Ananais sat in a corner with his back against the cool grey stone wall of the old stable. The machine had so far taken more than ten minutes to load. He lifted his mask and scratched his chin. Ten minutes for fifty arrows! One archer could let fly twice that number in half the time. But Lake was trying hard and Ananais could see no reason to demoralise him.
‘Ready?’ Lake asked his assistants at the far end of the room. Both men nodded and hurried away behind large sacks of oats and grain.
Lake glanced at Ananais for approval and then tugged the release cord. The massive arm flashed forward and fifty arrows hammered into the oak door, some passing through and striking sparks from the wall beyond. Ananais strode forward, impressed by the killing power. The door was a mess, having given way at the centre where more than a third of the shafts had struck home.
‘What do you think?’ asked Lake anxiously.
‘It needs to spread more,’ said Ananais. ‘If this had been loosed at a charging mass of Joinings, fully half the shafts would have hit only two beasts. But it needs to spread laterally – can you do that?’
‘I think so. But do you like it?’
‘Do you have any slingshot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Load that in the bowl.’
‘It will ruin the cap,’ protested Lake. ‘It’s designed to shoot arrows.’
Ananais put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘It’s designed to kill, Lake. Try the shot.’
An assistant brought a sack of shot and poured several hundred pebble-sized rounds of lead into the copper bowl. Ananais took over the cranking of the device and they hooked the leather into place within four minutes.
Then Ananais moved to one side, taking the release thong in his hand. ‘Stand clear,’ he ordered. ‘And forget about the sacks. Get outside the door.’ The assistants scurried to safety and Ananais tugged the release. The giant bow-arm leapt forward and the slingshot thundered into the oak door. The sound was deafening and the wood split with a groan, falling to the floor in several pieces. Ananais gazed down at the leather cap on the bow – it was twisted and torn.
‘Better than arrows, young Lake,’ he said as the young man ran to his machine, checking the cap and the leather drawstring.
‘I will make a cap in brass,’ he said, ‘and increase the spread. We shall need two cranks, one on either side. And I’ll have the slingshot filed to give points on four sides.’
‘How soon can you have one ready?’ asked Ananais.
‘One? I already have three ready. The adjustments will take only a day and then we shall have four.’
‘Good work, lad!’
‘It’s getting them up to the valleys that concerns me.’
‘Don’t worry about that – we don’t want them in the first line of defence. Take them back into the mountains; Galand will tell you where to place them.’
‘But they could help us to hold the line,’ argued Lake, his voice rising. Ananais took him by the arm, leading him out from the stable, and into the clear night air.
‘Understand this, lad: nothing will help us hold the first line. We don’t have the men. There are too many passes and trails. If we wait too long we shall be cut off, surrounded. The weapons are good and we will use them – but further back.’
Lake’s anger subsided, to be replaced by a dull, tired sense of resignation. He had been pushing himself hard for days without rest: seeking something, anything, that could turn the tide. But he was not a fool and secretly he had known.
‘We cannot protect the city,’ he said.
‘Cities can be rebuilt,’ answered Ananais.
‘But many people will refuse to move. The majority, I wouldn’t wonder.’
‘Then they will die, Lake.’
The young man removed his leather work apron and sat back on a barrel top. He screwed the apron into a tight ball and dropped it at his feet. Ananais felt for him then, for Lake was staring down at his own crumpled dreams.
‘Damn it, Lake, I wish there was something I could say to lift you. I know how you feel … I feel it myself. It offends a man’s sense of natural justice when the enemy has all the advantages. I remember an old teacher of mine once saying that behind every dark cloud the sun was just waiting to boil you to death.’
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