‘They are coming!’ yelled a sentry on the north wall. ‘Thousands of them!’ A javelin took him through the back of the neck and he pitched from the ramparts.
Several officers ran to Jasaray. The general was standing calmly, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Take one Panther to the north wall,’ he said. ‘Hold two in reserve. The main attack will be elsewhere – probably from the west. Position archers behind the baggage wagons.’
The officers ran back to their men. Jasaray walked slowly to the leading line of soldiers. ‘My apologies for waking you so early,’ he told them, as they parted to allow him through. Conn remained at his side, and was impressed by the man’s calm. He also wondered just how the general had known that an attack was imminent. Was he a magicker? Or was there some clue that Conn had overlooked? The problem nagged at him. The screams of wounded and dying men came from the northern ramparts, as wave after wave of Perdii tribesmen stormed the camp, scrambling up the ramparts to hack and stab at the defenders.
‘I think the rain is easing,’ said Jasaray. The wounded baggage pony was continuing to whinny in pain and terror. Jasaray tapped a soldier on the shoulder. ‘Go and put that creature out of its misery,’ he said. ‘It is hard to think through that screaming.’
‘Yes, Lord,’ answered the man, drawing his sword and breaking from the line.
A trumpet sounded from the west. Conn glanced across towards the western ramparts and saw two men signalling. ‘Here comes the main attack,’ said Jasaray. A second Panther of three thousand men was sent to crouch below the wall. Conn saw the tips of thousands of makeshift ladders appear. He took hold of his sword hilt.
‘You will not need that yet,’ said Jasaray. ‘It will be an hour at least before we are called upon. When the gates are breached.’ Conn glanced at the gates, two six-foot wide structures created from slender tree trunks, sharpened and shaped, then expertly fastened together with cross-bars. It seemed unlikely that the Perdii would be able to force them open. Perhaps they will set fire to them, he thought.
Hundreds of archers clad in leather tunics and conical caps moved out to stand in front of the baggage train. Each man had a short, curved bow, and a quiver of black-feathered arrows.
‘Might I ask a question, General?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why do you have your archers positioned below the walls? Surely they could have killed scores of the enemy from the ramparts.’
‘To shoot from there they would have had to rise above the rampart wall, making themselves targets. I only have six hundred archers. They are too valuable to waste. Watch them and learn.’
The archers waited for Jasaray’s signal. When it came they raised their bows high and loosed volley after volley. The shafts rose, arced, then dropped with devastating effect on the massed tribesmen outside the camp. Conn could only imagine the havoc they caused.
On the ramparts the fighting was ferocious, but the Stone soldiers, heavily armoured in breastplates, helms, and carrying concave rectangular shields, were taking a terrible toll on the lightly armed enemy. And, as Banouin had once said, the Stone short swords were infinitely superior in close-quarter fighting. Some of the Perdii warriors, their faces stained with red ochre, broke through. Jasaray sent three sections of sixty men to intercept them and shore up the defences.
A dull, booming sound, like distant thunder, came from the western gates, which shivered under the impact. Conn gazed at the faces of the soldiers around him. They were tense and expectant, but there was little sign of fear. Jasaray stood, calm as ever. Removing his helmet he scratched his thinning hair. ‘It is good that the rain has stopped,’ he said. ‘I hate fighting in the wet. Well, let’s go to meet them.’
Officers called out orders and then formed into columns of fours to move through the baggage train into the open ground before the gates. Once there they spread out in a long fighting line, ten deep, the front row standing with shields locked. Conn and Jasaray stood behind the fourth line.