shattered. One after another, Garbofasse's mercenaries were despatched. One's helmet was struck with such force that his churned brains spurted through its visor. A second was skewered through the midriff with a broken axe handle. A third was beaten to the ground with an iron bar. A fourth was lifted bodily into the air and carried towards the battlements; his spittle-filled shrieks rang aloud as he was flung over. Garbofasse strove at the monsters with a battle-axe in each hand. Ranulf clove one's head cross-wise, slicing through its open mouth with his blade, shearing off the top half of its skull, though it stayed on its feet, foul fluids gargling in its opened oesophagus.
More of Garbofasse's troops limped down from the Gatehouse, only to be met by another iron hail. This was heavier than any thus far. The usual debris was laced with razor-edged flint. Again, the men were slashed and brutalised. Ranulf staggered towards William d'Abbetot's body, belatedly thinking that saving the engineer's life should be a priority — only to see that what remained of him was being pounded like mulch into the rubble. Even those much younger and stronger than d'Abbetot were cut down. Once the hail had finished, only Ranulf, Navarre, Garbofasse and three of his mercenaries remained on their feet; all had been freshly wounded. The only ones unaffected were the corpses. Though torn anew, in some cases reduced to parodies of humanity — grisly effigies of exposed bone and filleted flesh — they came on as before.
'Back to the Gatehouse,' Ranulf called.
These Welsh — if they were Welsh, and not from Hades itself — could not be slain or hurt. They could march through their own artillery storm, while the English fell under it like wheat to the scythe.
'Back to the G-Gatehouse… now!' he stammered. 'We can't win this!'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In the disorder that followed the retreat onto the Gatehouse it was impossible for coherent orders to be issued. Five maniacal corpses still held sway on the Barbican, but attempts to place a shield-wall at the top of the Gatehouse stair and bar their path were hampered by yet another iron hail, which now swept the Gatehouse roof, driving those remaining to the downward hatches. In the cramped rooms below it was a chaos of blood, straw and smoke. Throats were raw with shouts and gasps. Men were slumped with exhaustion, caked in dirt and gore, their tabards and surcoats in tatters.
At last Earl Corotocus arrived, forcing his way through, with du Guesculin and more of his household men struggling along behind. Father Benan, white-faced and tearful, brought up the rear.
'What is this madness, Corotocus?' Garbofasse roared, shoving men out of his way. 'A third of my troops are dead and they've barely struck a blow yet!'
'They've struck plenty of blows,' Ranulf interjected. 'Mainly against women and children. This may be the price of that victory.'
Corotocus couldn't respond. He was too startled by the bloodied, battered state of his lieutenants.
'What devilry have you unleashed on us?' Garbofasse demanded.
'My lord,' Father Benan simpered, 'my lord, this is too terrible…'
'Earn your corn, priest!' the earl barked. 'Confess the dying, help Zacharius succour the wounded.'
'Those… those men,' du Guesculin stammered, his eyes bulging as he recalled what he'd seen from the Constable's Tower. 'Catapulted alive onto the… and to fight and kill. It must be some kind of illusion.'
'You dolt!' Garbofasse threw a crimson rag into his face. 'Are these wounds an illusion?'
'Navarre?' the earl said, turning to his most trusted henchman.
Navarre was seated on a stool, sweating, breathing hard, his scalp and face horribly cut. He could only shake his head.
The earl swung to Ranulf. 'What of you? You were hand-to-hand with them, damn it, what did you see?'
Ranulf looked him straight in the eye. 'I saw dead men walking like puppets, but wielding weapons like Viking berserks. I saw mildewed lumps of carrion, some still coated with grave dirt, raging at us like barbarians.'
'Damn devilry!' Garbofasse swore again. 'Damn blasted devilry!'
The word went around quickly. Men who previously had been too weary or hurt now leapt to their feet. There was shouting, pushing.
'Enough!' the earl thundered. 'You peasant scum! Enough!'
A deafening silence followed. He peered around at them. Fiery phantoms writhed on their wounded faces, on the arched brick ceiling overhead.
'You maggots!' he said. 'The whole army of the world's dead may be out there, and they couldn't break these walls!'
'They won't need to break them,' Navarre said, finally standing. 'Forgive me for speaking plainly, but as long as they have the scoop-thrower we can't man the Barbican or the Gatehouse roof.'
'And as long as they have the mangonels,' came another voice, 'we can barely man the curtain-wall.'
This was Ulbert. Despite the fearsome attacks on his own position, news had reached him that a company had been wiped out on the Barbican. He'd come hotfoot to find his son. Though he flinched at the sight of Ranulf's lacerated face, he was palpably relieved to find him alive. He turned again to Corotocus.
'My lord, I needn't tell you, but with the curtain-wall lost, all they'll need to do is walk around the outside and come in through the front door.'
'We must break the southwest bridge as we planned,' Garbofasse asserted.
'That's now impossible,' Ranulf replied. 'The trebuchet's damaged and William d'Abbetot is dead.'
'We should withdraw,' du Guesculin urged his master. 'Move back to the Constable's Tower.'
Ranulf gave him a scornful look. 'If the scoop-thrower can strike the Gatehouse roof, surely you see that it can strike the Constable's Tower as well?'
'What are our losses on the south wall?' Corotocus asked Ulbert.
'About half our strength. The fire barricade on the berm has prevented their assault force circling the castle, but it won't last forever.'
Before anyone else could speak, there was a ghastly shriek and a mercenary tottered forward clutching his belly, from which a spearhead protruded. Behind him, there was another shriek. In the dim-lit press of damaged, sagging bodies, it was difficult to see exactly what was happening, but the rearmost hatch appeared to have been forced open and a figure had dropped down. It was now assailing another of Garbofasse's men with a scramsax. Its third blow clove his skull so brutally that his brain was exposed. It then shambled forward, striking at anyone within range. An instant later it was face to face with Corotocus. The earl's eyes almost popped from their sockets. The demonic thing was naked of clothing, but it had been stripped of most of its flesh as well. Muscle tissue hung in shreds. All it had for a face were torn ruins. Multiple arrows transfixed it.
Never had a nobleman, even as steeped in blood as Earl Corotocus, seen any creature as mutilated as this and still apparently alive. His eyes tracked slowly upward as it raised the weapon with which to sunder his cranium. And then the reverie was broken, and a dozen blades stormed it from all sides, hacking, slashing, reducing it to quivering pulp, chopping it to segments, which continued to squirm and twitch on the floor.
'The hatch!' someone screamed. 'The damn bloody hatch!' Swiftly, the open hatchway was blocked with beams and planks.
'More of them will land up there,' Navarre shouted. 'We've no option — we have to go up and repel them.'
'And face the iron hail?' Garbofasse scoffed.
'We could form a testudo…'
'It's suicide!'
Navarre looked to the earl for instruction, but the earl was still mesmerised by the gory fragments scattered at his feet.
'My lord,' Father Benan whispered into his ear, yanking the shoulder of his cloak. 'My lord… this is not… this is not the natural order of things.'
Corotocus finally came round. 'What are you gibbering about? Didn't I send you to your work?'
Father Benan shook his head. He half smiled, though there was an eerie light in his eyes, a form of shock or craziness. 'My lord, don't you see what this means?'
