Wulfgar’s mouth moved. His son bent to hear the hoarse mumble.
“He says he will give his whole estate to the man who takes that one alive.”
Cwichelm pursed his lips. “Easier said than done. One thing about these devils. You can beat them, sometimes. But it’s never easy. Never, never easy.”
From the sky above them came a shrill whistling, dropping closer.
“Lower away!” barked the leader of catapult team one. The twelve freed thralls on the ropes thrust right hand over left hand over right hand, shouting hoarsely as they did so. “One—two—three.” The sling dropped into the leader’s hands. As it came down, the loader sprang from his kneeling position, shoved a ten-pound rock into position, leapt instantly back into his place, reaching for the next one.
“Take the strain!” Backs bent, the machine’s arm flexed, the leader felt himself pulled up on to his toes.
“Pull!” A simultaneous grunt, the lash of the sling, a rock whirling into the air. As it went, it spun, the chipped grooves on its surface setting up an ominous whistling. In the same moment, the crew heard the cry from behind them of the leader of catapult two.
“Take the strain!”
Traction-catapults were strange beasts in that they had most power at maximum range. They lobbed their missiles up in the sky. The higher they went, the harder they hit. The two teams of ex-slaves Shef had left behind with their cart and their machines had accordingly set up their pull-throwers a carefully paced two hundred yards behind Sigvarth’s breastwork on the causeway; their missiles would strike twenty-five yards further on.
The narrow causeway was the ideal killing-ground for the machines. They threw perfectly straight, never deviating more than a few feet either side of the center. The English freedmen had perfected a drill designed to ensure that everyone did everything exactly the same way every time, and as fast as possible. For three minutes they shot. Then stood easy, panting.
The boulders dropped death from the sky on the Mercian column. The first one struck a tall warrior on the head as he stood unmoving, beating his skull almost into his shoulders. The second hit an automatically raised shield, shattering the arm behind it, caroming off to smash in a rib cage. The third hit a turned back, crushing the spine. In instants the causeway was jammed with struggling men, attempting to get back and away from a death they still could not see or understand. On the packed mass the stones continued to fall, varying a few yards forward or back as the launchers’ heaves fluctuated, but never missing the causeway itself. Only those who crowded forward into the ditch closest to the Vikings remained safe.
At the end of the three minutes the warriors leading the attack saw only chaos and ruin behind them. Those who fled to the rear saw now that at a certain distance they were safe.
Cwichelm, in the fore, waved his broadsword, yelled out in rage to Sigvarth, “Come out! Come out from your ditch and fight like men. With swords, not stones.”
Sigvarth’s yellow teeth showed again in a grin. “Come and make me,” he called, in an approximation of English. “You so brave. How many of you you need?”
More hours gained, he thought. How long does it take an Englishman to learn sense?
Not quite long enough, he reflected as the short February day drew toward its end in rain and sleet. The ditch and the stone-throwers had shocked them. But very, very slowly, maybe not quite slowly enough, they had got over their shock and worked out what they should have done in the first place.
Which was everything—and all at once. Frontal assault to keep Sigvarth busy. Spears and arrows launched overhead, to harass. Brushwood under the feet of the fighters, to build up a platform. Men coming up in thin lines, eyes alert, to give poor targets for the stone-throwers. Others floundering through the marsh in small bodies, to try to climb the causeway behind his block, splitting his meager force. Commandeered boats poling along to get behind him and threaten to cut off his retreat. Sigvarth’s men were looking behind them now. One solid push by the English, regardless of casualties, and they really would be through.