flanks. Horsehair standards were lifted by the wind and on a knoll overlooking the deployment of the army Corfe could see a group of horsemen thick with standards and banners. Shahr Baraz himself and his generals.
“Those are the
“How far behind the van should the main body be?” asked Martellus.
“The main levy moves more slowly, keeping pace with the baggage and siege trains. They are probably three or four miles back down the road. They will be here by nightfall.”
“He keeps his men well out of culverin range,” Andruw, the young ordnance officer in charge of the barbican’s heavy guns said, disgruntled.
“His light cavalry found out their ranges for him in that skirmish the other day,” Martellus said. “He will not have to waste good troops by inching forward to test those ranges. A thoughtful man, this Shahr Baraz. Ensign, what kind of siege works did he use before Aekir?”
“Fairly standard. His guns in six-weapon batteries protected by gabion-strengthed revetments. A ditch and ramp surmounted by a stockade with many sally-ports. And a rearward stockade in case of any attempt to raise the siege.”
“No need for him to worry about that here,” someone said darkly.
“How long did he spend in preparation before the first assault?” Martellus asked, ignoring the comment.
“Three weeks. But this was Aekir, remember, a vast city.”
“I remember, Ensign. What about mines, siege towers and the like?”
“We countermined, and he gave up on that. He used enormous siege towers a hundred feet high and with five or six tercios in each. And heavy onagers to break down the gates. That’s how he forced entry to the eastern bastion: a bombardment of both guns and onagers accompanied by a ladder-borne assault.”
“He must have lost thousands,” someone said incredulously.
“He did,” Corfe went on, his eyes never leaving the group of Merduk horsemen that looked down on the rest out in the hills. “But he could afford to. He lost maybe eight or nine thousand in every assault, but we lost heavily too.”
“Attrition then,” Martellus said grimly. “If he cannot be subtle, he will simply attack head on. He may find it difficult here, with the dyke and the river to cross.”
“I think he will assault with little preparation,” Corfe informed them. “He knows our strength by now, and he has lost much time in the passage of the Western Road. I think he will come at us with everything he has as soon as his host is assembled. He will want to be in possession of the dyke before the worst of winter.”
“Ho, the grand strategist,” one of the senior officers said. “Someone after your job there, General.”
Martellus the Lion grinned, but there was little humour in the gesture. His canines were too long, the set of his face too cat-like.
“Corfe is the only one of us who has experienced a full-scale Merduk assault at first hand. He has a right to air his views.”
There were some dark murmurings.
“Did the Aekir garrison sortie?” Martellus asked Corfe.
“In the beginning, yes. They harassed the enemy while he dug his siege lines, but there was always a large counterattack ready to be launched—mainly by
“Sweet Saints!” Andruw the gunner exclaimed. “Here at the dyke we have less than sixty pieces, light and heavy, and we thought we were overgunned!”
“What about mortars?” Martellus asked. Everyone hated the huge, squat weapons that could throw a heavy shell almost vertically into the air. They rendered the stoutest protecting wall useless, firing over it.
“None. At least they used none at Aekir. They are too heavy, perhaps, to bring over the Thurians.”
“That is something at least,” Martellus conceded. “Direct-fire weapons only, so we will be able to rely on the thickness of our walls and the refugee camps cannot be bombarded while the wall stands.”
“They should be herded out of the defences at once,” Corfe blurted out. “It is madness to have a crowd of civilians in the fortress at a time like this.”
Martellus blinked. “Among those civilians are would-be nurses and healers, powder and shot carriers, fire- fighters, labourers and perhaps a few more soldiers. I will not cast them out wholesale before seeing what I can get out of them.”
“So that’s why you have tolerated their presence for so long.”
“Tomorrow they will be given orders to march west once more, except for those who are willing to place themselves in the aforementioned categories. I am willing to take help from any quarter, Ensign.” Martellus’ senior officers did not look too pleased at the news, but no one dared say anything.
“Yes, sir.”
The group of men stared out at the deploying Merduk army again. The elephants looked like richly painted towers moving among the press of soldiers and horses, and the huge, many-wheeled wains they pulled were being unloaded with brisk efficiency. More of the animals were advancing with heavy-wheeled culverins behind them, drawing them up in batteries, and Merduk engineers were hurrying hither and thither marking out the hillsides with white ribbon and marker-flags. For fully three miles to their front, the hills were covered with men and animals and waggons. It was as if someone had kicked open a termite mound and the inhabitants had come pouring out searching for their tormentor.
“He will attack in the morning,” Martellus said with cold certainty. “We can expect the first assault with the dawn. He will feel his way at first, feeding in his lesser troops as they come up. And the first blow will be here, on the eastern barbican.”
“I’d have thought he’d at least spend a day or two setting up camp,” one gruff officer said.
“No, Isak. That is what he expects us to think. I agree with our young strategist here. Shahr Baraz will hit us at once, to knock us off balance. If he can take the barbican in that first assault, then so much the better. But the Merduks love armed reconnaissances; this will be one such. He will watch our defence and the way we respond to his attack, and he will note our weaknesses and our strengths. When he knows those, he will commit his best troops and attempt to wipe us off the face of the earth in one massive assault.”
Martellus paused and smiled. “That is how I see it, gentlemen. Ensign, you seem to have a head on your shoulders. I hereby promote you to haptman. Remain here in the barbican and stay close to Andruw. I want a full report on the first assault, so don’t get yourself killed.”
Corfe found it unexpectedly difficult to speak. He nodded at the tall, feline-swift general.
The senior officers left the parapet. Corfe remained behind with Andruw, a man not much older than himself. Short hair the colour of old brass, and two dancing blue eyes. They shook hands.
“To us the honour of first blood, then, in this petty struggle,” Andruw said cheerfully. “Come below with me, Haptman, and we’ll celebrate your promotion with a bottle of Gaderian. If our esteemed general is right, there’ll be little time for drinking after today.”
