The Maid's War(48)

“By the mast,” one of the soldiers said, shaking his head in disappointment. “It didn’t so much as soften her.”

“And why should it?” said another soldier. “The walls of Pree are eighty feet thick. It’s siege ladders again, lads.”

“Not for you,” Alensson said. “Load it again. Throw another and then another. It may crack the shell eventually.” It was only the first day of the siege. He hadn’t expected the walls to crumble on the first strike.

“Aye, my lord,” the soldier said, his armor coated with chalky dust and grime. “You heard the man. Fetch more rubble from yonder.”

Alensson remained to watch them obey his orders, then strode farther onto the battlefield, where the archers were sending volleys up against the walls.

He planted one knee, shielding his eyes from the sun, and gazed at the walls. “How goes the work? Do you have enough arrows?”

The archer had a gouge on his cheek and was missing some teeth. “It goes well enough, lord duke. I got a knight in the neck about an hour past and watched him tumble off the wall. That was a sight to see. How many do you reckon are defending Pree? A million?”

Alensson chuckled. “Not so many. I wonder how many inside would actually like us to win, eh?”

The archer grinned. “How far away is Deford’s army? Have you heard word, my lord?”

Alensson nodded. “He’s at Tatton Hall,” he answered. “I’d love to take a thousand men and go give him trouble right now, but we need every man here. He’s coming with reinforcements from Kingfountain. Latest word is they are three days away.”

The archer pursed his lips. “Cutting it awfully close this time,” he said. “If they join the city defenders before we break through . . .” He clucked his tongue. “But we’ve got the Maid with us. She’s worth ten thousand brutes of Kingfountain. I seen her banner up there against the walls. She’s got pluck, that lass. Fears nothing. I’m grateful the Fountain is on our side, my lord.”

“So am I,” Alensson said, clapping the man’s shoulder. The last he’d heard, Genette was in the command tent talking to the king. It was unusual having the king amidst the army for once, taking an active role in the decisions, however far his tent was from actual danger. But when Alensson looked up, he saw her white banner near the front walls, just as the archer had said. She was rallying the soldiers to fill the moat with bales of wood to create makeshift bridges that would allow them to reach the fortifications with the ladders. The archers and crossbowmen from the city were brutally picking the soldiers off, one by one. The dead were left on the field, many with multiple arrows protruding from them. Some were writhing, their screams ghosting over the battlefield.

“You look like you’ve a mind to join her,” the archer said with his gap-toothed smile.

“I do indeed,” Alensson said, rising and swinging his shield around from the back strap.

“Mind your head,” the archer grunted, then fitted another arrow, pulled, and sent it winging. Alensson watched as the arrow hit its mark and a soldier tumbled from the wall. “Got another one! You’re a bit of luck, my lord! I’ll see if I can clear the whole wall for you.”

The men tittered and laughed and Alensson grinned at them before securing the shield to his forearm. Then he started walking forward, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he entered the vale of death. He passed men twitching and moaning, their bodies impaled by feathered shafts. He kept his gaze on that white flag.

A horseman rode up to him from the camp. “Duke Alensson!”

“What is it?” he asked, turning back.

“The king wishes to see you. He’s ordering a retreat. Come back to the camp.”

He frowned. “Darkness will give us some cover. Does he mean to wait until nightfall?”

“No,” the herald said, shaking his head. “He means to pull back from Pree. Deford’s army is getting too close for comfort.”

“But if we take Pree, Deford’s army will be on the run!” Alensson snapped, his anger flaring. How could Chatriyon expect them to overwhelm the defenses of a city like Pree in a single day? Yes, Deford’s army was coming. But they were so close to victory!

“Tell that to the king. He’ll not listen to me.”

“Nor is he likely to listen to her,” he growled. “I’ll be right there. Let me be the one to tell the Maid.”

“Thank you, sir,” the herald said. His relief was obvious as he turned his stallion and spurred it away.

As he walked toward the walls and closer to the imminent violence, he thought on the last few days since the coronation at Ranz. They were at a crossroads of sorts—the future hung on the hinges of Chatriyon’s decisions. It was said that Duke Deford had brought the young lad, the King of Ceredigion, with him to also be crowned at Ranz. This was the pivotal moment, the time for action.