The Siege of Macindaw

7

After a substantial lunch at the inn, Will and Horace prepared to mount for the ride back to Grimsdell. Before they did, however, Horace untied the bow case hanging behind his saddle and passed it to Will.

"This is yours," he said. "Halt thought you might need it."

A delighted grin broke over Will's face as he slid the massive longbow from the case and felt its weight and balance for a few seconds. Then, he deftly slipped one end into a leather loop on the back of his right boot and leaned forward, bending the heavy bow across his shoulders as he slid the string up into the grooved recess at the tip. He drew back on the string once or twice, testing the familiar weight of the draw. Then he quickly unstrung the recurve bow and placed that in the bow case.

" That feels a lot better," he said. Horace nodded. He understood the satisfaction and comfort that a familiar weapon brought with it. They mounted and rode away from the inn together. Horace, on his massive battlehorse, towered over Will, who, of course, was riding Tug. The dog loped along in front of them, questing back and forth across their path as she found new scents to chase down and identify. She had deigned to accompany Will on the trip to the Cracked Flagon, as the giant Trobar was busy on some chore for Malcolm.

"I heard you had a dog these days," Horace said. "What's his name?"

"He's a she," Will replied. "And I haven't got around to choosing a name yet."

Horace studied the dog thoughtfully. She was almost all black, apart from a white chest and a white flash on her face.

"Blackie would be good," he offered after a while. Will raised an eyebrow.

"That's an original thought," he said. "How in the world did you ever think of that?"

Horace ignored the sarcasm. "It's better than calling him 'the dog.' "

"Her," said Will. "He's a she, remember?"

"Whatever," Horace continued."A dog should have a name. And you can hardly criticize me for being unoriginal if you haven't even thought of a name yet. Blackie is better than nothing."

" That's debatable," Will answered. But secretly, he was enjoying this friendly bickering with Horace. It was just like old times.

"Well, I'm going to call him… sorry, her… Blackie," Horace decided.

Will shrugged. "If you choose to. But she's an intelligent animal. I doubt that she'll answer to such a mundane name."

Horace looked sidelong at him. His friend seemed very sure of himself. Suddenly, the tall warrior let out a piercing whistle, then called, "Blackie! Stay, girl!"

Instantly, the dog stopped her questing and turned to face him, one forepaw raised, her head tilted inquisitively. Horace made a triumphant gesture in Will's direction. Will snorted in derision.

" That doesn't prove anything," he protested. "She heard the whistle, that's all! You could have called out… Bread and Butter Pudding, and she would have stopped!"

"Bread and Butter Pudding?" Horace repeated with mock incredulity. "That's your suggestion for a name, is it? Oh yes, that's much better than Blackie."

"I simply meant she stopped because you whistled," Will persisted. In the past, he had usually won these verbal encounters with Horace. His friend now smiled at him in an annoyingly superior way.

As they rode up to the dog, who was still waiting for them, Will muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "Traitor."

But unfortunately, Horace overheard him.

" Traitor? Well, that's a slight improvement on Bread and Butter Pudding, wouldn't you say, Blackie?" he said.

And to Will's chagrin, the dog barked once, as if in agreement, then darted ahead again to resume her questing. Horace let out a contented chuckle. Then he decided he should let Will off the hook.

"So the whole story about the sorcerer was nothing but rumors?" he said. They had managed to discuss some of the events at Macindaw over lunch, but there were still details that Horace wanted to know.

"Not quite," he said. "The lights and strange sounds and apparitions in the forest were all real enough. But they were illusions created by Malcolm. Alyss figured that out," he added.

Horace nodded. "She was always quick on the uptake, wasn't she?"

"Absolutely. Anyway, Malcolm used his illusions to frighten people away and keep his little community safe. Pretty soon, people started believing that Malkallam was back.

"Then Keren took advantage of the situation to seize control of the castle. He slowly poisoned Lord Syron until the poor man was helpless, virtually dead. Keren knew that Orman would be an unpopular lord in his father's place. And he knew that people would be prepared to believe it when Keren spread rumors that Orman was dabbling in the black arts. That gave Keren a chance to take control."

"But you got Orman out?" Horace asked.

Will nodded. "Just in time. Keren had poisoned him as well. But he didn't get the chance to finish the job."

"What's happened to Syron?" Horace asked. "That Buttle character said he may already be dead."

Will could only shrug. "We don't know. He could well be. Now that Keren has shown his hand, there's no reason for him to keep Syron alive."

Horace frowned. "This Keren sounds like a thoroughly nasty piece of work," he said.

"He didn't seem that way when I met him," Will admitted, a little crestfallen. "He had me fooled at the start. I was convinced that -Orman was behind all the hocus-pocus and that Keren was on the side of the angels. I was wrong. Now the first priority is to get Alyss out."

Horace nodded agreement. "How do you plan to go about it?"

Will glanced sidelong at him. "I thought we'd assault the castle," he replied, adding casually, "You know about that sort of thing, don't you?"

Horace thought for a moment before answering. He pursed his lips. "I know the theory," he said. "I can't say I've ever actually done it."

"Well, of course not," Will agreed. "But the theory is pretty simple, isn't it." He managed to make it sound like a statement, not a question. He didn't want Horace to know that he was working entirely in the dark. But Horace was too busy gathering his thoughts to notice.

People often assumed that Horace was not a great thinker – even that he was a little slow. They were wrong. He was methodical. Where Will tended toward flashes of brilliance and intuition, jumping from one fact to another and then back again like a grasshopper, Horace would carefully think a problem through in strict sequence, one concept leading logically to another.

His eyes narrowed as he recalled the lessons he'd learned in Battleschool under the tutelage of Sir Rodney. Even after he had been knighted and appointed to Castle Araluen, Horace had spent several months each year with his original mentor at Castle Redmont, learning the finer points of the warrior's craft.

"Well," he said at length, "to assault a castle, you need siege engines, of course."

"Siege engines?" Will repeated. He knew vaguely what Horace was talking about. He knew definitely that he didn't have any.

"Catapults. Mangonels. Trebuchets. The sort of things that throw rocks and giant spears and dead cows at the defenders and batter down the walls."

"Dead cows?" Will interrupted. "Why would you throw dead cows at the walls?"

"You throw them over the walls. It's supposed to spread disease and lower the defenders' morale," Horace told him.

Will shook his head. "I don't suppose it does much for the cows' morale either."

Horace frowned at him, feeling they were getting off the point. "Forget the dead cows. You throw boulders and such to breach the walls." Another detail occurred to him, and he added,"And siege towers are always handy too."

"But not absolutely necessary?" Will interjected. Horace chewed his bottom lip for a moment.

"No. Not absolutely. As long as you have plenty of ladders."

"Yeah. We'll have them," Will said, making a mental note: Build plenty of ladders.

"And as far as numbers go, Sir Rodney always felt you needed at least a three-to-one majority."

"Three to one? Isn't that a little excessive?" Will asked. He didn't like the way this conversation was progressing, but Horace didn't register his growing doubt.

" Well, at least. You see, the defenders have all the advantages. They've got the high ground. They're concealed behind the walls. So you need to draw as many of them as possible away from the place where you make your real assault. For that, you need at least three times as many men as they do. Four times is even better."

"Oh." That was all Will could come up with.

Horace frowned, remembering what he had been told about Castle Macindaw when Crowley and Halt had briefed him some weeks back.

"I figure a place like Macindaw has a permanent garrison of, what, thirty, thirty-five men?"

Will nodded slowly. "Ye-es. That sounds about right."

"So we'll need about a hundred and five, maybe a hundred and ten men to be on the safe side."

" That would be three to one, I suppose," Will agreed.

" That way, we can mount fake assaults on two sides and draw most of the defenders away from the point we really want to attack."

"But don't they know that's the way it's done?" Will asked, trying to salvage something from this conversation. "Of course they do."

"So couldn't we, for example, just assault in one place so they'll think it's a mock attack to draw off their numbers, but then keep on and make it the real assault?"

Horace considered that. "We could, I suppose. But they can't take the risk that we won't do exactly that. They'd have to counter each threat as it arises, and assume it's the real assault. Then, when we've got them strung out all over the walls, running from place to place and totally confused and disorganized, we hit them with the real attack."

"Yes. That makes sense," Will said. Despondently, he realized that it did, in fact, make sense.

"Of course," Horace said, warming to his theme now as he remembered more details,"the quality of your attacking troops is a big factor. And the quality of the defenders. What sort of men does Keren have?"

"On the whole, we think they're pretty low quality," Will said. "Not the friendliest of types, but not the brightest either."

" That matches what I saw of them. The ones I saw would look right at home trying to stick a dagger in your back on a dark night. They didn't look like prime fighting men." They had already discussed his meeting with John Buttle the previous day.

"Most of the original garrison have gone," Will said."They weren't too fond of the new men Keren's been recruiting."

"Would they fight for us?" Horace asked.

Will shook his head. "No, unfortunately. They all think Malkallam is a sorcerer. Most of them have left the immediate district, looking for other work."

"So who do we have? Are they trained? Do they know one end of a sword from another, or are they all local farmers and plowboys?"

" They're Skandians," Will said.

Horace gave a small whoop of triumph. "Skandians! That's terrific! Well, if we've got troops like that, we'll get away with a three-to-one majority, I should think. Maybe even a little less." He paused, then asked the question Will had been dreading. "How many do we have?"

"A little less than three to one, as a matter of fact," Will hedged.

Horace shrugged. "No matter. I'm sure we can manage. So, how many, exactly?"

"You mean, counting you and me?" Will asked. For the first time he saw a flicker of suspicion in Horace's eyes.

"Yes. I think we'd better count you and me. How many?" Horace's tone of voice told Will that he would tolerate no further prevarication.

The Ranger took a deep breath.

"Counting you and me, twenty-seven."

" Twenty-seven," Horace repeated, his tone devoid of any expression.

"But they're Skandians, after all," Will said hopefully. His friend looked at him, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. " They'd better be," he said heavily.