Brigadier Shawarran performed a final inspection of the wall. Nothing had changed; his confidence soared. Perhaps this feint would prove as effective as his main attack.

"Send the slaves carrying the assault ladders forward. Then sound the charge. These Abbey beasts have a reputation of not hurting slaves, that will serve us well."

All five bugles played a series of notes that made his fingers long to curl around his favorite weapon. His emotions surged. The soldiers standing mute before the wall launched themselves like a sea wave against a rocky shore.

The slaves carrying the assault ladders lifted them even as the first soldier started his assent. Those soldiers carrying grappling hooks prepared to launch them at the wall. The Abbey defenders waited.

Some inner sense of foreboding had him study the wall a second time. He shook with rage. The defenders anticipated his move. They deployed a wooden barrier that kept the ladder's grappling hook from securing to the wall. Even as he realized the danger, the first ladder fell. The slaves struggled to lift the ladder back into position and his soldiers became targets for the defenders overhead.

He called one of his attendants forward. "Find the assault officer and have him lean the ladders under that barrier. Our soldiers will have to force their way onto the battlement."

A whistle blew and more than a dozen grappling hooks flew towards the wall. They reached their apex and bounced back, with the exception of one. That one hung suspended in midair as if it were a tethered hummingbird. When his soldier gave the rope a hard pull, Brigadier Shawarran heard the distinctive twang of metal separating. He called a second attendant forward.

"Have those soldiers using grappling hooks fall back and toss again. The Abbey has wire strung between the towers. We need to clear that first before we can attempt the wall."

Such elaborate defenses took time. Even with help from a Long Patrol unit, these Abbey defenders needed more than a two-day warning. Either this Abbey was more warlike than their reputation, or they had a much longer time preparing for an attack.

Shawarran's mind recalled the morning briefing. His scouts reported villages abandoned and fields destroyed. It confused him. At this time of year everyone planted new crops while repairing homes damaged during the winter. They should have found sufficient food and supplies, unless the inhabitants had advanced warning.

His mind returned to the assault. Soldiers surge over the wooden barrier, though a fair number fell to their death. This Abbey couldn't muster that large a force without leaving a weak point. He knew they would press the defenders back somewhere. Trained soldiers defeated pressed civilians, regardless of their numbers or their determination. Once they gained a point of access, it was just a matter of time.

The tide of battle shifted. The wooden barriers fell, as did many of his soldiers. Those standing on the ladder had to reach up for the wall, giving defenders the time they needed to repel his attack. Atop the towers, liquid flowed out of the gargoyles and sprayed over those below. Screams of pain drowned out battle cries.

Hidden recesses within the wall opened. Through his spyglass, Shawarran watched flaming rags destroy the few ladders and climbing ropes he possessed. Within the protection of the tower's walls, lances shot out. Soldiers had no chance at avoiding such weapons and had no opportunity at killing these defenders. His soldiers fell off the towers and none replaced them. With the two towers secured, those attacking the wall faced a deadly crossfire.

"Where do you want my troops?"

The voice intruded on his thoughts. He recognized it as the officer commanding the force delayed by the swollen stream. Though he expected him, he anticipated using these soldiers to overwhelm the defenders wherever his first wave secured a foothold. Perhaps victory remained within his grasp.

"Have you any ladders or grappling hooks," he asked.

"Those supplies were either lost or misdirected, Brigadier. What are your orders?"

He had no choice. Without those supplies, he lost the initiative and any chance at victory. Instead, he shouted above the sound of battle. Though he anticipated this outcome, it did not make the defeat any less bitter.

"Sound retreat. I shall decide if a second assault is necessary after we regroup." He pointed at the officer. "Have your soldiers assemble on the road, but beyond range of their weapons. Keep the defenders focused on us and they might nor realize the danger until it's too late. We will have this Abbey by nightfall."

xxxxx

Colonel Nateem raced across the dry grass between him and the forest. Once in the woods, units reorganized. Military discipline and training took over and the soldiers moved forward. Everyone hesitated at the marker his scouts left, waiting. After experiencing many battles over the last seven years, Nateem still felt the nervous anticipation that came before every encounter.

Bugles sounded the charge and he knew Brigadier Shawarran attacked the main gate. Nateem knew his commander didn't expect to succeed. Its purpose was to keep the defenders busy while he breached the Abbey's walls. Once he secured this section of the outer wall, he could overwhelm the defenders by sheer force of numbers. The battle would be over quick.

He lifted a whistle to his lips and blew. Soldiers surged forward. Through the treetops, he listened to the twang of bows loosen flights of arrows. If any beast guarded this section of wall, they either died in the initial volley or would fail to get any help soon enough.

Grappling hooks flew over the wall and atop the towers. Nobody disturbed them. His soldiers climbed. It seemed so easy. Everything happening according to plan. He already anticipated the victory celebration.

Disaster hit. A wall of fire burst out along the battlement and the rooftops. Soldiers from the first wave fell off battlement and towers, their fur burning. An officer came back, telling him what he already guessed. The defenders used a heavy layer of oil on the stone tops and ignited it when his soldiers cleared the wall. They had anticipated his attack.

Nateem shouted at the nearest officer. "Delay the next wave another moment. The oil will burn itself out soon enough. If the defenders shift forces to counter our attack, they leave the main gate vulnerable. One of us will break them."

Something flew over the walls. Nateem's eyes tracked the flaming bales of hay as they flew overhead. He ignored the fiery projectile as it would land well behind his soldiers. It couldn't harm him or his troops, he dismissed the defender's counter as unimportant, though the presence of a war machine, like a catapult, indicated these defenders had sufficient time to built them. That worried him.

His eyes wandered down to his boots. Something discolored his left boot. He glanced at the wall, saw the flames, decided he had the time, and sat on a nearby log. It took a moment to remove his boot and examine it. One sniff told him everything. Oil, the shoe reeked of oil. He tried puzzling out the meaning behind his discovery.

It came to him just as the danger manifested itself. He remembered the sound of breaking pottery as he crossed the field. It seemed so odd, he dismissed it as an overactive imagination on the eve of battle. Now it's meaning came to him with absolute clarity. If the defenders laid oily pots throughout the field and those burning bales hit one.

A strong wind, tinder dry grasses, the forest suffering a drought, a heavy covering of dry debris, and a flame. It roared like a maddened beast denied its meal. Fire raced across the ground and atop the trees faster than any runner. Smoke turned into a dirty fog that made eyes water and throats choke. Visibility dropped. The officer he spoke with vanished in the haze. Some beast fell out of the tree next to him, burning.

Screams filled the air. Somebody ran past him and into a tree, knocking himself unconscious. Soldiers panicked as the fire and smoke intensified. Colonel Nateem dodged several as he too sought safety. One beast turned into a comet as he raced through his field of vision, disappearing in the smoke after running half a dozen paces.

He knew the battle lost; he needed to escape this trap. He picked a direction and ran. The boot he discarded since the oily stain might hold a flame. As he ran, he passed soldiers lying on the ground. Most twisted an ankle or broke a leg tripping over the heavy deadfall or each other. A few thrashed on the ground as they burned. Embers fell from the treetops like raindrops. Bodies caught fire and they started new fires. The stench of burning fur acted as an incentive for greater speed.

Nateem felt the heat and saw the wall of flames before him. Every instinct said turn. Instead, he removed his uniform blouse, covered his muzzle, and dumped his canteen over the cloth. He took a deep breath, held it, and ran into the fire. He dare not stop or fall, either would prove fatal. His lungs demanded air, but he continued to hold his breath. If he inhaled, it was certain death. He ignored the pain from the foot missing a boot.

Cold air washed over him. Nateem threw himself to the ground and rolled until certain no spark remained. He inhaled the clean air, celebrating his victory over the fire. A bloody foot seemed a small price to pay for his escape. The reality of the last few moments hit him hard. He lived, but how many others died? That fire caught everyone unaware, and most paid with their lives. As he limped back to camp, he wondered if he would ever find another boot to replace the one he lost.

xxxxx

Abbess Robertasin sat behind her desk. She held a written report regarding this first day of battle. Her eyes refused to focus on the words. Her mind kept seeing bodies lying in the corridor by the Infirmary. Perhaps she made a mistake volunteering to help the Healer.

"I'm too tired, give me a summation, General Markus."

"We repelled their charge against our main gate, as expected. Eight were killed, all residents. Another fifteen suffered minor injuries. Healer Shortspike said they will recover over the next three days. Enemy losses exceeded fifty, though I believe my spotters may have underestimated their count."

She nodded. "What about their main attack? Did that trap work?"

Markus almost gloated. "They took the bait, Abbess. We lost all our oil reserves and most of our grease, but our plan worked exactly as intended. Best of all, we suffered no deaths; though three beasts sustained minor injuries. None required medical care. The forest might be burned, but those fallen trees will make any assault suicidal until they clear it. All in all, we gave them a bloody nose they'll not soon forget."

Robertasin dropped the papers she held and buried her head in her crossed arms. "And this is just the first day."