"Charger!" he screamed. 'To the gate!"
The charge was like being propelled forward on a crashing wave. The noise was deafening, the colors blurred, the danger of tumbling out of control real. Air and snow rushed through Marafice's eye slit as his armor creaked and sawed, shaving skin from the back of his neck. He could no longer risk glancing at the tower, but the signal had been given. It was in the hands of the darkcloaks now.
As the charge moved forward, the line spread, opening up space in the interior for the machinists and bowmen to work The scorpions had been carried in pieces to the clanholds and assembled at the camp; once they were set down and loaded they'd be ready to deploy.
Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. The drums boomed and the horns wailed as a wall of arrows shot from the tower rained down on the east flank.
Marafice stared ahead. The Ganmiddich roundhouse and its square ugly outbuildings were still a blank. As the charge grew closer the risk of looking foolish increased. A city-men army at full charge was a fearsome sight, but if the clansmen did not engage the charge would break on the walls and they'd be forced into a siege. No one on the line wanted that.
What was taking the darkcloaks so long? Marafice could see the fossil stone on the Crab Gate clearly now, see brief shadows of movement behind the arrow slits and embrasures. Part of the east flank had spilled into the river shallows—easy targets for the bowmen in the tower. One man fell. Then another; his foot catching in the stirrup as he slid from his mount. The panicked horse bucked and reared, trying to shake itself free of the body. The momentum of the fall had dragged the saddle down the horse's torso and the belly strap was now pressing against the stallion's scrotum. Poor beast, Marafice thought before yelling, "Either kill it or cut the straps."
An arrow pinged off the right side of his birdhelm, grazing his horse's leather rump armor as it continued its flight. An instant later a second arrow buzzed right past his left ear. It took him a moment to realize it had come from the direction of the Crab Gate. The roundhouse had opened fire.
Behind him the first wave of crossbolts were loosed against the roundhouse. Thuc, thuc, thuc, thuc: hundreds of times in Marafice's still-ringing ear. When the bolts met the traprock walls they simply stopped and fell to the ground. It was not a reassuring sight. Bolts first, cavalry next.
Insanely, Hews was still holding the charge. They were less than two hundred yards away now. Did Hews think so little of clannish buildings that he imagined horses could knock down their walls?
Suddenly there was a scream from within Hog Company. Two lines deep, a hideclad's cloak was alive with flames. Fire arrows, and even as Marafice realized the cause, the sky blackened with smoke as a volley of flaming missiles was loosed from the roundhouse. Swatting one away with the flat of his sword, Marafice watched as Hog Company started to panic. Hideclads began tearing at their fancy white capes and driving their horses away from the center where the greatest concentration of arrows were falling. Hews spun in his saddle to calm them, but he could only do so much. Men afraid of fire made poor troops. As the line met the hill the charge slowed. The horses were tiring. Nerves were worn. It was hard to look at the blank walls of Ganmiddich and not be discouraged. Hews had been counting on the famous jaw of the clansmen, the pride that demanded fight, not hide.
But not Marafice Eye. As, they scaled the base of the hill and the first stone ball was loosed by the scorpion, a cry went up from the ranks.
"Fire in the tower!Fire!"
The stone ball smashed into the top of the hill, cratering the slope and throwing up a hail of dirt and snow. Horses in the line shied, some halted. Marafice's own mount shook out his head, but kept its pace. "Fine beauty," he murmured, angling his upper body toward the tower.
Black smoke gouted from the narrow windows and upper gallery of the Ganmiddich Tower. Weird green flames shot from one window, swiftly followed by a fountain of sparks. A short explosive crack sounded, and the stench of sulfur and smelting metal drifted over with the smoke.
"Mother of God," Tat Maekelroy whispered. "What's happening?"
Marafice did not look him in the eye as he replied, "Calll it a lucky break."
Tat waited to hear if his Protector General would say more, and when the great man said nothing, returned his attention to his mount.
Marafice barked an order into the center to halt the charge. He did not like himself much just then.
For a wonder, Garric Hews minded what he'd said and broke the charge. The steepness of the hill made for a surprisingly short stop and for a few minutes there was chaos as six thousand reined-in horses scrambled for space.. Marafice used the time to monitor events in the tower, it was telling that all missile fire had stopped. Smoke was pouring from every window in the stone structure. If there were flames it was now too dark to see them. The sole entrance to the tower was by way of a small rounded door plated with lead that directly faced the roundhouse across the water. Marafice sent out the order to bow-men and machinists to target the door. Reckoning he now stood within hearing distance of the roundhouse, he made sure his voice rang clear.
The Crab Gate remained closed, but Marafice imagined it wouldn't stay that way for long. At midwinter he'd visited this very roundhouse and met with clansmen firsthand. He'd come away impressed. They were fighting men, fiercely loyal, and he did not think for one instant they would stand by and let their fellow clansmen die.
Behind the roundhouse the old growth forest known as the Nest clicked eerily in the rising wind. The trees were gnarled and ancient crippled by the weight of overgrown limbs. The darkcloaks said there were paths running through them leading north toward Withy and west to Bannen. According to Greenslade, thlfpaths were always vigorously defended.
Marafice's attention was drawn back to the tower by the retort of a half-dozen crossbolts splitting wood. The door had moved. Those inside wanted out.
Quietly now, Marafice sent an order propagating down the line. "On your guard. Be ready." He did not know exactly what the dark-cloaks had done to fill the tower with fire and noxious smoke, and he decided now he would never ask them. Let them keep their bags of tricks to themselves. Spying ashes on the flat of his sword, he wiped the blade clean against the back of his sheepskin mummah.
All was silent for the longest moment and then the Crab Gate swung open and the battle was met.
Mounted clansmen rode out of the roundhouse: Hailsmen, Crabmen, Withymen, and Bannenmen. More poured from behind the outbuildings, as stable doors were flung apart.
"Kill Spire! Kill Spire!" they chanted as they used the downhill momentum to steal a charge.
"Spears out!" screamed Garric Hews, scrambling to harden his line. Marafice's own line was hard, though he knew his men felt fear. Clansmen were like animals, wild and brutal, wielding hammers as big as children as they bellowed at the top of their lungs for their enemies to die. Heads low, battle cloaks streaming out behind them, they met their enemies full-on.
A great clash of metal sounded. Men gasped. Horses squealed. Blood jetted through Marafice's eye slit and into the socket of his dead eye. Where it JKne from he could not tell. His great bloodred Rive blade was up and cutting. He figured as long as he did not let it rest he would be safe.
Clansmen came at him in hordes, hammers and axes swinging. They had the advantage of high ground and superior maneuverability, but the city men had heavy-gauge plate and four times their numbers. It was hard to remember that in the fray. The sheer relentlessness of the clansmen was something Marafice had not counted on. You wounded a man, he should fall away. Not clansmen though. They smiled grimly and attacked again.