Dave Duncan - When the Saints

“And to stop smuggling!” Otto suggested. “Never forget that your precious castle is basically a glorified toll gate.”

The brothers had not walked far when they came in sight of a cataract, spraying down a notch in the cliff. The water was caught at about their height and diverted across the Quarantine Road on a narrow arch, well above the filth of the roadway. This aqueduct fed it through the wall, into the city.

“Four of these,” Anton said proudly. “Good water, too.”

A few minutes later they passed a heavily built gateway, capable of closing off the Quarantine Road. It also supported another aqueduct. Small wonder the castle was famed as invincible: if both barbicans, north and south, came under attack, the defenders could readily shift forces back and forth as needed. Of course, the dark side of that invincibility was that, if the Wends did manage to seize the fortress, then Pomerania would hold it for evermore. Which is why Cardinal Zdenek had been worried enough to grasp at any faint hope that might save Castle Gallant and his own neck, even an untried Speaker.

The wind was gusty, eddying off the cliff, and the sky ahead was as black as iron. There would be more snow before long, praise the Lord. Freeze, Wartislaw, freeze!

Guided by loud hammering noises, they found Vlad on the roof of the north barbican, a mirror image of its southerly twin. The roof was flat and sheathed in lead, with its western side abutting the cliff face, and the other three crenelated. Some irregular blocks protruding from the lead would have puzzled Otto had Vlad not earlier mentioned foundations for trebuchets. That was what the big man was working on now, directing four carpenters in assembling something that might well grow up to be a monster-sized catapult. Other gangs were hauling up more balks of timber, obviously precut to fit together. Anton stopped and questioned a pimply apprentice, learning that somebody’s grandfather had remembered that a great pile of oak beams stored in the top story of the north barbican were the missing trebuchets. The boy did not know whether there would be enough to supply the south gate also. Anton thanked him and seastd him ant him on his way. Meanwhile a nearby house was being demolished for its stones.

Staying clear of the bustle, Otto took shelter from the gale behind a merlon. He had experience with firearms in battle, especially at the Battle of Brusthem, but he knew almost nothing about trebuchets. Vlad’s military career had been longer and more varied.

In a few minutes Anton joined him and pointed out the northward extension of the Silver Road, shouting over a wind that was either growing stronger or was just more noticeable up there. Again the trail had been hacked out of the cliff, but here more of it was clearly in view, gradually ascending. After half a mile or so, it turned a corner and disappeared into the gorge of the Ruzena.

“You haven’t tried to build a redoubt up there?” Otto asked.

“Course I did! We were too late. The Wends were there yesterday already. See them?”

At that distance any figures would tend to merge into the rock, but Otto peered with wind-watered eyes and eventually made out a couple of lookouts sitting at the side of the road, inconspicuous against the cliff. A company of archers or arquebusiers would be on standby, sheltering around the corner, and any sortie from Gallant would be mowed down before it arrived.

“If we could hold that bend, their damned bombard would be useless junk. Can we risk a night attack?”

“I’ll leave that up to Vlad,” Anton said. So now he was ready to admit who was in charge of the defense, and that was good. “About five or six miles upstream, the gorge widens into Long Valley, where we have our border post, and where they almost killed me. The Pomeranian ferry dock is on the lake, a mile or so farther on.”

“Wulf thinks he saw the Dragon at Long Valley last night, with at least one Speaker guarding it.”

Anton shivered, as if that news was even colder than the wind. “Then it should arrive here today or tomorrow. Even if they need to reinforce bridges, I can’t see them needing more than two days.”

“Less if they have Speakers to speed things along.” Otto blew through his fists to warm them. “If that bombard is as big as they say it is, then I don’t like this situation at all. The range is too great for bows, especially firing uphill and into the wind. Arquebuses might reach, although they would be hopelessly inaccurate.”

“We only have three, with very little powder and shot. I expect Vlad will save them for the main assault.”

But the Wend’s bombard was going to have both wind and elevation working for it. Properly dug in, it would put a stone ball on target every time. Even if it only fired six or seven times a day, in two days the barbican would be a rock pile. The defenders had nothing to oppose it except some hope of future trebuchets to throw rocks at it. Flying rocks might not hurt the gnd t hurt un itself, but they ought to delay its emplacement and flatten a few gunners.

Realistically, all that a conventional defense would do now was delay the inevitable end for a few days. Gallant’s chances of survival depended on Wulf. Ever since Father’s illness had called him home from his youthful days of battle, Otto had assumed that he would eventfully die in his bed at home. Now he saw that this little junket to Cardice County might be the death of him. He might never return to Dobkov.

“You!” Vlad came striding over like an enraged Goliath of Gath, with the wind rippling his beard and his nose flaming red with cold. “You two prissy nobles come here to dance to entertain the men, or did you plan to be useful?”

“I was about to ask how we could help,” Otto said mildly.

“Half this junk,” the big man boomed, waving a meaty hand at the spread of timber that was threatening to pave the entire roof, “is rotten with woodworm and useless. Go downstairs and get those drunken whoresons to pick out the good stuff and sort it into types, so if I need a left rear upright I can send for it. Also have them come up and clear the crap wood out of our way. Then burn it and all the rest like it.”

This hardly seemed like a job requiring a count and a baron, but Otto dutifully led the way to the stairs. The attic below was a noisy, very dusty cavern, low-ceilinged and lit only by loopholes; he and Anton could barely stand erect in it. A dozen men were heaving timbers around, and several of them were shouting orders. As soon as the count himself arrived, though, he was able to seize everyone’s attention and impose silence. Before he could start issuing orders, Otto tugged at Anton’s cloak. “The light in here isn’t good enough to sort out the bad wood.”

Anton nodded and amended Vlad’s orders accordingly. Who was in charge here? No one. How many were master carpenters? Two were. He appointed one of them gaffer. First, six men were to go back up and stack the bad pieces that Vlad had already discarded; they would do as ammunition. The rest were to start sorting all the timber into types, making a pile of each shape. When they had done that, they were to choose the worst pieces from each pile and take those away to be copied so that new trebuchets could be built to their model. And whenever they winched a piece up to the roof, they were to inspect it in good light and bring it back again if it was no good.

Any questions? Then get to work. Yes, my lord.

Every man ran to obey. In peace or war, men worked better when they had orders directly from a nobleman. No one argued with gentry. The big man upstairs with the beard was a knight, but a count was much higher in the eyes of God or man. Counts were very special.

Noble blood or not, the dust was making Otto sneeze, so he gratefully followed Anton as he ran down another flight to the machine room. Count and baron shared the same dream of escape to somewhere where they could be more useful.