Ronsard’s archers were causing much consternation among the enemy, but not as much as Ronsard would have liked; for no sooner had one rope-bearer fallen than another sprang forward to take his place. Soon those in the forefront had been provided with shields which they held over their heads to fend off the deadly rain and the arrows rattled harmlessly down, striking only at random and seldom causing any mortal hurt Ronsard called for the arrows to cease, but for the archers to remain alert to any target careless enough to present itself. Still the thing inched forward.
“Well?” asked Ronsard. “What say you, Biorkis?”
“Undoubtedly it is an idol of some sort. But to which god I am not certain. I have never seen it before, and the thing that puzzles me is this: what kind of idol is it that is taken into war to do battle with men? What kind of god do these Ningaal worship?”
“Why should that puzzle you? Men are always calling on their gods to lead them in battle, to deliver the victory into their hands, as you well know. This is only slightly more obvious, I will warrant, but it is the same.”
“Yes, it is the same, and not the same at all. This is more primitive and more savage. It is a thing unholy and evil. Even the gods of earth and sky are offended by such as this. It belongs to a long-distant time and place, back in man’s darker past. It is evil, and it breeds evil.”
“But does it have any power?” asked Ronsard. Biorkis looked at him oddly. “You know what I mean. Of itself-is it a thing of power?”
Biorkis thought for a moment before answering. “That I cannot say with certainty. Your question is perhaps more difficult than you know.” He fingered his white beard as he gazed at the monstrous thing.
“An idol is but wood or stone,” the priest continued. “It is the image of the god it represents. Images do not often have power, except for the ones who worship them, and then the power can be very great indeed.”
“This one has power,” said a gruff voice behind them. Ronsard and Biorkis turned to see Myrmior standing behind them. “And yes, it is evil. Well I know it, for I have seen it work often enough. It is an idol, yes. But its purpose is far more coldly cunning than you suspect. It is foremost a machine of war, known in other lands as a Pyrinbradam-a fire-breather.”
A glimmer of understanding appeared in Ronsard’s eyes. “If that is true, I will order water to be brought up at once.”
“It would be wise,” Myrmior assented. “Wet skins, if you have them, might offer some protection.”
Ronsard called to his officers to relay his orders and see that they were carried out. Water was to be poured over the gates and wet skins draped across them in an effort to reduce their flammability.
“Is there nothing else that may be done?” he asked.
“Nothing but to wait. Wait and pray,” muttered Myrmior.
The waiting began and lasted for twelve long days. And each of those days was filled with ceaseless labor as water was hauled in buckets to the top of the drawbridge gate and poured over the great wooden planks. By night and day the water cascaded down the gates, and skins of cattle were soaked and spread only to be retrieved, soaked and spread again.
The fire-breathing idol spewed flames from its mouth and nostrils in a never-ending torrent, scorching wood and stone, and heating metal until it glowed with a ruddy cast. The Ningaal tore apart the dwellings of the townspeople to fuel the monster at the gates. Into a cavity at the idol’s base they threw the lumber and oil that sent the flames and sparks gushing from its white-hot mouth.
On the evening of the thirteenth day an officer approached Ronsard timidly. The knight rested on his arm and watched with weary dread as the flames and water did battle one with the other, clouds of white steam resulting from the conflict.
“Lord Ronsard, I-” The man hesitated and fell silent.
Ronsard swung his tired eyes toward the man. “Yes? Say anything but that we are running out of water.” The thought had occurred to him often during this long vigil.
The man’s face went white; his mouth hung slack.
“By Azrael! I meant it as a jest! Speak, man!”
“What is the trouble?” Theido said as he strode up to relieve Ronsard at his post. He was fresh and rested, eyes alert and tone confident.
“I am trying to find out, sir,” said Ronsard hoarsely. “It seems the news he brings steals his voice.”
“Well? Speak, sir. We are stout enough to hear it.” Theido looked furiously at the officer and folded his long arms across his chest.
The man licked his lips and worked his jaw, but it was some moments before any words tumbled out and when they did it was in a tangled rush. “Lord Rudd has sent me… the water… supplies too low… we cannot last the night.”
Ronsard needed to hear no more and sent the man away. “That cuts us to the quick. What are we to do now? Wait until our gates crumble away in flames, or until we die of thirst? Which would come first, I wonder?”
“We have our wits about us yet. But we have been too slow in comprehending this menace, and that may be our undoing. I have an idea I should have had days ago, but it may work yet. Quickly, send some of your men to bring ropes and grappling hooks. Tell them to hurry, Ronsard, and bring all they can find. There is little time.”
Theido took his place on the barbican directly over the flame-throwing idol. After soaking a long rope in water he tied a three-pronged grappling hook onto one end and, leaning as far out over the wall as he dared, held only in Myrmior’s and Ronsard’s steely grasp, he lowered the hook toward the monster. The Ningaal, guessing his intent, howled with rage at the sight as above them the long length of swinging rope snaked down the face of the castle wall.
After several futile attempts, Theido swung the hook out and by a chance it caught on one of the iron beast’s fangs. He called for a group of men to take the rope and pull it tight as he readied another rope and hook. In the space of an hour he had another hook lodged in the idol’s horns. The Ningaal were now in a maddened frenzy, helpless to prevent what they feared might happen. They screamed in frustration as a third and then a fourth rope snagged the fire monster.
“That should suffice,” said Theido as he scrambled back to safety on the battlements not a moment too soon, for the howling Ningaal had begun launching rocks and flaming debris from slings and mangonels.
“Do you think it will work?” asked Myrmior. He eyed Theido’s web of rope and hooks suspiciously.
“We will soon see. I can think of no better course.”
“Then let us hope this one does not fail,” replied Ronsard. He signaled the men, three hundred in all, holding the ropes to begin pulling. With a mighty groan all heaved at once. There came a resounding roar from the enraged Ningaal below as they saw the ropes pulled tight.
“Heave, men!” shouted Ronsard. “Heave!”
A few of the enemy, braving the arrows which still whistled through the air on occasion, threw ropes of their own over the ropes Theido had fastened to the idol. Now they skittered up these like spiders, armed with knives which they carried in their teeth in the hope that they might somehow cut the ropes binding their fire-breathing god and which threatened to overturn it.
The King’s archers managed to keep the ropes of the Ningaal unoccupied, though at great price, for the warlords had appeared on the scene and were directing the efforts to save their endangered machine. The first act of the warlords was to order the mangonels to be filled with flaming coals from the idol and these flung aloft into the archer’s faces. More than one bowman fell screaming to his death after being struck with the flaming debris.