Betrayal at Falador (50 page)

Within moments, ladders were pushed up against the wall and more goblins climbed to storm the ramparts, in order to distract the defenders there from hindering the main thrust of their attack.

Even as Master Segainus blasted a third ladder from the wall, Sulla’s artillery moved in behind the goblin hordes, sending shells over the wall and into the city beyond.

In the castle Sir Amik woke to hear his city in tumult.

“Has it come, Bhuler?” he asked, his face pale. “Has the end of Falador come?”

The valet was about to reply when the door opened. Sir Vyvin stood framed under the lintel.

“The goblins are outside the walls, Sir Amik,” he announced. “If we do not go to the aid of the city guard and militia then they shall break through.” His grim face, made all the grimmer by the black eyepatch he now wore, was resolved.

“Then go with my blessing, old friend” Sir Amik replied. “But do not allow the knights to leave the city—you are too few to face Sulla.”

Sir Vyvin bowed his head and left the chamber hastily.

Bhuler looked down into the courtyard in the light of early morning, and the sight that greeted him made him gasp. For every man or boy who could wield a sword had been summoned, from the lowliest peon to the oldest knight. Even Sir Finistere of the almshouse was present, his face pale as he practised a thrust with his sword.

Sir Vyvin emerged and addressed the men.

“Knights of Falador, our city is endangered,” he said, his voice loud and strong. “As we speak, the city militia are losing courage and men that could fight have fled, believing that we have abandoned them to hide behind the walls of our castle.

“Each of us took an oath when we took service in our order. The foremost of our responsibilities is the protection of this city. We shall join our citizens on the ramparts and in the streets, and we will fight with a courage that will instill all men with the will to take up arms to defend their homes. We shall drive the goblins out!”

He drew his sword and held it aloft, and the assemblage cheered.

“Sir Amik was injured, but he is very much alive. I have just seen him, and he gave me the order to fight!”

The men cheered again, and suddenly a young peon cried out, his finger pointing to the very window through which Bhuler stared. The valet turned to find Sir Amik leaning wearily on his banner, his grey eyes looking over the men below.

“Sir Amik lives!” a voice shouted. The cry was taken up by every man, and some bashed their swords onto their shields in martial salute.

With a bow Bhuler moved to the side. Then with deliberate and calm slowness, Sir Amik raised his hand for silence, and a hush fell instantly.

“I do live, and Saradomin does, as well,” he said, and all strained to hear, for his voice was weak. “The last few days may have made many of you question our faith, but know that we are his chosen people and Falador is a blessed city. So go now. Go forth to fight, and to avenge our fallen friends!’

Standing behind Sir Amik, Bhuler saw how much of an effort his speech took, and he noted how the old warrior’s knees suddenly sagged. He ran forward to support him, out of sight of the men below who had begun once more to shout in eagerness.

“For Sir Amik!”

“For Saradomin!”

“For Falador!”

Sir Amik raised his hand in salute and the gates of the castle swung open to reveal the burning city beyond.

As the last of his men marched out, he collapsed in weariness.

The first faint rays of dawn broke through from the eastern horizon, yet they did little to raise the hopes of the defenders. Ebenezer’s voice was hoarse from shouting and his militia, while holding back the goblins in the breach, needed constant leadership. He knew it could not have been done without Squire Marius’s bravery. Even though he was the youngest present, he led the citizens of Falador time and again into the burning breach.

Side by side fought the blacksmiths and the ironmongers and the labourers who made up the militia—rich men and poor men alike, who all saw it as their duty as husbands and fathers to die protecting their families.

“There can be no retreat from here!” Marius yelled at them after the first of Sulla’s shells had felled a dozen men. “If we run, then we shall die and our families shall die. If we stand and make them pay in blood for every yard they gain, then it is they who shall lose spirit!”

Yet even Marius’s leadership could not keep the men at their posts forever, and Ebenezer knew he had to act. He turned his horse away from the breach and galloped toward his waiting trebuchets.

“Now it is time for the hay bales” he said. “Our archers will set light to them from the ramparts, with the help of the wizards if necessary.”

Working briskly, the city guards prepared three of the bales. Within a few moments they were hurled over the wall and onto the goblins massing below.

“Send them all over!” the alchemist cried, riding back into the fray and signalling to the archers on the ramparts, who had lit their arrow tips in preparation.

The three hay bales, heavy though they were, had done nothing to stop the goblin surge, and the invaders laughed at the desperate measures of the defenders.

Then the archers loosed their burning arrows and the wizards, under Master Segainus’s deft direction, poured fire at the bales that had been soaked in pig fat.

The goblin jeers died on their wide lips as the fat ignited, burning ravenously and uncontrollably, billowing out choking black smoke. As they yelled and screeched, the trebuchets fired again and three more stacks fell amongst the goblins and were ignited by the arrows and sorcery of the defenders.

Swiftly the flames spread, cutting the goblin army in two. Those goblins nearest the flames to the north were pushed mercilessly forward by those behind, screaming as they were jostled into the roaring fires. Meanwhile, the goblins to the south of the firewall found themselves trapped between the vengeance of the city and the uncompromising pyres. There could be no retreat for them, either.

Hundreds began to climb, so many that the defenders on top of the wall began to despair.

A wicked barbed arrow bit deep into the shoulder of Master Segainus’s pupil, who collapsed in a faint.

“Take him to the city and tend to him,” Segainus ordered the remaining members of the order. “But give me all your fire runes—I will hold them here.” Swiftly the blue-robed mages carried the wounded youngster away, leaving their master as the last of the wizards on the wall.

“I am too old for this,” he said to himself, breathing deeply, reflecting on the many years of happiness that he had spent in Falador. He tried his best to ignore the pain in his chest and the heavy pounding in his skull. Never before had he summoned so much power or fought so many enemies.

He held his remaining runes in his hands, calming his thoughts before continuing to muster his energies. Yards away, a ladder rested against the battlement, shaking as the goblins below began to climb.

He knew he didn’t have long.

The runes in his hands responded to his concentration—he felt the power surge through him and threaten to break free from his restraint.

“Not yet,” he said to himself through gritted teeth, his heart straining.

The runes twisted and warped in his hands, melting and merging under his concentration to prepare the largest fireball he had ever conjured. He could feel the heat gathering as he fed the runes with his will, and he knew the magic demanded to be discharged.

“Just a few more seconds” he wheezed.

Then his breath left him as his chest twitched in agony, disrupting his concentration and making him stumble. The runes fell from his grasp and rolled out into empty space like a red flare falling in a dark chasm, fading from sight as they burned ever weaker.

Master Segainus knew he was defenceless. He was alone on the rampart with goblins overrunning the battlements on either side of him.

His knees gave way as he tried to breathe, and still the pain roared in his chest, but he knew it was too late. He had tried to summon too much power in defence of a city that he loved.

By the time the first goblin stood above the old wizard with his sword drawn, Master Segainus was already dead.

Even though Sir Vyvin wore an eyepatch he saw the danger clearly. One look at Marius and the pikemen of the city militia told him that they had successfully driven the goblins back to the breach, and that for the moment they required no help.

It was the ramparts that had fallen. The invaders had been forced to open up a wider front after Ebenezer’s burning hay bales had disrupted their assault, and with sheer weight of numbers they had taken the battlements. It was up to the knights to take it back.

With a flourish of his sword, he leapt to the nearest stairs and ran purposefully upward.

To Ebenezer’s eye, the battle was going well. The enemy had been prevented from flooding into the city, and keeping them trapped in the breach had removed the one advantage the goblin horde possessed. They had been unable to bring their thousands into battle against Falador’s hundreds.

But the battle was shifting. The ramparts were filled with knights and goblins in a desperate struggle, yet for every goblin that was hurled down, another two leapt up to take his place. Swiftly, Ebenezer rode over to Marius, who was at the edge of the wall, shouting encouragement to the men next to him.

“We need to clear the ramparts,” the old man called to him.

Marius nodded, thinking fast.

“Captain Ingrew!” he called, gesturing for the soldier to come closer so they could speak above the sounds of battle. “You must take fifty men from the breach and aid the knights on the ramparts. Use your pikes to prevent any more of the scum from climbing up.”

The captain nodded and ran to obey. Ebenezer peered at Marius curiously and was about to say something when an arrow, fired through the breach, struck his horse in the neck. With a neigh it reared up and Ebenezer fell to the battle-marred earth, his face contorted in pain. With a hair-raising scream the horse galloped off into the city, forcing people to jump aside to avoid being trampled.

Marius was by the alchemist’s side in an instant, helping the old man to his feet.

“Is anything broken?” the squire asked.

“I don’t think so,” Ebenezer wheezed, his face pale from the shock.

“You have done enough here for any man, sir,” Marius said. “You should retire now to recover your strength. You will be needed later on.” The squire’s face was honest and concerned, and Ebenezer knew he meant no malice in his advice. Still, it hurt him to hear the words, and it hurt him more so as he realised the boy was right.

He nodded in agreement.

“I shall do so, Marius. But promise me one thing—promise me you won’t let them break?” The alchemist nodded to the militia who were straining at the breach, successfully preventing the disordered goblins from gaining entry, and in spite of the pain, he smiled with paternal pride.

Marius nodded and his face brightened in an uncharacteristic smile.

“I won’t need to make that promise, sir—for they have made it for me!”

On the wall Sir Vyvin was fighting savagely, with Captain Ingrew guarding his back. The pain in his mutilated eye made him angry and each goblin he hewed down seemed to bring him slight relief. But he was still thinking clearly, and he ordered his men to focus not on the goblins themselves but on the ladders— for once they were pushed away from the edge, their foes on the ramparts would be trapped in a city full of enemies.

A ten-year-old peon was cut down by a goblin soldier, drawing Sir Vyvin’s wrath. With a raging cry he smashed at the nearest enemy with his shield, forcing the goblin back over the battlement and clearing the way for him to exact his vengeance. The goblin killer turned, his red eyes unblinking, and each leapt at the other with a single dreadful intent.

A sword swung and clattered on Sir Vyvin’s shield. At the same time, the goblin stabbed forward with a curved knife in his other hand, the tip etching a line across the knight’s breastplate.

With a stab of his own, Sir Vyvin forced the goblin to jump back, close to the rampart edge. A sudden swing of his shield made his foe lose his balance and sent him screaming into the city street below. Sir Vyvin saw Sir Finistere, followed by a host of youths armed with clubs and hammers, surge forward and batter the goblin down.

As Sir Vyvin drew breath, he saw that the militia had placed their long pikes at every point above the ladders, preventing any enemies from climbing up. Very swiftly, the goblins who remained on the ramparts fell to the vengeful swords of the defenders.

The goblins had lost heart for the battle. The cries of those trapped in the breach and behind the flames soon ceased, for none were spared the vengeance of the militia or the indiscriminate choking fumes of the fires. At least a thousand had been trapped and destroyed. As many again had been slain attempting to storm the walls, falling victim to the stoic magic of the wizards, the precise eyes of the archers, and the strong arms of the knights.

A signal was given shortly before midday. The goblins withdrew northward, exhausted and angry. The last hour of the battle had seen their assault reduced to simple archery, the very type of warfare the walls of Falador had been designed to withstand. For every defender who fell, at least five of the attackers perished.

“Continue the bombardment, Thorbarkin,” Sulla said. “I want at least two more breaches in the northern wall before we try again.”

Within an hour, the cannons resumed their ominous music, and the walls of Falador shuddered again.

“If they come again we shall not be able to hold them back,” Sir Vyvin said, finishing his bedside report to Sir Amik. “The men are exhausted and desperate, and if the walls are breached elsewhere then Sulla will be able to get into the city. We do not have enough men to plug another gap.”

“Then we must take the fight to the enemy.” Sir Amik spoke softly. “We must prevent him from breaking the walls.”

Sir Vyvin looked uncertain. Sir Tiffy sat nearby at a desk, writing furiously. The old spymaster made no reply, so intent was he on the message before him.