Chapter 11 Faron #3
Two hours later, they approached Wendway Fort from the south.
Isabelle called a halt for everyone to rest while their trailing wagons caught up.
Faron eyed the fort, curious about Isabelle’s strategy.
It was surrounded by a wooden palisade, the tops of the tree trunks sharpened into spikes.
A large barricaded door blocked off the entrance.
Two towers flanked it, and he spotted a handful of archers within each.
Isabelle lacked archers of her own, and though she outnumbered her foes tremendously, it would not take many men to hold a fort if the walls and door could not be breached.
“How are we getting through?” Faron asked one of Tristan’s soldiers beside them. The hundred of them had been kept together and shuffled off to the rear of the marching formation, to serve as their own squad.
“Did you not see the wagons?” the soldier replied, and gestured toward the five covered wagons pulled by oxen stretched out behind them. “Isabelle came ready.”
Sure enough, as the soldiers rested, the wagons arrived, and those within began their work.
A thick tree trunk had been cut and brought in one of them, and as Faron watched, they began constructing a basic battering ram by nailing thick iron rods into its sides.
Rudimentary, but likely enough for the meager fort.
It was not their only plan, either. More of Isabelle’s workers were busy nailing together two separate siege ladders.
Between the three, Faron suspected they had enough ways to get soldiers over the walls.
The mood was tense yet jovial as the time passed.
Soldiers stretched, checked their gear, and sparred with one another to loosen their muscles.
Faron kept beside Bart, his eye on the fort.
He thought those within might abandon their defenses and flee north, especially when so heavily outnumbered.
Instead, he watched the numbers grow in the two watch towers as well as the walkways built along the inner side of the wall.
It seemed that Bentley had reinforced the fort after all…
“Stay here,” he told both Bart and Iris, and then headed to the front.
He ignored the dirty looks the professional soldiers gave him.
Those who came south from Leyval with Isabelle would view Tristan’s group as dead weight, and for the most part, they would be correct.
A few dozen fighters with weeks to months of training would not compare to those who had spent years preparing for this war.
It meant Faron would need to work to get himself into the thick of the fight, where he could truly make an impact.
Granted, there was also that battering ram.
Isabelle was deep in conversation at the front of the army, in clear view of the fort.
A small group surrounded her. Loudest was a man with a deep scar disfiguring the left half of his face, leaving pale tissue upon his black skin from forehead to chin.
His armor resembled Isabelle’s, and from what Faron had gathered, his name was Oscar, and he was her marshal.
Also with her was someone from the wagons, an engineer, Faron suspected, along with a few of her knights.
Tristan was among them, too, though he kept quiet while the others talked.
Faron lurked at the edge of the group, waiting until Tristan noticed. The knight frowned, quietly excused himself, and then approached.
“Why are you not with the rest of my squadron?” he asked, keeping his voice low so the others did not overhear. His eyes were practically bulging from anger.
“The battering ram,” Faron said. “I want on its crew.”
Tristan looked taken aback.
“We… we are taking volunteers,” he admitted.
“But we’ve no covering for it, and there’s more archers at the fort than we anticipated.
The siege ladders will distract some of them, but it’s going to be…
” He paused, eyeing Faron with new respect.
“Are you sure about this? We could use someone with your size anchoring it, true, but this will be dangerous work.”
Faron grinned at him, a little silver flashing in his eyes to make sure the knight was amenable to the suggestion.
“I’m here to help where I’m needed most.”
Tristan shrugged.
“So be it. I’ll see if I can reserve you a spot. Now, back to my troops, soldier, and don’t go wandering off again.”
Faron accepted the dismissal and returned to Bart and Iris. They lingered separate from the rest of the squadron, Iris lying beside Bart and accepting his occasional pat across her head.
“I see you’ve warmed up to him faster than you did me,” Faron told her as he sat on the trampled grass. The coyote’s eyes were closed, and she did not open them, only let out a long, unimpressed snort.
Ten minutes later, Tristan returned, and after exchanging words with others of his squadron, pointing and gesturing about while giving orders, he joined the trio on the edge.
“Well?” Faron asked him.
“You’re second crew,” Tristan said.
“Second? Look at me, Tristan. I could carry the battering ram alone. Why not put me on that first crew, instead of the replacements?”
The other man hawked a glob and then spat.
“You want the truth, Faron? Two reasons. One, I don’t know your mettle yet, and we can’t afford anyone on that battering ram crew breaking and running the moment arrows start flying.
And two…” He shrugged. “I don’t think Marshal Oscar expects too many of that initial crew to survive.
I’d rather you ensure we finish than die in the initial volleys.
So instead, you’ll be protecting the ram as part of its shield wall.
Consider yourself lucky to be even that close. ”
He then pointed to Bart.
“You, however, are on first crew.”
Bart’s eyes widened, and his skin visibly paled. “But you just said…”
“I know what I said. You’re also no good with a sword, and every squadron was told to offer up members for first crew. I’m sending you, along with two others.”
Faron stood, careful to keep his voice in check.
“What game are you playing, knight?” he asked.
Tristan shrugged, unimpressed.
“I told you, I don’t know you yet, nor your true mettle. What I do know is that you care for the lad. You’ll be his shield on the approach. You want him safe, then you keep at his side, and do your duty. That clear, soldier?”
Faron exchanged glances with Bart. The young man lurched to his feet, and he thudded a fist over his breast.
“I won’t falter,” he said. “And I won’t be afraid. The gate will fall, I promise.”
“I hope to Leliel it does,” Tristan said, turning away. “Because otherwise we’ll be retreating back to Doremy with our tails tucked between our legs and an ungodly number of arrows stuck in our hides.”