and mist.
“Telescope,” Ahasz snapped.
Tayisa once again proffered it to the duke. Ahasz yanked it open and put it to his eye. One of the ghosts in the mist swam into focus.
“Damn.”
A knight stalwart. Bucket helm, tabard emblazoned with a blank shield. A serjeant from the stave he wielded and the waist-length tabard he wore.
More serjeants appeared, wading through the fountains, punching away at the Housecarls with their staves. In knee-deep water, surrounded by spray, staves had the advantage over hammers. The Housecarls could not swing their weapons with sufficient force or speed. The spiked end of a stave took a Housecarl in the chest, puncturing his cuirass with such force it lifted him from the water. He landed on his back, sending up a great splash and did not resurface.
Ahasz swung the telescope from left to right: the two basins were each one hundred feet long, and knights stalwart were appearing every five or six feet in them. And behind them, another line. And again two more lines.
“Damn!”
More materialised out of the mist. There was too many of them—far more than Ahasz had expected. A Martial Order troop comprised fifty-five men, yet almost twice that number were now visible, reaching the edge of the basins, stepping up onto parapets, swinging their staves—some, the knight-lieutenants, with swords—down at the few surviving Housecarls.
“Get troops here now!” Ahasz stepped back and began pointing. “I want them lined up along the edge of the garden. Stop the knights from advancing. And use the field-pieces to take out those damned spotlights.”
At barked orders up and down the convoy, soldiers ran forward, down to the garden and formed an orderly line. It was enough to cause the knights stalwart to fall back.
Someone bellowed, “Charge!”
A company of Housecarls to the left broke from the line and ran forwards.
“Hold!” yelled Ahasz. The fools!
The rest of the line held.
The retreating knights stalwart stopped, turned back. The melee did not last above a minute. Serjeants ducked hammers, slipped within their guards, punched Housecarls with the ends of their staves, moved quickly back. Eighty men in red jackets lay dead or wounded; not a single knight stalwart was harmed. The officer responsible for the attack—a lieutenant-colonel, Ahasz saw when he focussed his telescope on the man—had hung behind his line. As they fell, he scrambled about and fled.
“Get me the name of that damn idiot,” Ahasz commanded.
The field-pieces fired, a ragged volley. Two aimed for the spotlight and were close enough to cause them to explode with a thunderous bang and hot sprayed glass. The bolt from the third hit some of the retreating knights stalwart. The defenders were too spread out for a single shot to cause many casualties. One serjeant disappeared as the bolt vaporised half of his torso. Another, also caught in the beam, fell to the ground.
More bolts hit the lights. Soon the only illumination was that spilling from the Palace’s windows and balconies. A sharp eye would likely still spot troops approaching through the garden, but it would not be so easy.
The serjeants had retreated back into the Palace. Now the cannon emplacements within the mountain opened fire. The line of Ahasz’s troops moved back. Hot dirt rained down on them
but no one was killed.
“We think on our next move,” Ahasz told Tayisa. “There’ll be no forcing our way in there at present. Get the men pulled back, and call the battalion commanders together for a planning session.”
CHAPTER FIVE
In the darkness, the line of grounded troop-wagons resembled a fortified wall and the grassed area behind them a castle’s bailey. Palace Road itself was a rampart, hiding Ahasz’s makeshift citadel from the Imperial Palace. The highway’s embankment was not high enough to hide the duke’s forces from the Palace’s upper levels, but those floors, he knew, were the Imperial Apartments. No cannons
“Telescope,” Ahasz snapped.
Tayisa once again proffered it to the duke. Ahasz yanked it open and put it to his eye. One of the ghosts in the mist swam into focus.
“Damn.”
A knight stalwart. Bucket helm, tabard emblazoned with a blank shield. A serjeant from the stave he wielded and the waist-length tabard he wore.
More serjeants appeared, wading through the fountains, punching away at the Housecarls with their staves. In knee-deep water, surrounded by spray, staves had the advantage over hammers. The Housecarls could not swing their weapons with sufficient force or speed. The spiked end of a stave took a Housecarl in the chest, puncturing his cuirass with such force it lifted him from the water. He landed on his back, sending up a great splash and did not resurface.
Ahasz swung the telescope from left to right: the two basins were each one hundred feet long, and knights stalwart were appearing every five or six feet in them. And behind them, another line. And again two more lines.
“Damn!”
More materialised out of the mist. There was too many of them—far more than Ahasz had expected. A Martial Order troop comprised fifty-five men, yet almost twice that number were now visible, reaching the edge of the basins, stepping up onto parapets, swinging their staves—some, the knight-lieutenants, with swords—down at the few surviving Housecarls.
“Get troops here now!” Ahasz stepped back and began pointing. “I want them lined up along the edge of the garden. Stop the knights from advancing. And use the field-pieces to take out those damned spotlights.”
At barked orders up and down the convoy, soldiers ran forward, down to the garden and formed an orderly line. It was enough to cause the knights stalwart to fall back.
Someone bellowed, “Charge!”
A company of Housecarls to the left broke from the line and ran forwards.
“Hold!” yelled Ahasz. The fools!
The rest of the line held.
The retreating knights stalwart stopped, turned back. The melee did not last above a minute. Serjeants ducked hammers, slipped within their guards, punched Housecarls with the ends of their staves, moved quickly back. Eighty men in red jackets lay dead or wounded; not a single knight stalwart was harmed. The officer responsible for the attack—a lieutenant-colonel, Ahasz saw when he focussed his telescope on the man—had hung behind his line. As they fell, he scrambled about and fled.
“Get me the name of that damn idiot,” Ahasz commanded.
The field-pieces fired, a ragged volley. Two aimed for the spotlight and were close enough to cause them to explode with a thunderous bang and hot sprayed glass. The bolt from the third hit some of the retreating knights stalwart. The defenders were too spread out for a single shot to cause many casualties. One serjeant disappeared as the bolt vaporised half of his torso. Another, also caught in the beam, fell to the ground.
More bolts hit the lights. Soon the only illumination was that spilling from the Palace’s windows and balconies. A sharp eye would likely still spot troops approaching through the garden, but it would not be so easy.
The serjeants had retreated back into the Palace. Now the cannon emplacements within the mountain opened fire. The line of Ahasz’s troops moved back. Hot dirt rained down on them
but no one was killed.
“We think on our next move,” Ahasz told Tayisa. “There’ll be no forcing our way in there at present. Get the men pulled back, and call the battalion commanders together for a planning session.”
CHAPTER FIVE
In the darkness, the line of grounded troop-wagons resembled a fortified wall and the grassed area behind them a castle’s bailey. Palace Road itself was a rampart, hiding Ahasz’s makeshift citadel from the Imperial Palace. The highway’s embankment was not high enough to hide the duke’s forces from the Palace’s upper levels, but those floors, he knew, were the Imperial Apartments. No cannons
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