent swarms of arrows at them from eighty or ninety yards. Then, from deeper in the darkness, Dkota horsemen charged, not with bows but with buffalo spears. As soon as they were seen, trumpets sounded from the walls, and the Sotan horsemen, most of them, made it back inside, while Sotan arrows struck their pursuers fiercely. A few Dkota horsemen got inside, but despite the confusion, died before they could prevent the gates being closed.
Meanwhile more Dkota horsemen had raced onto the field, these bearing torches to light the fuel piles. Within a minute, all the piles were burning. More Sotan horsemen, not in numbers now, charged from the sally ports, some with grapples on leather ropes, throwing them into the burning piles to pull them apart. Others followed with hooked poles to help them. Dkota horsemen charged again, rushing toward the grapple men. But fires lit the field now, and Sotan archery was rapid and aimed. This time all their own horsemen made it back inside, abandoning some of their grapples and hooks, but leaving most of the fires pulled apart. More than a few Dkota horses and riders were shot. The rest turned back into the darkness.
At once, Sotans emerged again to further scatter the piles. The invaders did not rush back to attack them. This was not the kind of fighting they'd known in the past, and they weren't ready for it. Meanwhile the burning fuel lay scattered, mostly away from the wall. The heavy timbers had been scorched, but had not taken fire.
The night was still early, and the men at the archery notches stared once more into darkness.
Mazeppa let the defenders wait while most of his braves slept. His clock was the sky, and when the Great Bear stood below the Star That Does Not Move, he made the call of the walking dog, the coyote; yipped four yaps, then keened, then five and keened again, the note wavering. It was answered from both east and west, in the same sequence, the responses overlapping. He did not suppose it would pass unnoticed in the fort. They would suspect, but it would not wake the sleeping nor raise an alarm.
Freddy heard, wakened, got to his feet. Crouching, he shook first Frazier, then Jarvi and his trumpeter. "Something's going on out there," he said. "We need to be ready."
It took the general a moment to clear the sleep from his mind. "What?" he said.
"They're signalling back and forth. Making coyote calls. And some of the duty watch is probably asleep." He was looking through an archery notch now. "And they've fed their fires again. Behind buildings, but I can see the glows here and there."
Jarvi grunted, got heavily to his feet, and nudged his trumpeter with a boot. "Erkki," he growled, "sound 'prepare to repel.' "
The young trumpeter had remained curled on his side, hoping against hope nothing would come of this, and he could go back to sleep. Now he got to his feet, much more nimbly than his commander. "Yessir," he said, and raising his instrument, blew a short patter of notes, loud and bright in the darkness.
Within a minute or two, in the near distance, braves with torches trotted from the shadows of buildings. After the previous assault, numerous small fires had been laid but not lit in the open, some hundred yards from the stockade. Now the torchmen lit them. By their small light, Freddy could see braves dip long arrows into the fires, then step aside, a rank of small flames in the darkness. Then, each nocked arrow tipped with flame, they waited for a signal that must come quickly.
Frazier spoke the first order directly to Erkki: "Fire at will!"
Another patter of notes, and hundreds of Sotan arrows took flight. Not as accurately as by day, though the targets were apparent, but braves fell nonetheless.
Now the braves began to shoot, flaming arrows arcing over the walls. Stricken livestock bawled and bleated. Human voices screamed with pain. Arrows struck roofs and walls. Commands were shouted. People had slept in their clothes; now they poured from doorways. Frazier had foreseen this too, and the people had drilled it. A ladder leaned against every building, and boys scrambled up. Voices called "here! here!" and bucket lines formed in response, from cisterns to ladders, with the speed of deadly urgency.
Meanwhile the fire arrows kept coming, while archers on the walkways shot back.
Then tribal horsemen charged out of Kato Town, again with lariats, and this was no test. Toward each wall they came by the hundreds, shouting war cries. Some merlons had two lariats over them. The sally ports didn't open; it would have been suicide. Braves yelled war cries. The defenders too were yelling. Sabers cut lariats. Hands, arms, shoulders, heads were sliced, even severed. Hatchets chopped, knives struck. The walkways were quickly slick with blood. Men slipped in it, or stumbled on the fallen. Bodies fell or were thrown from the walkways, some out over the merlons, others inward, into the bailey.
And increasingly there were braves who jumped from the walkways into the bailey to extend the violence. But squads of militia had been kept on the ground, between buildings, ready, their orders not to involve themselves with fires or bucket lines, nor climb to the walkways unless ordered. Quickly, savagely, they attacked any invader who jumped. Scattered, outnumbered, disoriented, those who jumped could do little but die defending themselves.
Outside, more and more attackers jammed up along the walls, the focus of bowmen in the blockhouses. And some, instead of waiting to throw their lariats, turned back. Watching intently, Mazeppa saw the attack stacking up, but waited, giving it a chance. As more braves turned back, it was clear the assault had spent itself. He snapped an order to two of his next men, and they separated, angling toward the stockade at a gallop, one eastward, one west, bellowing "Break off the attack!"
It was already foundering. What he'd done was give his braves justification: they quit because they'd been told to. Meanwhile bile rose in Mazeppa's throat; it was all he could do to fight it down.
Almost at the beginning of the attack, Freddy had seen something totally unexpected. He'd known Fohanni from the time he'd been selected to the Academy, where Fohanni made up much of the faculty. And out in the melee he'd seen another, charging the stockade, his white body distinctive. Saw him dumped, bouncing, when his horse had fallen. But the field outside the wall had teemed with charging tribesmen on horseback. It would have been suicide to go out and investigate.
Brief minutes later—it seemed longer—the attackers had withdrawn. Now Freddy slid down a pole to the bailey, ran to the nearby sally port and demanded to be let out. Reluctantly the sergeant in charge opened for him.
A lot more bodies lay strewn on the field than when he'd seen the Fohannu dumped from his horse. Some had obviously been trampled. Freddy trotted unerringly to where the Fohannu had stopped rolling, and kneeling, examined him. His aura indicated life, a concussion, and a neck injury that was not a fracture. With an effort, Freddy hoisted the limp form onto his shoulder and carried it back through the sally port.
Helverti, he thought, unless the COB has something going we don't know about, and that he very much doubted.
The fort "medical facility" was primitive, but it did have beds—sacks of straw on a plank floor—and he lowered Ench onto one of them. They were filling fast.
Freddy talked to the surgeon in charge, identifying himself and claiming ownership of his "foreign prisoner." "Norlins will want him," he finished.
Kneeling, the surgeon examined the Fohannu, feeling for fractures, turned him over looking for wounds. He got up shaking his head. "That's about as foreign as a man can get," he said. Thinking about possible bestiality between humans and—what? "He's yours, but if he makes trouble, I'll call the dukesmen to deal with him."
Then the surgeon went to another man newly brought in, and Freddy left, looking for privacy. He needed to tell Luis and Tahmm what he'd found. It seemed to him Tahmm would want to pick the man up. Or the boy. His own experience with Fohanni had been limited to mature adults. This one, he suspected, was an adolescent.
Whatever; he hoped the Fohannu survived, entirely aside from the value he might have for Tahmm and the ESS. It would be nice to know why he was here at Kato, riding the war trail with Dkota warriors.
For a short while, Mazeppa's braves kept up a rain of fire arrows, partly from resentment, but still hoping to burn out the defenders. Their supply of fire arrows was limited, however, and war arrows were too short to serve, so Mazeppa ordered them to stop.
He knew what he needed to do. He didn't like it, but he knew. The Sotans, here at least, were better fighters than he'd expected. It was time to leave this place and ride on to Hasty, ravaging lesser places as they went. And then? Burn it. Stay in Sota till September, burning towns and villages, killing their people. Afterward he would send emissaries to every buffalo tribe in the north, and come back next year.
In the growing dawnlight, the smell of wet char found Mazeppa's nose, but he saw no columns of smoke; the Sotans had put out whatever fires his people had started. The extent of his own losses were clearly visible. The Sotans had dragged numerous dead braves outside and laid them in a line, on their backs, legs straightened, hands crossed on their chests. They contrasted with the much greater number sprawled helter skelter where they'd fallen.
He and Pastor Morosov led a large party of braves, with horses drawing travois, to where the dead lay. Some of his braves were nervous about exposing themselves to Sotan bowmen, but Mazeppa knew the Sotans wouldn't shoot. That they'd given back his dead from inside the walls told him that. When his people began loading bodies, a Sotan stood up in an archery notch, to call that there were sixteen Dkota wounded inside, some severely. Mazeppa could have them now, or they could be sent back to Many Geese after they'd healed or died.
Mazeppa didn't hesitate. "Those who can ride," he shouted grimly, "I will take away with me. Those who can't can go home later."
Freddy nodded, crossing himself. He did not mention the Fohannu he had in custody.
The Dkota worked carefully but quickly, taking bodies away. Not only the 38 brought out of the fort, but 317, many still alive, who lay on the killing ground outside the stockade.