“I will. I can make my own way.”
Without looking at him again she left the forecastle. He watched her small, upright figure traverse the waist—the sailors knew better than to molest her now—and enter the sterncastle where the officers’ cabins were.
Bardolin resumed his watching of the waters whilst the imp cheeped interrogatively from his breast. It was hungry, and wanted to be off on its nightly search for rats.
“Soon, my little comrade, soon,” he soothed it.
He leaned on the rail and watched the sun sink down slowly into the Western Ocean, a great saffron disc touched with a burning wrack of cloud. It gave the sea on the western horizon the aspect of just- spilled blood.
The carrack forged on willingly, propelled by the sorcerous wind. Her sails were pyramids of rose-tinted canvas in the last light of the sunset and the lanterns about her gleamed like earthbound stars. The ship was alone on the face of the waters; as far as any man might see, there was no other speck of life moving under the gleam of the rising moon.
TWENTY
O RMANN Dyke.
The tumbling thunder of the bombardment went on relentlessly, but they had grown used to it and no longer commented upon it.
“We are more or less blind to what goes on over the brow of the nearest hill,” Martellus told his assembled officers. “I have sent out three different scouting missions, but none has returned. The Merduks’ security is excellent. All we know therefore is what we see: a minimum of siegeworks, the deployment of the batteries to the front—”
“And a hive of activity to the rear,” old Isak finished.
“Just so. The eastern barbican has taken a pasting, and the gunnery battle is all but over. He will assault very soon.”
“How many guns do we have still firing across the river?” one man asked.
“Less than half a dozen, and those are the masked ones that Andruw has been saving for the end.”
“We cannot let the eastern side of the bridge go without a struggle,” one officer said.
“I agree.” Martellus looked round at his fellow Torunnans. The engineers have been working through the night. They have planted charges under the remaining supports. The Searil bridge can be blown in a matter of moments, but first I want to bloody their nose again. I want them to assault the barbican.”
“What’s left of it,” someone murmured.
Three days had passed since the first, headlong assault of the Merduk army. In those three days there had, contrary to Martellus’ prediction, been no direct attack on the eastern fortifications. Instead Shahr Baraz had brought up his heavy guns, emplaced them behind stout revetments and begun an artillery duel with the guns in the eastern barbican. He had lost heavily in men and material in the first deployment, but once his pieces were secure the more numerous Merduk heavy culverins had begun to pound the Torunnan fort on the eastern bank to rubble. The bombardment had continued unabated for thirty-six hours. Most of Andruw’s guns were silenced, and the eastern barbican was holed and breached in several places. Only a scratch garrison remained there. The rest had been withdrawn back over the river to the island, that long strip of land between the river and the dyke.
“The heavy charges are in place. When they occupy the eastern fort they are in for a shock, but we must make them occupy it—we must make them pay for it. And to do that we must keep troops there, to tempt them in,” Martellus said relentlessly.
“Who commands this forlorn hope?” an officer asked.
“Young Corfe, my aide, the one who was at Aekir. Andruw will have his hands full directing the remaining artillery. The rest of the skeleton garrison is under Corfe.”
“Let us hope he will not turn tail like he did at Aekir,” someone muttered.
Martellus’ eyes turned that pale, inhuman shade which always silenced his subordinates.
“He will do his duty.”
J AN Baffarin, the chief engineer, came scuttling like a crab through the low-ceilinged bomb-proof towards Corfe and Andruw.
“We’ve repaired the powder lines. There should be no problem now.”
He was shouting without realizing it, as they all had been for the past day and night. The huge tumult of the bombardment overhead had ceased to seem unusual and was now part of the accepted order of things.
The bomb-proof was large, low and massively buttressed. Five hundred men crouched within it as the shell and shot rained down on the fortress above their heads. Dust and fragments of loose stone came drifting down when there was a particularly close hit, and the air seemed to shake and shimmer in the light of the shuddering oil lamps. “The Catacombs” the troops had wryly labelled their shelter, and it seemed apt. All around the bodies of men sprawled and lolled, some asleep despite the unending noise and vibration. They looked like the aftermath of the plague, a scene from some febrile nightmare.
Corfe roused himself from the concussed stupor he had been in.
“What of the guns?”
“The casemates are intact, but Saint’s love, those are the heaviest calibre shells I’ve ever seen. The gatehouse is a pile of rubble, and the walls are in pieces. They don’t have to attack. If they keep this up they’ll reduce Ormann Dyke to powder without ever setting foot in it.”
Andruw shook his head. “They can’t have the ammunition and powder, not with their supply line as long as it is. I’ll wager a good bottle of Candelarian that they’re running low right now. This bombardment is for show as much as anything else. They want to stun us into surrender, perhaps.”
A particularly close explosion made them wince and duck instinctively. The granite ceiling seemed to groan under the assault.
“Some show,” Baffarin said dubiously.
“Your men know the drill,” Corfe said. “As soon as the rearguard is across the bridge you touch off the charges, both on the bridge itself and in the barbican. We’ll send the whole damn lot of them flying into the Thurians. There’s a show for you.”
The engineer chuckled.
The bombardment stopped.
There were a few tardy detonations from late-falling shells, and then a silence came down which was so profound that Corfe was alarmed, for a second believing that he had gone deaf. Someone coughed, and the noise seemed abnormally loud in the sudden stillness. The sleeping men began rousing themselves, staring around and shaking each other.
“On your feet!” Corfe shouted. “Gunners to your pieces, arquebusiers to your stations. They’re on their way, lads!”
The catacombs dissolved into a shadowy chaos of moving men. Baffarin grasped Corfe’s arm.
“See you on the other side of the river,” he said, and then was gone.
T HE devastation was awe-inspiring. The eastern barbican was like a castle of sand which had been undermined by the tide. There were yawning gaps in the walls, mounds of stone and rubble everywhere, burning timber crackling and shimmering in the dust-laden air. Corfe’s meagre command fanned out to their prearranged positions whilst Andruw’s gunners began wheeling the surviving culverins into firing positions.
Corfe clambered up the ruin of the gatehouse and surveyed the Merduk dispositions. Their batteries were smoke-shrouded, though a cold breeze from the north was shredding the powder fog moment by moment. He glimpsed great bodies of men on the move, elephants, regiments of horsemen and lumbering, heavy-laden waggons. The hills were crawling with orderly and disorderly movement.
A gun went off, as flat as a hand-clap after the thunder of the heavy-calibre cannons, and a sort of shudder went through the columns behind the smoke. They began to move, and soon it was possible to make out three armies marching towards the line of the river. One was aimed at the ruin of the barbican, the other two to the north and south, their goal apparently the Searil River itself. They were oddly burdened, and waggons rolled along
