“Mark your targets and don’t waste arrows!” Creed shouted.
Tal watched in fascination as the riders galloped toward the first line of traps. He searched faces to see if he could spy Raven or any other man who might look like those who had killed his family. But these were just men, and his chest constricted at the thought that some of those responsible for the death of his people might go unpunished. Then the first rider reached the line of traps. For the briefest of moments, Tal wondered if the canvas-and-earth coverings were too sturdy, for the horse’s front hooves struck it, and for an instant it held. Then the canvas and twig frame under it collapsed, and the horse went down. A man’s scream echoed the horse’s as both animal and rider were impaled on sharpened stakes. The riders’ momentum was too great for those in the second or third ranks to rein in before they also plunged into the traps. A few lucky ones managed to get their horses to leap over the ditches, landing on solid ground a yard or two beyond the ditch, only to find two strides later that another line of traps had been dug.
As the fourth rank of riders reined in, Tal shouted, “Catapults!”
The two boys who had been given the responsibility for firing the war engines yanked hard on the lanyards that released the big arms, launching huge baskets of fist-sized rocks into the air. The missiles came crashing down onto a dozen riders, unhorsing many of them, and killing or injuring them all. Tal made a quick count and reckoned that thirty or more riders were down, either too injured to fight or dead. His men had yet to suffer an injury. He knew that would change. Then he saw Raven. The leader of the marauders emerged from the tree line, calling for his men to regroup. Those nearest the wall were being cut down by archers, and any man with a torch was struck with half a dozen arrows before he could throw his flaming brand. Even with his exceptional sight, Talon couldn’t make out Raven’s features, but he could imagine that the mercenary captain’s face would be set in an enraged mask as he shouted orders to his panic-stricken men. What they had expected to be an easy raid—the burning and destruction of a sleepy village, executed with few casualties—had turned out to be something of a rout in the first five minutes, with nearly a quarter of Raven’s men dead or too injured to continue the fight.
Suddenly Tal understood he had been too cautious. Had he let Creed take half a dozen bowmen into the trees behind Raven’s position, a flight of arrows at this moment would have broken them. They would be in full fight now rather than regrouping for another assault. Instead, he realized, Raven was not going to let the defenders sit comfortably, but was hatching some other plan. He watched men dismounting and disappearing into the woods. Within minutes they could hear the sound of axes, as trees were being felled.
“What now?” Tal called to Creed.
“I think he means to deal with the pits,” said Creed, waving his hand to indicate the pocked ground where the network of pits stood revealed.
Tal glanced around and saw that everyone was still holding their places. He hurried down a ladder, crossed the yard, and climbed up next to Creed. “You were right about the archers in the woods, so I’ll be far more willing to listen to anything you have to say now.’’
“I could still get some men over the north wall,” said Creed, “but surprise is no longer possible. I think we should just sit tight until we see what he’s got up his sleeve.’’
“What would you do if you were Raven?’’
“I’d turn tail and trek back over those mountains to the south, but then I’m not a murderous lunatic who dares not show his master failure. No, I’d be building turtles for my men to use to get close to the wall, and I’d be building ramps to drop over those trenches, and then I’d get some men in close enough to fire the logs of the stockade. Either the gates burn off, and I rush the place, or I wait until the defenders come out and take them as they do.’’
“How do we deal with these turtles?’’
Creed swore. “If this was a conventional siege, they’d have been made in an engineer’s shop; they’d be big things, on wheels, with a ram hidden under a roof, or room for men inside to shelter from arrows. Then they’d have to get close to the gate or down to the wall so they could start excavating at the plinth and collapse it. So we’d pour burning oil over it, or drop hooks on ropes and hike it up with a winch so that it turned over . . .”
“But this isn’t a castle, and they’re not building anything that fancy. What do you think they’ll do?’’
“They’ll construct a shell of sorts in which half a dozen or so men can run along while we bounce arrows off their heads until they can get close enough to the wall to throw something. If they’ve got the right kind of oil, they can fire a section of the stockade and make a breach.’’