‘I am not a student of history,’ said Tarantio, ‘but I know how to fight. The Duke has commissioned new weapons, powerful crossbows that can put a bolt through six inches of teak. We will kill a lot of Daroth.’
‘Sadly, that is probably true. There will be a lot more killing,’ said Duvodas, ‘but I shall not wait to see it. Shira and I will be leaving as soon as the snow melts. I will take her to the islands, far away from the war.’
‘One day the Daroth might reach them,’ said Tarantio. ‘What will you do then?’
‘I shall die,’ replied Duvo. ‘I am not a killer. I am a Singer.’
‘Like the Oltor? A race that will not fight does not deserve to live. It is against nature.’
Duvodas rose. ‘I was taught that evil always carries the seeds of its own downfall. One can only hope that it is true. When your friend awakes, feed him no meat and give him no wine. Give him bread, hot oats or dried fruit. And plenty of water.’
‘Meat makes a man strong,’ observed Tarantio.
‘It will make him vomit,’ said Duvodas.
‘What is it that you are not telling me?’ Tarantio asked.
‘If I knew for certain, I would tell you. I will call again when he is awake.’
‘Again!’ shouted Karis, and began to count slowly. The fifty crossbow-men placed the heads of their black bows on the icy ground and began to turn the iron handles on both sides of the stock. By the time Karis had reached the count of twelve, they had notched the thick rope. Sliding bolts into place, they hefted the heavy weapons, rested them on the long support tripod, and took up their positions. The last man was ready as Karis reached fifteen. ‘Shoot!’ she called.
Fifty black bolts flashed through the air to hammer home into targets of solid oak set thirty paces from the bowmen. Karis loped across the target field. The bolts had all struck home, but not deeply.
Vint strolled across to where she stood. ‘The accuracy is fine,’ he said.
‘The penetration is not,’ she told him. ‘At twenty paces the bolts smash through the wood. At thirty they barely scratch it.’
‘Then we wait until the Daroth are within twenty paces.’
‘Gods, man! Is your imagination dead? Yes, we will cut them down. Then, as the reloading takes fifteen seconds, they will be upon us before a second volley can be loosed. The Duke believes we can have five hundred crossbow-men ready by spring. We will need to kill more than five hundred Daroth.’
Vint shook his head. ‘That presupposes we will be facing them on open ground. Surely the majority of our crossbow-men will be shooting from the walls?’
‘The bows are too heavy for accurate use upon the battlements,’ said Karis wearily. ‘And shooting downwards lessens the target area. Two-thirds of the bolts would miss. We need something more. There must be another weakness we can exploit.’
Strolling back to the waiting bowmen, she signalled them to load again and to shoot without the tripod support. Half the bolts missed the target. She kept them hard at work for another hour, then dismissed them.
Back in the barracks building she studied the reports of the massacres at Morgallis and Prentuis. Sirano had destroyed his own palace, killing scores of Daroth in the process. The Duke of The Marches had been less successful. Reliable reports claimed that no more than fifty Daroth were killed in the battle. Several thousand trained men had been slain, and scores of thousands of civilians.
A servant brought her a meal of black bread and soft
cheese. She ate swiftly then donned a sheepskin jerkin and made her way to the stables. Saddling Warain, she rode the grey out through the northern gates and across the open ground before the walls. Pausing a hundred paces from the walls, she looked back, picturing the line of crossbow-men. Heeling Warain into a run, she began to count once more. Three times she made the run at the wall, watched by perplexed soldiers on the ramparts. Then she turned away from the city and rode into the hills.