Michanek followed the young officer to the base of the wall, then both men knelt with their ears to the stone. At first Michanek could hear nothing, but then came the sound of scraping, like giant rats beneath the earth, and he swore softly.
“You have done well, Cicarin. They are digging beneath the walls. The question is, from where? Follow me.” The young officer followed the powerfully built champion as Michanek scaled the rampart steps and leaned out over the parapet. Ahead was the main camp of the Ventrian army, their tents pitched on the plain before the city. To the left was a line of low hills with the river beyond them. To the right was a higher section of hills, heavily wooded. “My guess,” said Michanek, “would be that they began their work on the far side of that hill, about half-way up. They would have taken a bearing and know that if they hold to a level course they would come under the walls by around two feet.”
“How serious is it, sir?” asked Cicarin nervously.
Michanek smiled at the young man. “Serious enough. Have you ever been down a mine?”
“No, sir.”
Michanek chuckled. Of course he hadn’t. The boy was the youngest son of a Naashanite Satrap who until this siege had been surrounded by servants, barbers, valets and huntsmen. His clothes would have been laid out each morning, his breakfast brought to him on a silver tray as he lay in bed with satin sheets.
“There are many aspects to soldiering,” he said. “They are mining beneath our walls, removing the foundations. As they dig, they are shoring up the walls and ceiling with very dry timber. They will dig along the line of the wall, then burrow on to the hills by the river, emerging somewhere around… there.” He pointed to the tallest of the low hills.
“I don’t understand,” said Cicarin. “If they are shoring up the tunnel, what harm can it do?”
“That’s an easy question to answer. Once they have two openings there will be a through draught of air; then they will soak the timbers with oil and, when the wind is right, set fire to the tunnel. The wind will drive the flames through, the ceiling will collapse and, if they have done their job well, the walls will come crashing down.”
“Can we do nothing to stop them?”
“Nothing of worth. We could send an armed force to attack the workings, maybe kill a few miners, but they would just bring in more. No. We cannot act, therefore we must react. I want you to assume that this section of wall will fall.” He turned from the parapet and scanned the line of houses behind the wall. There were several alleyways and two major roads leading into the city. “Take fifty men and block the alleys and roads. Also fill in the ground-floor windows of the houses. We must have a secondary line of defence.”
“Yes, sir,” said the young man, his eyes downcast.
“Keep your spirits up, boy,” advised Michanek. “We’re not dead yet.”
“No, sir. But people are starting to talk openly about the relief army; they say it’s not coming - that we’ve been left behind.”
“Whatever the Emperor’s decision, we will abide by it,” said Michanek sternly. The young man reddened, then saluted and strode away. Michanek watched him, then returned to the battlements.
There was no relief force. The Naashanite army had been crushed in two devastating battles and was fleeing now towards the border. Resha was the last of the occupied cities. The intended conquest of Ventria was now a disaster of the first rank.
But Michanek had his orders. He, and the renegade Ventrian Darishan, were to hold Resha as long as possible, tying down Ventrian troops while the Emperor fled back to the safety of the mountains of Naashan.
Michanek dug into the pouch at his side and pulled clear the small piece of parchment on which the message had been sent. He gazed down at the hasty script.
Hold at all costs, until otherwise ordered. No surrender.
The warrior slowly shredded the message. There were no farewells, no tributes, no words of regret. Such is the gratitude of princes, he thought. He had scribbled his own reply, folding it carefully and inserting it into the tiny metal tube which he then tied to the leg of the pigeon. The bird soared into the air and flew east, bearing Michanek’s last message to the Emperor he had served since a boy:
As you order, so shall it be.
The stitched wound on his side was itching now, a sure sign of healing. Idly he scratched it. You were lucky, he thought. Bodasen almost had you. By the western gate he saw the first of the food convoys wending its way through the Ventrian ranks, and he strode down to meet the wagons.
The first driver waved as he saw him; it was his cousin Shurpac. The man leapt down from the plank seat, throwing the reins to the fat man beside him.
“Well met, cousin,” said Shurpac, throwing his arms around Michanek and kissing both bearded cheeks. Michanek felt cold, the thrill of fear coursing through him as he remembered Rowena’s warning: “I see soldiers with black cloaks and helms, storming the walls. You will gather your men for a last stand outside these walls. Beside you will be… your youngest brother and a second cousin.”
“What’s wrong, Michi? You look as if a ghost has drifted across your grave.”
Michanek forced a smile. “I did not expect to see you here. I heard you were with the Emperor.”
“I was. But these are sad times, cousin; he is a broken man. I heard you were here and was trying to find a way through. Then I heard about the duel. Wonderful. The stuff of legends! Why did you not kill him?”
Michanek shrugged. “He fought well, and bravely. But I pierced his lung and he fell. He was no threat after that, there was no need to make the killing thrust.”
“I’d love to have seen Gorben’s face. He is said to have believed Bodasen unbeatable with the blade.”
“No one is unbeatable, cousin. No one.”
“Nonsense,” announced Shurpac. “You are unbeatable. That’s why I wanted to be here, to fight beside you. I think we’ll show these Ventrians a thing or three. Where is Narin?”
