A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [77]
Unfortunately, encumbered as the siege-makers were, it was impossible to close with the fortress as quickly as they would have liked. Their ladders were too heavy, too unwieldy. What’s more, not all of them were made for speed, and each squad could move only as fast as its slowest members.
It made them easy targets.
Before they had come within twenty meters of the barrier, they paid the price for their plodding pace. There was a sudden rain of shafts, and a thudd, and the warrior behind Worf cried out. The Klingon allowed himself only a quick look back-and was sorry he had. The spear had gone right through its victim and stuck in the ground-leaving him twisted but erect, like some grim scarecrow.
He put the sight behind him. Not the best way to die, Worf told himself. But at least it was a death in battle.
There was a second volley of arrows, and a third. Miraculously, no one else in Worf’s squad was cut down. But in the squads on either side of them, the casualties had been heavy. There were barely enough warriors left to carry those two ladders.
It was a bad sign. When Worf’s ladder went up, it would attract that much more attention.
Cursing beneath his breath, the Klingon pounded toward the wall. His heart beat like a caged beast. His blood throbbed in his temples.
He knew they were almost there when the rocks started to fall. There was a bellow of pain behind him, and suddenly the ladder grew a little heavier. For a moment, his squad faltered. Then they got going again, amid a hail of plummeting debris.
One piece of it seemed to zero in on his head. He ducked to one side but couldn’t avoid it entirely. It came down hard on his shoulder, sending shots of pain through his bad arm.
But he didn’t drop his weapon. Nor did he drop the ladder. Teeth grinding, he lurched for the wall.
And then, abruptly, the fortress seemed to embrace them. To shelter them; it would be difficult for one of their enemies to hit someone directly below. The bombardment continued, but most of the missiles caught the jutting stones that comprised the barrier-and bounced away. Or carried too far by virtue of their momentum.
On the other hand, they were hardly safe here. Haste was still critical if they were to avoid being crushed one by one.
As they turned and hefted their ladder, Worf had the sense that the other teams were doing the same. But he didn’t pause to make sure. He could only hope that enough of them had reached their goal to keep any one squad from being isolated and destroyed.
Just as they managed to plant their ladder against the wall, to wedge it in tight, Worf felt another rock strike him. It was smaller than the first one, and not nearly so heavy. But it hit him in his bad shoulder, just like its predecessor, and he didn’t appreciate that.
Rage boiled up inside him and he roared a challenge to the defenders up above. They answered with more rocks, and the Klingon had to hug the barrier to avoid them.
Careful, he told himself, forcing the words through the red haze of his anger. Save it for when you get up top.
In the next moments, his vision cleared. Two of his comrades had already begun climbing; he started up after them. The remaining members of their squad stayed below, to anchor the ladder-to keep the defenders from dislodging it too easily.
A chinking on his armor. Were they throwing down pebbles now? Worf glanced up past the bulk of the warrior just above him-saw the droplets slanting by, lashed by the wind.
Rain. Finally. It was getting hot inside his armor.
But soon, it became more than just a spattering of drops. The rain fell harder, heavier. The stones began to darken, to grow slippery with it.
Up above, something cracked like a whip in the sky. The rain began to hiss, to strike a mantle of mist off the wall.
It dampened the sound of the ram striking the gates, the war cries as the first of the invaders reached the battlements.
Worf’s ladder jerked-once, again-as the defenders