“I shall do so, Marius. But promise me one thing-promise me you won’t let them break?” The alchemist nodded to the militia who were straining at the breach, successfully preventing the disordered goblins from gaining entry, and in spite of the pain, he smiled with paternal pride.
Marius nodded and his face brightened in an uncharacteristic smile.
“I won’t need to make that promise, sir-for they have made it for me!”
On the wall Sir Vyvin was fighting savagely, with Captain Ingrew guarding his back. The pain in his mutilated eye made him angry and each goblin he hewed down seemed to bring him slight relief. But he was still thinking clearly, and he ordered his men to focus not on the goblins themselves but on the ladders- for once they were pushed away from the edge, their foes on the ramparts would be trapped in a city full of enemies.
A ten-year-old peon was cut down by a goblin soldier, drawing Sir Vyvin’s wrath. With a raging cry he smashed at the nearest enemy with his shield, forcing the goblin back over the battlement and clearing the way for him to exact his vengeance. The goblin killer turned, his red eyes unblinking, and each leapt at the other with a single dreadful intent.
A sword swung and clattered on Sir Vyvin’s shield. At the same time, the goblin stabbed forward with a curved knife in his other hand, the tip etching a line across the knight’s breastplate.
With a stab of his own, Sir Vyvin forced the goblin to jump back, close to the rampart edge. A sudden swing of his shield made his foe lose his balance and sent him screaming into the city street below. Sir Vyvin saw Sir Finistere, followed by a host of youths armed with clubs and hammers, surge forward and batter the goblin down.
As Sir Vyvin drew breath, he saw that the militia had placed their long pikes at every point above the ladders, preventing any enemies from climbing up. Very swiftly, the goblins who remained on the ramparts fell to the vengeful swords of the defenders.
The goblins had lost heart for the battle. The cries of those trapped in the breach and behind the flames soon ceased, for none were spared the vengeance of the militia or the indiscriminate choking fumes of the fires. At least a thousand had been trapped and destroyed. As many again had been slain attempting to storm the walls, falling victim to the stoic magic of the wizards, the precise eyes of the archers, and the strong arms of the knights.
A signal was given shortly before midday. The goblins withdrew northward, exhausted and angry. The last hour of the battle had seen their assault reduced to simple archery, the very type of warfare the walls of Falador had been designed to withstand. For every defender who fell, at least five of the attackers perished.
“Continue the bombardment, Thorbarkin,” Sulla said. “I want at least two more breaches in the northern wall before we try again.”
Within an hour, the cannons resumed their ominous music, and the walls of Falador shuddered again.
“If they come again we shall not be able to hold them back,” Sir Vyvin said, finishing his bedside report to Sir Amik. “The men are exhausted and desperate, and if the walls are breached elsewhere then Sulla will be able to get into the city. We do not have enough men to plug another gap.”
“Then we must take the fight to the enemy.” Sir Amik spoke softly. “We must prevent him from breaking the walls.”
Sir Vyvin looked uncertain. Sir Tiffy sat nearby at a desk, writing furiously. The old spymaster made no reply, so intent was he on the message before him.
“Sir Amik will ride out tomorrow at dawn and charge the guns of the enemy,” Bhuler explained. “If they can be seized and broken then it will buy the city time.”
Sir Vyvin bristled at his words. “It will be a suicidal mission,” he remarked, shaking his head.
“Possibly not,” Sir Tiffy said from the desk, speaking with a hopeful tone that seemed out of place. The old knight stood up to explain, holding a piece of paper in his hand and motioning to Sir Amik’s hawk. The bird stood on the ledge of the chamber window, shifting its weight from one talon to the other as it gorged itself on a pigeon it had seized from the skies above the battle. On the pigeon’s leg was a small cylinder which had been opened.
“That’s one of ours” Sir Vyvin remarked suddenly. “The murderous bird has killed one of our messengers!”
“It was a worthwhile sacrifice. The communication is from Squire Theodore. I have examined it against a copy of his handwriting, and it matches perfectly. The code he has used is a recent one and I have decoded it accordingly.” He looked mischievously at his friends.
“Well?” Sir Vyvin said eagerly. “What does it say?”
“Kara is coming south. She will arrive tomorrow at dawn. She has several hundred dwarf warriors with her, and Theodore has recruited six hundred of the Imperial Guard. Together they number just fewer than one and a half thousand!”
So unexpected was the news that silence descended as each man looked at the others with renewed hope. If Kara could make it to the city then the Kinshra would not prevail against so many.
“It is tomorrow, then, that the fate of our city shall be decided. And it is all in the hands of the woodcutter’s daughter,” Sir Tiffy said as he burned the message. “Speak to no one of this, for Sir Erical has not been found and he may be watching our movements. Tell the men an hour before dawn to prepare for battle. Only at the last minute will they be told that we intend to ride out.”
Sir Vyvin nodded in understanding. When he left the chamber he was more hopeful than he dared to admit.
SIXTY-FIVE
The guns were relentless. By midnight, a second breach had been opened, wider than the first and several hundred yards to the east.
Some citizens collapsed on seeing the fissure, weeping in dreadful certainty that they and their loved ones would not be spared the Kinshra savagery. Brave men who had stood in the breach only hours before hurled their weapons down and cursed their gods for abandoning them. For, with two breaches, the defenders could not hope to defend the city.
Ebenezer had known this would occur and throughout the day he went along the northern wall, shouting encouragement and positioning barricades in the streets to impede the coming offensive. In the first breach, the defenders filled the gap with masonry and heavy timbers, stripped from those houses damaged in the mortar bombardment. They would prevent the enemy from making a surprise rush, but it would not keep them out.
To Sulla, watching from the plains, the walls were weaker than he had anticipated. They had been built generations ago by men who had never conceived of black powder and cannons.
Suddenly he detected a movement behind him. It was Jerrod, back from his hunt.
“Did you find anything interesting?” Sulla asked. “Perhaps a farm girl and her tasty young child?”
Jerrod wiped his hand across his mouth.
“No such luck, Sulla. I had to make do with some outlaws from The Wilderness who marched with the army.”
“Just so long as you don’t harm my Kinshra, for when the third breach is made we shall assault all three simultaneously, and I shall need them at their best.” He placed his gauntleted hand on the werewolf’s shoulder. “We’ll find you a girl of noble birth, my friend-something soft and pale and very, very tender!”
His good humour went unnoticed by Jerrod who watched the bombardment with interest. He peered out over the battlefield.
“Why do you not turn your guns on the wooden gates, rather than the stone walls? Would it not be quicker?”
Sulla shook his head.
“Behind each gate the road will be built to favour the knights. They will be able to pour boiling oil on us, or trap us between portcullises. It is better this way. It makes them fearful, makes them gaze in horror at their fate!”
Inside Sir Amik’s chamber the noise of the cannon and the wails of despairing citizens was inescapable. Bhuler was still awake and keeping watch, and he helped the knight to sit up.