Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [143]
But though the great dog’s strength and endurance were mighty, his distance from home was long.
It would be many days before he again saw Caer Corwell.
*****
Kazgoroth advanced in the lead of the raiders’ army, personally directing the placement of two of the great catapults. The great wooden wheels sucked turf from the moor as the huge war machines lumbered forward. Two hundred northmen pushed each to the bottom of the steep slope. The wooden palisade of Caer Corwell loomed a hundred feet above.
Creaking noisily, the vehicles lodged in position. Great, smoking cauldrons of smoldering pitch, hauled in carts drawn by several dozen raiders, followed the catapults. Black and acrid smoke swirled around the raiders, but the stench bothered Kazgoroth not in the least.
All around the Iron King, the legions of the northmen advanced upon Caer Corwell. The structure was well fortified, yet never did Kazgoroth’s confidence in the outcome of the battle falter.
To the left, Groth and his company of Firbolgs carried a heavy ram up the exposed length of the castle road. Each of the creatures wore a hood and cloak of heavy leather, protecting it against attacks from above. The ram – a massive trunk of oak, capped with a fist of iron – carried within it the power of the Darkwell, and the Beast knew that the mortal gates of Caer Corwell could not stand against it long.
Against the slopes of the castle’s knoll hurtled the thousands of northmen. Armed with ropes, spikes, ladders, and firepots, the raiders began to scramble up the steep and rocky sides and attempted to breach the wooden palisade at the top.
Only the Bloodriders did not participate in the attack, for their steeds became liabilities upon the steep slopes, or within the narrow confines of the steep road. When the gates fell, however, or the wall was breached, the Riders would have their opportunity.
Smiling inwardly, Kazgoroth knew that the Bloodriders would not fail.
A shower of arrows suddenly descended upon the crews of the catapults, sending several northmen screaming to the ground. Others swiftly replaced them, and the machines continued their fiery assault. Already, several of the pitch-soaked missiles had struck the palisade, forcing the defenders to scramble.
But Thelgaar’s brows knitted in concern, as the Beast cloaked in his body considered the one unknown quantity facing it during this battle.
Where was the young druid?
*****
“Now!”
Tristan’s order echoed through the courtyard, and the archers of the Ffolk sent hundreds of missiles sailing into the ranks of the attackers on the slopes below the palisade.
“Now the oil!”
Fifty men of the castle guard, including Daryth, Pawldo, and the prince himself, had occupied the gatehouse platform. Now, several men, insulated with heavy gauntlets, hoisted a bubbling cauldron of oil to the edge of the stone parapet and poured it over the side.
There was a moment’s hush as everyone waited to see the effect. Then a young trooper at the wall cried hysterically, “It’s not stopping them! They’re still coming!”
Tristan looked over in disbelief. Indeed, the scalding oil simply splashed off the Firbolgs’ hoods, spattering to the road and swiftly cooling upon the gray paving stone.
The hulking Firbolgs shoved their battering ram against the stout oaken gates. Splinters flew, and the barrier sagged inward from the force of the blow.
“They won’t hold much longer!” observed Tristan quietly.
“How can we stop them?” asked Daryth, shouting over the din of the pounding. “We can’t let them through the gatehouse – they’ll have the run of the castle!”
“Come on!” called Tristan, drawing the Sword of Cymrych Hugh and yanking open the trapdoor leading down into the gatehouse.
“Might as well die downstairs as up,” muttered Pawldo, darting into the winding stairwell after the prince.
Daryth leaped after them. A half dozen men-at-arms followed the trio down the stairs.
Tristan burst through the door leading