Chapter 48

To the ten people atop Kinloch’s south barbican wall, what had just happened seemed nothing short of a miracle. No one moved, no one cheered. In fact, the silence was almost deafening until Wick finally whispered, “Bloody hell—did ya see that, Ean McKinnon?”

“Saxon dogs,” Ean growled. “Ah’ve seen ‘em rrrr-un like that afore. Lose a leader and they lose their bloody heads. They’re trained to fight that way—follow orders or face the noose.”

Daynin poked his head just above one of the crenellations for a better view. “They’re gone. Those traps took the fight out of them.”

“Aye,” Troon agreed, “but they’ll be back, wager that.”

Relieved that a full-fledged battle had been avoided, at least for the moment, Kruzurk stood up to study the panorama of war before him. “I’ve never seen a battle before. It’s sickening.”

“Sickening for the losers, eh?” Isa asked.

Muck took the opportunity to steal a peek over the walls. “I’d wager there’s plenty o’ plum in them dead men’s pouches, eh Unc? Shame to let it go to waste, don’t ya think?”

Eigh delivered a hard slap to Muck’s groin. “Shut yer mouth, Mucky boy. We’ve no time to be robbin’ the dead. Those blaggards will be back and much the wiser this time.”

From his position below the tower, Brude had been unable to observe any of the action. “What say you up there? Are they coming or not? Droongar thirsts for Saxon blood!”

Daynin slipped down the ladder part way, still unsure exactly what Brude’s motive for returning to Kinloch had been. From his spot on the ladder, he could look directly into the giant’s eye slits, though of course, he could see nothing. “I’m glad you’re here. We will have need of your sword when those blaggards come back.”

“Bah! I came not to help you, boy, but to keep my word to the mage. Once this is over, I shall continue my quest for the Kellans and their kin. If you get in my way, I’ll cut you in half.”

“Brude, I’ve learned that we are not now and never have been allied with the Kellans. In fact, my kin fought them for this land many years ago, long before I was born. Don’t you see—those shields you found in the great hall are war trophies. That means we can still be friends!”

The giant edged closer to the ladder. His gauntlet rose slowly and ominously toward Daynin’s face. “You, boy, I cannot trust. Nor will I ever trust the living again. That mage is the closest thing I have to a friend, and I’d sooner slit him wide open as look at ‘im.”

“They’re forming up again!” Troon bellowed from above.

Brude stepped back from the ladder to draw his sword, ending the talk with a gruff, “We’ll finish this parlay later, boy—that is, if you survive the day.”

* The Saxon Army *

Oswald and his thirty men reached Standguard Bridge just at the right moment to stem the tide of Saxon retreat. Standing like a small bull square in the middle of the bridge, his axe leveled at the oncoming flood of frightened men, Oswald’s demeanor broke their flight in a single action.

“Get back, you lot! Damn yer eyes for bein’ the cowards. What’s wrong with you anyway? Where’s Plumat?”

One man sheepishly pointed back to the battlefield, offering a pitiful, “Magic, says I—it was black magic what took our men down.”

A dozen more of the retreaters buzzed with the same kind of childish rhetoric until Oswald shoved them aside to cross the bridge. “Magic my arse,” he swore. “Black magic, red magic, or green magic, by thunder we’re gonna find that treasure and get off this heathen island.” He waded into the midst of the group huddled in fear at the far end of the bridge. “Are you with me, boys? There’s great booty to be had! And women! And drink for the takin’. All you have to do is get up and act like men. Now stop all this sniveling and we’ll be rich by nightfall!” A less than energetic ‘huzzzah’ went up from the sheepish group, but they followed behind Oswald nevertheless, arriving back at the forest edge almost as quickly as they had left it.

Hearing some of Oswald’s boisterous tirade wafting through the trees had renewed Plumat’s spirit for the attack. He rushed down the trail to greet the men, anxious to push them straight into the fray again. “Forward men!” he cried out, waving his sword in the lead of the column.

Oswald stepped aside to allow the troops to pass, but they didn’t fan out on the open ground this time. More a murderous mob than a coordinated attack force, the whole group surged forward down the narrow path, straight at the main gate of Kinloch. Trip lines let loose and traps sprung, taking a handful of attackers down, but onward the mob went, bent on the worst kind of destruction.

From the keep, Wick could see that his trip lines had done all they could do to thin the attacker’s ranks. “We’re in for it now, lads. If they stay on the path, there’s nothin’ to slow ‘em down but the drrrr-awbrrr-idge.”

“Och,” Ean said, “we’ll thin ‘em out best we can, then fall back to the second wall. That big bugger is a heluva fighter on foot. I’ll wager he can hold the gate all by himself.”

Seeing the mob spread out into a wider column as it neared the drawbridge, Wick seized on the chance to break their will again. He raised the red pennant high over his head and waved it round and round. Sabritha took the cue and began pulling pegs as fast as she could jerk them free. Tightly wound ropes tied to the pegs flew out of their coiled keepers, smoking with the sudden friction of motion.

Out on the plain, one after another of the stake-lined, dung-filled pits opened with resounding whuuumps just a few strides from the moat, festering hell holes for any man unlucky enough to fall in one. And many did.

Fanning out like a herd of sheep, half the first rank of attackers who left the track disappeared into the ground. Troops behind them tried to slow up or go around the traps, breaking the momentum of the assault. Some managed to get as far as the moat, choosing to wade across instead of waiting for the ladders.

All the while, Daynin and his friends pelted the enemy from the tower. Isa, Kruzurk and Wick loaded while the others took aim and fired. Ean and Troon cut several men down with their longbows, lining the road with dead and dying Saxons. Eigh, Muck, and Mediah concentrated their crossbows on the closer targets, with deadly effect.

In the middle of the mob, Plumat could barely see what lay ahead, let alone what had befallen many of the troops on his flanks. He could hear the screams and knew they were paying a fearful price for the advance, but he had no way of knowing what else was to come. “Forward!” he yelled. “Onward men—to the walls!”

Scattered groups of levies had retrieved their ladders on the way toward the keep. Archers set up to support them and the ground attack in hastily established lines just outside crossbow range. Hurriedly, the bowmen loosed a hail of arrows at the tower, accomplishing little against the stone battlements.

Those wading the moat, now knee deep in bone chilling muck, suddenly realized the water level was rising—and fast. A flood of seawater came pummeling down the stone lined moat like some giant salt water demon unleashed. The large wooden lever Sabritha pulled last had opened a coffer dam at the sea’s edge, allowing a torrent of salt brine as tall as a mounted knight to sweep everything in the moat ahead of it. The swirling mass swallowed men and weapons alike as it gained momentum flowing downhill from the sea. It swept side to side, crashing violently against Kinloch’s walls, then sloshing out of the moat’s banks with the fury of a tidal wave.

Plumat watched with something bordering on fascination, realizing his entire assault force had either stopped moving or been wiped out. Arrows cascaded over his head, and somewhere to the rear, he could hear the rumble of the siege weapon being dragged forward by Oswald’s men. “Finally,” he sighed, knowing that at least one thing was about to go as planned. “Onward lads! To the walls!”

With the moat flooded, Ebon left his position at the north barbican to join the battle at the main gate. He ran to Brude’s side, determined to hold that spot whatever the cost. “Are we winning yet?” he asked the giant.

Brude cast his armored counterpart a skeptical look and answered, “We shall see soon enough. If they have a ram or siege equipment, this wall will never hold.”

Ebon drew his sword and tapped it on the palm of his gauntlet, much as Brude had done back in the catacombs of Abbotsford. “I’ve lived my whole life for this day. Let them come.”

“You’re a damned fool, boy,” Brude growled. “Get out now before it’s too late. This is not your fight.”

Realizing he had a chance to treble Brude’s commitment to the battle, Ebon seized on the moment. “Yes, it is my fight. Kruzurk and I swore to help fight the Kellans once you brought the stone back. Half those men out there are Kellan levies, come to retake this place and burn it to the ground.”

“Bahhhhh!” the giant roared, literally shaking the foundations of the south wall. With one hand, he drew his carnyx. With the other, he lifted his visor and huffed a huge breath, letting it out through the horn. The effect was deafening.

Waaaarooooooo! reverberated off the walls, stopping the entire battle in place. Enraged, Brude slashed the chains holding the drawbridge and portcullis in place. The drawbridge fell with a resounding whump, sending the portcullis up and out of the way. Tossing aside the massive beams that held the gate shut, the Great Deceiver shoved his way through the portal and out onto the drawbridge, ready for action.

“Menal vendochla noch ben Kellan versa,” he boasted, brandishing his sword aloft. “Come and meet your doom, Kellan dogs!”

Half a hundred men took one look at the immense creature facing them and lost all heart for the battle. Even Plumat could not help feeling his blood run cold with the thought of combat against such an enemy. The archers behind him turned their full fury on the giant, hoping to bring the beast down with a cascade of arrows.

To the rear, Oswald had finally wrestled Plumat’s siege weapon with its supply of hundred-weight stones into place. He too, saw the giant and would not allow himself to believe such a creature could exist. “Get it loaded,” Oswald ordered. “Hector will draw first blood, by the gods!” Somehow, the Trojan name Plumat had given the war machine seemed even more appropriate, now.

Glad that he had talked Plumat into building a converted mangonel instead of a useless siege tower, Oswald added, “If that’s the monster Plumat told us about, our levies will turn and run unless we can bring ‘im down with a hit from Hector. Lively now, boys, before that beast has a chance to move!”

For an untrained crew, the gang of seamen took to Hector like seasoned warriors. The first stone was loaded and on its way so quickly that even Oswald seemed surprised. “Huzzahhh!” he crowed, watching the hundred-weight rock tumble through the air toward the drawbridge. The boulder hit the back edge of the moat with a resounding splunshhh, doing little damage except splattering muck on all those close enough.

Quickly realigned, another round was hefted onto Hector and lofted on its way. Brude stood his ground, though he could see the massive chunk winging its way toward him. “Cowardly Kellan dogs!” he taunted, stepping aside at the last instant when the stone crashed down onto the drawbridge.

A roar went up from the Saxon horde, seeing their first signs of victory. Twenty arrows rained down around Brude, serving only to annoy him. From the tower, a dozen arrows and crossbow bolts were loosed at the attackers in reply.

With the drawbridge down, Plumat saw his opportunity to advance, despite the danger from the mangonel. He knew the giant could not stop them all if they rushed him in a group, so that became the plan. He waited until Hector’s next round sailed overhead, stood up and yelled to lead the attack. “Forward men! To the gate—now’s our chance—forward!”

Brude ducked the third round from the mangonel, allowing it to sail past him and on toward the wall. Hitting hard ground, the stone bounced twice and crashed into the tower just above the gate. The impact rocked the top of the tower, tossing Daynin and the others around like jousting dummies. Down below, Ebon’s armor is all that saved him from being crushed by a shower of masonry and wood from above.

Out on the drawbridge, a mad rush of armored men flowed around Brude. Some stopped to ward off blows from the Pict’s massive sword while Plumat and a dozen more rushed the main gate. Only Ebon stood in their way, and stand he did. Slashing with all his might, the black knight dropped two of the Saxon men-at-arms before they could open their attack. Another man tried to dash past, only to be hamstrung by a vicious backward blow from Ebon’s sword.

Five more Saxons squared up inside the gateway arch, ready to bring Ebon to his knees. They rushed forward in line abreast with Plumat and others hard on their heels. Just within sword range, two were suddenly felled by crossbow bolts fired through embrasures to their left. Daynin and Mediah slid down the tower ladder to join the fray, engaging two men each while Ebon blocked the main advance.

Behind them, Sabritha rushed forward with a pike and crossbow. She thrust the pike into one of the unarmored levies, freeing Ebon to face the men to his left. Enraged, Sabritha fired her crossbow into a Saxon’s groin, bringing him down in a screaming heap.

Seeing the woman, Plumat urged his men on, knowing that if the highlanders were desperate enough to have women defending the keep, it was only a matter of time until his numbers would prevail. “Forward men!” he yelled. “They’ve only a few defenders left!”