away. The digging went on for almost an hour before Vint understood their plan: the Daroth were levelling two sections of ground.
Up on the barracks roof, Necklen realized what was happening. ‘They are not going to use the ground we picked out, lads,’ he said. ‘They are building new bases for their catapults.’
Moving to the iron rails, Necklen pulled clear the retaining rods. ‘Let’s move her round,’ he called. ‘Beris, line her up with the first new site. Gelan, you and the others lift clear the ball. We’ll need to loose her; the range is wrong now.’
The boys struggled to roll the ball clear. It was big and unwieldy, and oil was seeping from the rags. Necklen moved to help them. Once the ball was clear, he hammered the trigger bolt. The catapult snapped forward, the great arm thudding home against the sand-sacks roped to the frame. ‘How far would you say to the site?’ Necklen asked Beris.
‘Around two hundred and … forty paces?’
‘My eyes are not that good any more. I’ll take your word for it. Heave her back into position.’ The boys set to at the handles and, slowly, the arm was winched into place.
‘We are in line,’ said Beris. Necklen slid the retaining rods home behind the wheels and climbed onto the platform alongside Beris.
‘Looks good,’ said the older man. ‘Replace the ball.’ Gelan and the other two boys heaved the ball into the bronze cup.
Two Daroth catapults were pulled into view: huge machines, painted black. Necklen’s throat was dry. He had seen these before, at the fall of Prentuis, the boulders of lead smashing the walls to fragments. Slowly the Daroth
pulled the first of the catapults into position. ‘Get back, lads, and we’ll let her go!’
‘Shall I light it, sir?’ asked Gelan.
‘Not this one, boy. This is a scout. We’ll see where she lands.’
Taking up the small hammer, Necklen rapped it against the trigger bolt. The red pottery ball sailed high into the air, the wind whipping through the holes and creating an eerie scream. For a moment Necklen thought they were right on target, but then the ball dropped some twenty feet to the right and twelve paces short, smashing into hundreds of pieces. ‘Haul her back, and bring the setting down one notch,’ he ordered.
‘Left one mark,’ shouted Beris.
Necklen and the boys drew out the retaining rods, swinging the huge machine on its wheels. In their excitement they pushed it too far. ‘Steady, lads!’ he called. ‘Take it slow!’
‘They are arming their catapults!’ shouted another boy.
Necklen did not pause. Applying the last rod he called for a second ball. It was rolled to the catapult, then lifted into place. Beris filled it with oil.
‘It’s coming!’ yelled Gelan, and this time Necklen did look up. A huge ball of lead was sailing through the air. It passed over the wall, and only at the last second did the old soldier realize the Daroth were aiming at the catapult. The ball slammed into the edge of the roof, dislodging masonry and sending chips of stone screaming over their heads.
Necklen grabbed a torch, lit it from the brazier and applied it to the oil-soaked rags which Beris had rammed into the holes. ‘Here comes another!’ shouted Gelan.
‘Well, let’s send one back!’ snarled Necklen, hammering the trigger bolt. The red ball, flames and smoke hissing
from it, soared high – passing within yards of the Daroth shot. The black ball of lead struck the rooftop, hit a beam and crashed through to the empty second floor of the barracks building.
‘Haul her back! Don’t wait to look!’ shouted Necklen, though he himself could not resist following the flight of their blazing shot. It struck the top of the first Daroth catapult – and shattered. Flames rippled down the black machine. The Daroth ran forward to hurl earth over the blaze.
A great cheer went up from the battlements.
‘One more!’ shouted Necklen, and second ball of flame flew into the sky. The Daroth scattered as it smashed down, fire exploding out in a huge circle. The wooden catapult was engulfed now.