The ropes were pulled and pulled with force, but the iron image did not move. Three hundred more men were ordered to the battlements, and the ropes were lengthened to accommodate them. They heaved and pulled, straining to their task until their hands bloodied the thick lines. But still the idol stood.
“It is not working,” observed Myrmior. “We need more ropes.”
“We have no more,” reported Theido. “At least not the length we need.”
“Then we must tie them together, and our cloaks and trousers too if necessary. Your plan will work if we have more ropes.”
“Wait! I hove a notion,” announced Ronsard. “What about chains? There are long lengths of chain in the gatehouse below. Let the ropes be fastened to the chains and the chains to the windlass of the drawbridge and the counterbalance.”
“Can such a thing be done?” wondered Theido. “It might mean disengaging the drawbridge.”
“It is a chance we mutt take. Send for the gatekeeper!”
What Ronsard had proposed was done without great difficulty. The massive drawbridge of Askelon was operated by not one, but two windlasses and a system of counterweights. It was quick work to release the chain and allow the ropes to be bundled and threaded through a large iron ring. Then, with the counterweights once more in position a dozen brawny men were placed on the windlass and began to turn.
The chain wound around the windlass and disappeared into a hole in the stone floor of the gatehouse. Theido and Ronsard dashed back to the battlements above to see the effect of their labors.
“It is working!” shouted Myrmior as they came panting up. “You lazy geniuses! It is working. May the gods be praised!”
They looked down to see the ropes stretched tight as harp strings. The iron idol teetered ever so slightly as the ropes pulled it upward.
“I pray those ropes can hold,” said Theido.
“They will hold-you shall see,” replied Myrmior. “I have a feeling about this. They will hold.”
No sooner had Myrmior spoken than he was nearly proved wrong. One of the ropes snapped; its ragged length sang through the air and lashed four Ningaal to the ground as it struck like a whip. “Bring grease!” cried Theido.
“Stop pulling!” shouted Ronsard. The chain stopped moving as the men at the windlass obeyed the Marshall’s order.
Grease was brought up from the gatehouse in buckets and smeared on the ropes and on the ledge of the crenelle where the ropes passed over the stone. Two men were stationed to swab the grease onto the ropes as they passed over the stone, and the windlass began turning again.
In a few moments the flaming idol was slowly lifted up off the ground, and then began to swing forward toward the gate. A tremendous knock sounded as the enormous iron image banged into the drawbridge; smoke from its fire rolled up the walls, stinging the eyes of the men at the battlements.
“Keep turning!” shouted Ronsard to the men below at the windlass. The Pyrinbradam inched slowly up the drawbridge, its snout pressed against the bridge’s planks, which began to smolder.
“The gates are burning!” cried a voice from below.
Ronsard shot a quick glance toward Myrmior and Theido. “I did not foresee that.”
“Do not turn away now,” said Myrmior. “Stay with your plan.”
“Yes, just a little while longer,” agreed Theido, peering over the battlements.
“Bring water to the gates!” barked Ronsard. “Continue turning!”
More water was poured down the outside of the gates to quench the fire that had started. White billows of steam rose with the black smoke of the flames.
The idol rose a few more inches and then stopped. The men at the windlass strained; the windlass creaked.
“The cursed thing is caught on something,” called Theido. “I cannot see what it is.”
“Keep turning and perhaps it will come loose,” suggested Myrmior.
“Put more men on the windlass! Keep turning,” ordered Ronsard.
A dozen more strong men were added to the windlass and they fell to with all their might. The windlass creaked in loud complaint, the ropes stretched, and the chain moved but one link.
“It is not working,” reported Theido. “Call them off. The gates have caught fire again.”
Ronsard moved to relay the orders below when there came a whooshing sound and the ropes went slack. A thunderous crash was heard, and everyone dashed to the battlements to see the flaming monster teetering on the edge of the ramp. The ropes had burst under the strain and had dropped the iron image back to the ground, where it had rolled to the edge of the ramp and was in danger of toppling over the edge into the dry moat below.
The King’s men saw this and began to cheer wildly, urging the thing on to its own destruction. Ningaal warriors, half-crazed with anger, leapt to the dangling ropes in an attempt to haul it back from the brink. It appeared as if they would succeed.
The image righted and stopped rolling with two of its six huge wheels spinning out over the chasm. Hundreds of Ningaal were now swarming to the ropes and were tugging it back inch by inch. The cheering from the battlements abated.
“Well, we are in for it now, I fear,” sighed Theido. “No better off than before.”
“It was a good idea, my friend,” said Ronsard. “It almost worked. At least we did not let the monster destroy our gates without a fight.”
The enemy had placed long beams under the wheels and were attempting to rock the ponderous image in order to allow the rearmost wheels to be pulled back onto the ramp. But the rocking loosened one of Theido’s hooks, and it broke free.
“Look!” cried Myrmior. “We are saved!”
Ronsard and Theido turned in time to see fifty men tumbling down the ramp, grasping the end of a falling rope. The snap of the rope caused the towering statue to lurch violently, teeter once and then plunge over the edge, dragging a hundred men with it, still clinging to the lines.
The terrible idol spewed fire as it spun slowly in the air, ropes snaking after it with men attached like insects, plummeting to their deaths. The idol landed on its wicked head and crumpled in a shower of sparks, one arm breaking off and opening a great hole in its chest where flames leapt up and showed those looking down from the battlements that the monster was indeed ruined completely and many of its wretched keepers as well.
“We are saved to fight another day!” shouted Ronsard happily.
“Yes, but how many days will we last without water?” asked Theido, the short-lived triumph dying in his eyes and his features giving way to the black cast of despair.
FIFTY-THREE
THE COUNCIL was held in Eskevar’s chambers with the King sitting up in bed, frowning furiously and darting quick questions to his advisors. Though he appeared even more gaunt and pale than ever, his eyes burned intensely and his hands were steady as he shook his finger in the air.
“This is not good!” he shouted. “It leaves us no choice but to fight them on the plain. The siege can but kill us one by one as we drop from thirst.
“We have a little water left, Sire,” put in the warder weakly.
“How little?”
“Three days. Four.”
“So we prolong the agony that much longer. No, I will not see soldiers weakened by thirst attempt to hold off the fall of Askelon. If Askelon falls, it must be on the field of battle. If the end is to come, let it come. But let us have our wits about us, and let us die with our swords in our hands.
“We can at least give these barbarians a fight they will long remember. This Nin will live to regret the day he set foot upon the soil of Mensandor, though every one of us perish.”
This fiery speech of the King greatly heartened several of the lords in attendance. Rudd, Benniot and Fincher had grown restive during the siege. Not men of patience, they itched to take up arms and meet the foe in fair contest, even though-as greatly outnumbered as the King’s forces were-there was nothing fair about it and not much of a contest. Still, the idea of taking once and for all a stand worthy of brave men appealed to them. They were ready to fight.