He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the touch
To win or lose it all.—James Graham, Marquess of Montrose
During peacetime, a trip from Biemestren to Furnael Keep would have been a slow, pleasant five-day ride along the Prince's Road, their nights spent in the inns scattered along the road, each inn an easy day's ride from the next. They would have slept on fluffy down mattresses in dry, airy sleeping rooms, taking their meals at the common table along with merchants and and other travelers.
But this wasn't a normal time. None of the inns were open; trade along the Prince's Road was suspended for the duration of the war.
They had to try to avoid being spotted. So they traveled at night, eating cold meals when they camped at daybreak. Daytime was for sleeping, the night for traveling, carefully, quietly, trusting to Walter Slovotsky and his scouts to kill or capture any watchers, to ride back to warn of any concentration of troops, or to tie white cloths at eye level on the proper side of forks in the paths, blazing the trail in the only way that they could follow at night.
It took a full ten days to get from the outskirts of Biemestren to where the forest broke on cleared farmland in barony Furnael. Ten days of interrupted sleep during the day, uninterrupted hours of plodding on horseback at night.
In the distance, the battered keep rose above the morning fog. From his hiding place just within the tree line, Karl could see the charred remnants of a siege tower against the south wall, the stone near it blackened, some merlons cracked, others broken and tumbled to the ground below.
The keep was battered, yes, but not broken. Several of Furnael's soldiers stood watch on the battlements, occasionally peering out an embrasure to try a chancy crossbow shot at one of the Holts below.
Slovotsky had been right: The Holts were tunneling, and that meant trouble.
Karl swore softly, then stopped himself. It could have been worse. There were basically four ways for the Holtish to lay siege to the castle. First, they could just try to starve the defenders out. That would be a long and drawn-out process, one that the Holts had undoubtedly discarded immediately.
Thank goodness for small blessings. That would have been most dangerous for Karl and his people; if the Holts were taking a passive view about attacking the keep, they would likely be ready to repel a relieving force.
The Holts' second option was to try getting over the walls, either by siege towers, ladders, climbing ropes, or some combination. The charred remnants of one siege tower showed that they had tried that, and it had failed; the lack of further tower or ladder construction suggested that the Holts had abandoned that idea.
The third possibility was for the Holts to try to break the walls of the castle or force the gate. They could do it with rams, or with siege engines like catapults and onagers.
Karl had been hoping that the Holts had switched to that. It would be the easiest technique for Karl to counter; a quick attack on the siege engines would leave them in flames.
But the Holts had chosen the fourth method: They were mining, attempting either to break into the keep at a point which they hoped would be a surprise, or simply to undermine the walls and collapse them.
The chained workers were likely captured Furnael slaves or freefarmers, now forced to work for the Holtish, which explained why the watchmen on the walls didn't simply fire their bows at the workers bringing wheelbarrows loaded with rocks and dirt from the tunnels.
Doesn't look good, and that's a fact.
Karl worked himself back from the tree line and made his way into the woods to the clearing where Walter, his outriders, and Tennetty stood waiting with their horses.
The problem was one of coordination. Between Karl's people and Furnael's warriors, they probably had force enough to disperse the Holts, despite the fact that the Holts probably had them outmanned. Home guns were more accurate than slaver blunderbusses, and a score of sharpshooters on the keep's ramparts would quickly make the notion of an active siege unattractive. Combined with a couple hundred mounted troops that could strike anytime, anywhere, the Furnael/Home forces should present a strong enough threat to scare the Holts off, or kill them all, if necessary. But in order for it to work, the keep's defenders would have to know that they had allies out here, and Furnael—or whoever was commanding the defenders, if he was dead—would have to agree to cooperate, to coordinate.
And even so, it would be bloody. "I read something once, something that concluded two armies of roughly equal strength meeting is a recipe for disaster," Karl said. "You know where that comes from?"
"Sorry," Walter Slovotsky said. "Sounds familiar, though." He raised an eyebrow. "You've got something better in mind?"
"Yup. Two things. First, we have to do some damage to the Holts, to demonstrate our credibility. Second, we've got to get someone close to the wall with a voice and a note—and that calls for a major diversion."
"So? You're going to try something tricky. Maybe a combination ambush and bluff?"
Karl smiled. "Almost right. A combination feint, decoy, ambush, and double bluff." He turned to Tennetty. "You willing to take a few chances?"
She nodded. "As many as you are, Karl Cullinane."
Good, he thought, here's where you can die to settle your score for Chak. You deserve—
He caught himself. No, that wasn't right. There was enough evil in the world, more than enough. There was no need to add to it by betraying one of his own people.
"Tennetty," he said, "ride back and tell Aveneer to set out guards with crossbows, then bed everybody down until dusk. I'll want him to bring his people forward then. Dig up eight volunteers who don't mind trying something risky, and bring them back with you at dusk—oh, and bring Erek, too."
"Make that seven volunteers, Tennetty," Slovotsky said. "I haven't volunteered for a long time; I want to make sure I remember how."
"No." Karl shook his head. "Before this is over, you're going to remember why it's been so long. Besides, I've got something else for you. Get moving, Tennetty. Remember, it's eight volunteers, with their horses."
Slovotsky stared into his face. "What are you up to, Karl? Am I supposed to sneak through the Holts' camp while the fight is going on, or is it something even more idiotic?"
"How did you guess?" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Go back into the woods and get some sleep. You're going to need it."
A cool night breeze whispered through the branches, caressed his face.
The night was clear and almost cloudless. Which was just as well, for once; rain would make that it anywhere from difficult to impossible for Karl's people to reload.
He patted at Stick's neck, then reached across to check the short horn bow lashed to his saddle horn, and the quiver, crammed full of short arrows, that was stuck tightly in his rifle boot. There would be no guns, not for the first rush. Guns would announce who they were, and that had to be avoided as long as possible.
He swore, uncomfortable in the cold steel breastplate and helmet, but there wasn't a remedy for that, not this time. This was one time that putting up with his armor's weight was going to be a necessity, even if the damn breastplate and its underlying padding did seem to weigh half a ton. It would deflect anything but an unlucky point-blank shot, and it was more than likely that he'd need that luck and that breastplate before too long.
He looked over at Tennetty. "Think we've given Slovotsky enough time?" It would take Walter a while to work his way close enough to the keep to take advantage of the diversion.
She nodded.
"Then let's do it." He hoisted himself to the saddle, then leaned forward and reached down to hitch at his greaves. The damn armor kept slipping.
He made sure that his sword was firmly seated in its scabbard, although he hoped that he wouldn't actually have to use it on this run. If Karl ended up in sword range of any of the Holts, that would mean that everything had fallen apart. Still, he'd rather have it and not use it than the other way around.
At his right, Tennetty and the eight others were already mounted, their horses snorting and pawing the ground in impatience. No guns for them, either; they carried only crossbows and bolts, except for Bonard, who had a horn bow like Karl's.
Aveneer signaled for Erek and Frandred to raise their lamps; the two mounted them on the trees on either side of the path, the baffles barely letting traces of light peep through.
"Let's go," Karl whispered, digging in his heels and ducking his head as Stick stepped over the stone fence and into the fallow field, the others following.
He spurred the horse into a canter, and then a trot.
There were things about This Side that still amazed Karl, even after all this time. The number of soldiers around the keep, for one. Back at school, there had been dorms with more people than the thousand or so laying siege to Furnael's keep.
It seemed strange that something as impressive-sounding as a siege was capable of being carried out by only a thousand or so soldiers. Maybe it really shouldn't have; hell, Richard Lionheart's Crusade expedition hadn't numbered more than eight thousand, and that was a force that had been raised throughout all of England. Maybe it was reasonable that the whole Holtun–Bieme war was being fought by just a few tens of thousands of soldiers on both sides.
But it still looked funny.
The Holtish commander had divided his force of a thousand men into four groups, each one camped just out of bowshot of one of the four walls of the keep.
They hadn't been divided equally, of course. That would have been foolish. The largest group, slightly more than a third of the Holtish force, was camped opposite the keep's main gate. Another two hundred and fifty were planted across from the minor gate, the two remaining groups of about a hundred and fifty each camped opposite the remaining two walls.
It was an intelligent arrangement, one that prevented the keep's defenders from safely attempting any sort of horseback smash-and-retreat sortie; in the time that it would have taken Furnael's forces to raise even the small portcullis, both of the smaller Holtish forces could have joined the attackers at the rear gate and used the opportunity to force an entry.
Furnael and his people were sealed in, tight.
Karl rode slowly across the fallow field toward the main force of the Holts, the others strung out to his left.
Off in the distance, he could barely see the main gate of the keep, its iron portcullis visible against the flickering flames of a watchfire inside the keep. Karl had ridden through that gate years before; now, he hoped that Slovotsky had worked close enough to it to alert those inside when the time was right.
He transferred the reins to his teeth and unlashed his bow, nocking an arrow.
The Holts clearly weren't ready for an attack from outside; Karl had closed to within two hundred yards of the guards' fire when a soldier leaped to his feet and shouted a warning into the night.
"Do it," Karl said, drawing back the arrow to its steel head, then sending it whistling off into the night. Karl was an indifferent shot with a shortbow or longbow; no sense in trying for an accuracy that he didn't have, not from Stick's pitching back.
He drew another arrow and fired it at a forty-five-degree angle, aiming as best he could for the center of the encampment.
Tennetty steadied her crossbow and pulled the trigger. A Holtish soldier screamed and grabbed at the bolt in his thigh, then fell forward.
"Aim higher, dammit!" Karl yelled. "This isn't the time to play sharpshooter." A low shot would just plow into the ground; a high one might find flesh deeper in the camp.
"No closer, anyone," he said. The nearest of the Holts were at just about maximum effective range for the slaver rifles.
He let another shaft fly, noting with surprise and pleasure that as the arrow fell it caught a Holtish soldier in the throat.
Screams and shouts echoed through the camp. Karl unstrapped his lantern from his saddle and dashed it to the ground. Stick danced away from the flaring fire that marked his position, just in case any of the Holts had missed the point.
As gunshots sounded from the camp, Karl quelled an urge to dive from the saddle. At this range, the enemy's guns were next to useless. They would have to mount up and give chase. Which was just fine.
"Ready another volley." He nocked an arrow and waited for the crossbowmen to load their weapons. "Aim high, now, and . . . fire!"
Nine bows went off in a volley, immediately rewarded by more cries and screams from the Holts.
It had been only a few moments since the fight had started, but already a troop of a hundred, perhaps a hundred and twenty, soldiers were mounting up, preparing to repel the attack. Good. Both the size and the speed of the troop spoke well for the abilities of the Holtish commander, and Karl was counting on him to be good at his job.
"Secure weapons and prepare to run," he called out, already tying down his own bow.
One of Karl's horsemen started to bring his horse around.
"Hold your position!" Karl snapped. "Run before I tell you to and I'll shoot you down myself."
It was going to be tricky. They would have to draw the Holtish along with them, not letting them get close enough to do any damage, not outdistancing them altogether. About ten seconds, he thought. Nine. Eight. Seven.
To hell with it. "Run for it!" He wheeled Stick about and galloped for the trees, the others following him.
Their baffles now fully aside, the lanterns at the tree line beckoned to him; the path broke through the forest exactly halfway between the two. Stick galloped for the path, hooves throwing soft earth into the air as the stallion leaped over the low stone wall.
It was fortunate that the path back into the forest was straight: Stick's hooves had trouble finding it; branches and brambles beat against Karl's helmet and face until he had to close his eyes tightly for fear of losing them. Behind him, the others crashed through into the forest.
A signal rocket screamed into the sky; Karl opened his eyes to see it explode high above the trees in a shower of white-and-blue fire.
Aveneer's basso cut through the night: "Fire!"
Seventy rifles went off in a volley, their almost simultaneous whip-cracks sounding more like a sudden flurry of popcorn popping than anything else.
Horses and men screamed.
The path widened. Karl pulled Stick to a stop and dismounted from the horse's back, while Tennetty and the others galloped beyond him.
"Second section," Aveneer's basso boomed, somewhere off in the distance, "fire!"
Again, the crack of seventy rifles firing in a volley sounded; Karl dashed back down the path.
Aveneer's first section, the one that had fired the initial volley, advanced over the dark and bloody ground, their rifles now slung, using their swords and knives to administer the coup de grâce to wounded animals and humans alike. Of the hundred cavalrymen who had pursued Karl and his nine warriors, barely a dozen had survived unscathed, and those few were riding hell-for-leather back toward the main Holtish camp.
Karl began stripping off his armor as Erek ran up with Karl's rifle, pistols, and a large leather pouch; he accepted Karl's breastplate, helmet, and greaves in return.
"Message to Aveneer—deliver, wait for a response," Karl said. "Begins: No casualties on my team; Tennetty and others moving into position. Orders: Advance by section, volley fire and leapfrog. Send another runner back with Erek. Query: Any casualties? Ends. Go."
The boy ran off.
Karl primed his rifle's pan. Now we'll see if the third part works. The first part of his plan had worked like a a charm: A hundred Holts lay dead on the ground, and the Holtish were buzzing like bees. The second part had either succeeded or failed by now; either Slovotsky had or hadn't been able to take advantage of the distraction to get within throwing and shouting range of one of Furnael's warriors manning the ramparts of the keep.
But the third part depended on just how good the Holtish commander was. When what had appeared to be a small Biemish raiding party had approached, his first response had been the conservative one of sending out an apparently overlarge troop of cavalry.
But then, when the guns had gone off, his whole picture of what was going on would have, and should have, changed. As far as the commander had known, his side was the only one in this war that had guns—the only other force in the world with guns and powder was Karl Cullinane and his warriors—so he would identify Karl as his opponent. Or, perhaps, he would consider the possibility that his slaver allies had turned on him.
Either way, it would be a whole new development. And what would a good commander do when confronted with an attacking force of indeterminate size?
In another tactical situation the right response would be different, but here the commander knew he was already up against the keep's defenders, and had arrayed his forces for a siege; the conservative response, the safe reaction, would be to withdraw his entire force along the Prince's Road toward Holtun and barony Adahan, probably sending a cavalry detachment through to make sure that the way was clear.
His command should be more important to him than his mission. If he was good enough.
Karl stepped out through the trees and into the starlight. While the cavalrymen mounted up, a large contingent of Holtish soldiers were setting up a quick line defense, bringing guns and bows around to face Aveneer's slowly advancing sections.
"First section, fire!" Aveneer called out.
Karl crossed his fingers. It didn't look good; the Holts were setting up for defense, not withdrawal.
"You've got guts," he whispered to his unseen adversary. "Too damn much guts." Hadn't the bastard decided that he was outnumbered? Was he about to try a last run, himself?
Erek ran up, one of Aveneer's younger warriors beside him.
"He says," Erek said, panting, " 'Understood; firing by your order. Casualties low: seven wounded, none dead.' " Erek shook his head. "I don't think he's seen everything, Karl. Some of those horsemen broke through the line."
Easily a mile away, two more signal rockets momentarily brightened the night, as if to say, We're on our way.
Karl let himself ignore the report on casualties for the time being. I'll worry about it later, when I know how many lives my being clever cost this time. "It looks like Tennetty and the rest of the horseborne squad got to their signal rockets," he said. "And made it into position."
"Yes, Karl." The boy smiled. "Will the Holts run?"
"Count on it," he said.
I hope so, his thought echoed. Okay, General Patton. How about now?
"Second section, fire!"
That started a rout. The small detachment camped opposite the gateless northern wall broke and ran, some soldiers fighting each other for possession of a horse, others dropping their weapons and running down the road.
Karl couldn't see the other small detachment, but he was willing to bet that they'd be the next to break.
The group camped opposite the keep's rear gate began to move out, but in an orderly fashion: foot soldiers double-timing toward the road, cavalrymen with crossbows riding ahead to clear the way. Apparently their commander had decided that discretion was the better part of valor.
Good. But the main force wasn't moving, and with the one remaining small force, those almost three hundred men were enough to hold off Karl's people indefinitely, unless Karl was willing to shed a lot of Aveneer's men's blood.
"Erek—message to Valeran, return. Begins: Do it. Ends."
Again, the boy dashed off, this time in a different direction.
This was the last trick Karl had up his sleeve. If it didn't work, things were going to get very messy. If the hundred men now under Valeran's command weren't enough to persuade the Holtish commander that there was a huge force opposing him, Karl would have to count on Slovotsky's being able to get more than his note through to Furnael, on Furnael's believing him, and on Furnael's being able to take effective action.
All of which wasn't too likely, not in combination.
Well off on the right flank, Valeran's group stepped out of the forest, firing in volley.
But the Holts held, firing and reloading their guns and bows.
And then it happened: The main gate to the keep began to creak open, accompanied by battle cries from within the keep's walls.
The Holts had had enough; their line broke.
Karl beckoned at Aveneer's runner. "To Aveneer, and return. Begins: Belay volley fire. All reload, advance. Targets only by eye and ear. Ends. Go." The runner ran off.
At a brightening on the horizon, Karl's head jerked around. A gout of flame scoured the eastern sky.
Flame? What the hell was going on?
*What . . . think . . . on?*
"Ellegon!"
He could barely hear the mental voice as the dragon roared across the sky, well above the range of the most powerful crossbows as he vented fire and steam, hastening the Holts in their headlong flight.
*The air cavalry is here. I see I'm a bit late. Hope I didn't inconvenience you too much.*
No, not at all. It gave me the chance to figure out how about two hundred and fifty could send four times that number running, Karl thought, letting his mental voice drip with sarcasm. Thanks for the experience, Ellegon.
*No problem.*
Karl felt the dragon probe more deeply.
*I'm sorry about Chak. We'll have to talk about him.*
Later. Business first. "Erek, get over here—move it, boy. Message for Aveneer, return. Begins: Belay attack. Nobody takes a step forward of your first section until further orders."
With the Holts on the run, and with Ellegon in the skies to make sure they kept running, there was no reason to take any chance on getting someone killed by friendly fire. Furnael's people had been under siege for a while; it was likely that they were more than a little trigger-happy. "Healing draughts to be dispensed as needed," he went on. "Ends. Message for Valeran. Begins: Acquire three prisoners for interrogation. Keep your distance from Biemish until further orders. Ends. Go."
His neck muscles were already starting to unkink. It was as though a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders; Ellegon's presence in his mind buoyed him like a lifejacket.
Lightning crackled from the dragon's back, the white ribbons descending into the midst of the fleeing Holts, now more mob than army.
Lightning? Ellegon must have picked up Henrad and—no, not lightning. Henrad wasn't up to anything that difficult.
Ellegon, tell me Andrea isn't with you.
There was no answer.
Please.
*It was her idea, Karl, not mine. The same for Ahira. I told them you wouldn't like it,* he said petulantly.
Ahira? What the hell is going on at Home? Are the children—
*The children are fine. Kirah and all of them are staying with the Engineers for the time being.* Ellegon banked, wheeling across the sky. *Let me bring her to you—*
"No!" Stay the hell up in the sky until everything settles down.
He would have to talk to Furnael, and—
No, better—tell Aveneer to move one of his companies back to the campsite, and then you can land there. First things first. He had intended to go down and talk to the baron, but this had to take priority. Can you reach Slovotsky?
*Yes.*
Tell him I'll be a while. Then get your scaly self over to the LZ, on the double.
*Yes, Karl. It's good to see you again, too.*
Despite everything, he smiled. "Right. . . . Hey, you—yes, you. Get me my horse."