Chapter 12 Faron
FARON
I wish I had a bigger shield,” Faron muttered as he stood beside the battering ram.
The ram was crude, just a thick tree trunk with the front shaved down to a blunt point.
Eight holes had been drilled into it and metal bars slid through to serve as handholds.
No covering, no protection from arrows or oil.
Sixteen men currently held it aloft, practicing basic orders.
“Heave!” shouted the knight in charge, and the men rushed forward ten steps to strike an invisible wall.
“Set!”
They pulled back, retreating another ten steps.
The first half hour had been full of stumbles and miscounts, but it hadn’t taken long for everyone to grow accustomed to the effort.
Nothing spectacular, but cohesive enough to hit a big door with a big stick.
Bart had taken to the practice as if it were his life’s entire purpose, hanging on the commanding knight’s every word.
There was no doubting his dedication. Faron hoped his resolve would remain come the brutality of battle.
As for Iris, she remained back at Faron’s tent.
A siege was no place for her, especially when she might be trampled by Doremy forces or catch an errant arrow.
“Attention!” the knight shouted, and the men set down the ram and turned. Faron joined the rest of the shield wall in forming a line, his arms crossed behind him. Princess Isabelle approached, her silver armor resplendent in the midday sun. Her marshal accompanied her, his expression dour.
“Is the ram ready?” he asked.
“I’d prefer we had another day or two to practice,” the knight in charge said. “But yes, I think we are.”
Isabelle circled the ram, quiet, her shoulders back and her head held high. Her gaze swept the first crew, judging them.
“Be brave,” she said. “Make way the path to our victory, and know Leliel watches over you always.”
Several men nodded, while others pressed their palms to their chests and lowered their heads, a sign of prayer to Leliel.
“Beloved be the goddess,” Bart said, the only one to speak.
Isabelle smiled at him.
“Beloved be,” she said, and turned to Marshal Oscar. The gentleness of her voice vanished. “Give the order. I want this fort claimed by the hour.”
“It will be done,” said Oscar, and then unhooked a small brass trumpet from his hip, lifted it to his lips, and gave the signal.
Faron marched beside Bart, the young man sweating as he helped carry the ram, positioned fifth back from the front and on the left side.
They were just shy of the front line, following in Princess Isabelle’s wake.
Banners rippled in the wind, yellow fabric attached to high spears to announce her approach.
The army marched wide, far beyond the width of the well-trodden road, to exaggerate their numbers.
Within Wendway Fort, the blue raven flew high from its walls.
“Be with me, Leliel, beloved goddess of dawn and dusk,” Bart prayed as he walked.
The words were hushed and quick, a litany against his growing panic as they neared the fort.
Archers readied along the palisade, far more than Faron liked.
“Be with me, Leliel, and look upon me with your golden eyes. Be with me, Leliel, so in my fear…”
The first of the arrows flew. It landed well short, a warning shot, but Bart saw it and paled.
Faron put a hand on Bart’s shoulder, and he ignored the glares from the other members of the shield wall.
“So in my fear and weakness, I will be strong,” he said, finishing the line. Faron held no faith in the goddess that humanity worshiped, but he knew well their prayers, their beliefs, and the Four Pleas that guided their doctrine.
A trumpet call. The pace increased, the space between them and the fort shrinking. Faron’s pulse quickened. This was it. He grinned. Time to make his presence known.
Isabelle made way for the battering ram while soldiers parted on the right and left flanks for the two siege ladders.
Faron readied his shield, and he positioned himself so his right hip was touching Bart’s left.
With his free hand, he grabbed the pole.
His orders were to not lift, only use it to guide his steps to keep in line with Bart’s…
but no one need know that he aided young Bart in carrying his portion.
A second trumpet call. More shields raised. Shouts from knights, and the marshal. The charge had begun. The army rushed the fort in three prongs, soldiers meant to either climb the ladders or rush through the gate when it was broken.
In response came the arrows. Faron counted thirty archers in total, and they let loose a scattered volley.
A far cry from some of the battles he’d participated in, but that did not remove the danger.
Their aim was heavily focused on the ram.
Faron lifted his shield and shifted so its surface broadly covered both him and Bart.
The arrows hit, thudding into dirt, smacking shields, and for one unlucky man, piercing through padded leather and into flesh.
He didn’t even scream, only collapsed, his mouth hitching, a lung punctured and filling with blood.
The two men behind him stumbled as they trampled his corpse, but the ram continued moving.
“Fill!” their commanding knight shouted, and the soldier whose shield had failed to protect slung it over his back and grabbed the iron handhold. The ram, which had begun to list, righted.
“Heave!” the knight shouted.
“Leliel be my strength,” Bart repeated as they sprinted the final distance. “Leliel be my strength, my guide, blessed be, blessed be…”
Another man in the front dropped, screaming as an arrow slipped past a raised shield to pierce his stomach.
The rest trampled him, unable to stop, unable to slow.
“ Heave ,” bellowed the knight, urging them onward.
Just before the ram connected, Faron gripped the pole and added his own weight to it.
It struck with a thunderous crack, wood splintering, metal bolts rattling.
The wooden bar barricading the opposite end groaned from the impact. Close, but not enough.
“Set!” the knight shouted, his own shield raised high.
Behind them, Isabelle and her soldiers halted, awaiting passage.
Meanwhile, the ladders slammed down atop the spiked palisade, metal hooks latching into the wood.
Soldiers hurried up them, shields raised over their heads against the arrows.
Three locations to defend, stretching thin the fort’s troops.
Three locations, three skirmishes, three sources of screams as the dying began.
The ram retreated amid a hail of arrows.
Another carrier fell, this the man who’d been a fill.
Faron seethed. There should be a full squad of soldiers around them, baiting the arrows, all ready to replace any who fell.
The ram also should have been on wheels and hung from chains.
Everything about this assault bespoke an expectation of easy victory, and now they paid the price.
“Heave!”
An arrow struck Faron’s shield and stuck into the wood.
The ram surged forward, but slower, without quite as much distance to gain momentum.
Its aim drifted, too, striking off-center.
The door rattled, giant cracks splintering along its front.
Whatever bar barricaded the other side threatened to break.
One more good hit would do it. Faron could see through the cracks to the fort interior, and only a measly ten soldiers waited with swords and shields at the ready.
“Set!”
Faron bit back a curse, his shield weaving to intercept another arrow.
Archers from all sides had shifted their aim to the ram, trusting the soldiers on the palisades to dislodge the ladders.
Two more men holding the ram dropped, stalling it as fills rushed to grab the poles.
Faron’s head swung, watching, judging the archers, seeing whose aim was for Bart… and then he froze.
Just above the gate, he saw movement, and a hint of smoke.
“Oil!” he shouted, and grabbed Bart by the shoulder and flung him away.
Two Argylle soldiers lifted a pot over the gate.
The first of it hit the center of the ram and splashed in all directions.
Faron’s face was still turning, his body moving from throwing Bart, when it struck.
He saw it from the corner of his eye, saw black, and then saw nothing as the searing oil sprayed across the right half of his face.
Faron roared, pain overwhelming his senses as the boiling oil seared his flesh and sealed over his eye.
“Set,” the knight shouted, but no one had been prepared for the oil. It coated the ram and even slicked the metal carry poles. Confusion reigned, men staggering away, confused, frightened, or wounded. The ram dropped, and when the knight in charge retreated, others followed him.
But not Faron.
Radiance bursting through his veins, he snarled like a savage animal and grabbed the front-most pole, the only one completely free of oil.
An arrow thudded into the meat of his arm, but he ignored it.
He set his feet, gripped the pole, and then howled his fury.
Every muscle in his body flexed. Though the back end of the ram dragged in the dirt, the front rose high, and with a gigantic heave, he slammed it directly into the center of the gate.
The already weakened barricade snapped in half. The doors bowed inward, opening enough for a lone man to step through.
Faron dropped the ram and drew his sword. He didn’t even bother retrieving his shield. The way was clear. No thoughts. No hesitation. Battle was in his veins, and it swept him away like a bloody tide.
Ten soldiers, readied and waiting. They raised their swords, thinking Faron outnumbered and mad from battle.
And he was, but oh, how foolish they were to think they could slay him with a mere ten.
Faron blasted into their center, his sword batting away strikes as if they were made by children.
He lopped the head off the nearest soldier, then flung a second with his shoulder, knocking him into three of his fellows.
His vision compromised, he dared not remain still, nor abandon the offensive.
He spun left, his sword striking the defending man’s shield hard enough Faron could hear the bones in his arm snap.
The shield dropped, and Faron plunged his sword straight into the man’s chest. A twist, and he ripped his weapon free to bury it into the side of another Argylle soldier.
Something sharp sliced across his back. Damn it, his right eye; if he weren’t blinded, he would have seen the approach…
He spun again, parrying a follow-up thrust meant to pierce his kidneys. His free hand grabbed the throat of the attacker, and he lifted him into the air with ease. His fingers crunched windpipe. His sword disemboweled intestines.
Another hit, again from his blind side. Stabbing pain, and this time, the blade went in deep.
Faron screamed, swiping wildly, but he need not have panicked.
His allies had finally arrived, and to his shock, it was Princess Isabelle herself who led the charge.
Her shining sword punished the one who stabbed him, the blade’s wickedly sharp edge easily parting the man’s jerkin and crunching ribs to find his heart.
A wave of steel followed, the army sweeping into the fort. The arrows stopped, and through the blood pounding in Faron’s ears, he heard the defenders shout their surrender.
“About time,” he mumbled, grabbing and ripping the arrow out of his arm. His vision swam, that which remained. He put a hand to his lower back and was shocked by the amount of blood. Oh, it was deep, all right.
“Soldier?” Princess Isabelle asked, sheathing her sword and turning toward him.
“My lady,” Faron said. He dropped to his knees and then collapsed, black nothingness taking him away.