Lykourgos X: To Shatter the Battlements
The Forth Day of the Eleventh Moon, 872 AD.
Ousdaal, Southern Teleytaios, Klironomea.
The camp was a flurry of activity, the chill of the morning air serving to do little other than wake the men from a night of fitful sleep.
Already word had spread around the camp that there had been an attempt on the prince's life, although in typical rumourmongering fashion the truth had been contorted in a hundred minute ways, one small detail changing from person to person.
The attempt on his life could not be allowed to shake him. He could not let the men see him scared or timid. He had a duty to face the foe head on again, showing that he was as ready as ever to exact bloody justice over the enemy.
The bombardment of Ousdaal had continued all throughout the night, and the efforts were bearing fruit.
Though the onagers were limited in effectiveness to damaging the ramparts atop and buildings behind the stout walls, the trebuchets had been able to completely shatter a section large enough for a dozen men to walk through side by side.
The breach was made. Now all that was left was to storm it.
"Ilias. Find Dreamwulf and Romanos, then ready your horse and prepare my standard, if you please."
The young boy scrambled to exact his commands.
"Certainly, your Grace. It will take only a moment."
"Lyk. How are you feeling after last night?"
Romanos' voice was steady, but his face betrayed concern.
"Better. My hand doesn't really hurt at all, in honesty, and the cut across my face was so shallow the blood stopped flowing hours ago."
Romanos nodded, a slight smile gracing his features.
"Good, good. If I may ask, why have you summoned us? Are our orders to be changed?"
The prince shook his head.
"Yourself and Lieutenant Wulfstan will lead some two-thousand men through the breach and try and force a surrender of enemy forces, as planned. However, you and I both know that we might be able to convince them to lay down their arms without risking a bloody fight, however unlikely that chance may be."
Romanos nodded, and Dreamwulf smiled.
"Aye, they probably won't listen to calls for peace given what they did to the garrisons down here, but there's no 'arm in trying anyway."
"Quite so. Romanos, Dreamwulf, ready your mounts, mine as well. Ilias will arrive soon bearing my standard. Romanos, I would ask that you wave the flag of truce alongside it."
"Is this purely a gesture of goodwill, or do you intend to negotiate?"
"I doubt they'll listen. Whoever's in command here is clearly experienced and well versed in this kind of warfare, and that will give them leverage. I'd rather fight knowing I at least tried to avoid bloodshed than not."
Romanos stroked his stubble.
"I don't expect the knights to accept surrender, and if they don't then the levies won't be able to either, but it might encourage more of them to throw down their arms during the assault. I'll ready Ilona and ride behind you for the parley."
The prince grinned.
"Finally named that giant of a horse, have you?"
"Indeed I have. He's carried me into battle enough times to earn one, that much is sure."
Dreamwulf spoke up.
"Come on you two, if we want to get this over with it'd better be soon."
Whoever was commanding here was a damn sight smarter than Marshal Harran, or at least the men beneath him were. To be sure, the prince had known that already, but upon a closer approach it became far more apparent; there were men with shortbows in windows and led on their bellies on the roofs of the various buildings in the walled compound, protected by the pitch of the roof from returning arrowfire and javelins.
From here he could also see that there were menials and servants on the remaining patches of the broken roofs as well, no doubt instructed to throw roof tiles down on any attackers. Other men might scoff at such tactics, but Lykourgos did not. Neither did Ser Romanos. A roof tile dropped from height could split a skull or shatter limbs and ribs just as easily as a mace or sword wielded by a trained soldier.
At the approach of the party of four there was some commotion on the walls, but a figure rode out and halted any movements with a flick of his hand. He was ageing and grey, but no less fierce for it. He was not large, far from it, but that didn't really matter in siege warfare.
If he could swing the sword at his hip as well as his cocksure gait implied, he could still give a good blow before falling.
"Ser. I do not believe we have had the pleasure of meeting."
"Indeed, Ser. I am Ser Nikolaus, head of his Grace's forces in the south of Teleytaios."
Lykourgos nodded. He had heard of Ser Nikolaus, but not in any official capacity.
"I am here to demand the surrender of yourself and the thousand under your command. Lay down your arms and leave this place."
The man chuckled.
"Well, you've got bollocks on you, that's for sure. I could wave my hand and your rebellion would end in a second."
Half a hundred men stood on the battlements above them, bows ready. Looking further down the wall two of the scorpions were trained on his party as well.
Lykourgos shifted his shield in his hand, and both Dreamwulf and Ser Romanos moved forwards almost imperceivably to better cover the prince.
Ilias remained as still as possible, the prince's purple flower on a blue field waving proudly in the wind. Ser Nikolaus continued.
"But I won't. The laws of Saints and men both would see me forever consigned to oblivion for such actions."
"But you're fine sending out assassins against his Grace."
The man's face scrunched up in confusion at Dreamwulf's words.
"Assassins? There has been an attempt on your life?"
The prince nodded, and the man turned his head and cursed.
"It was no man of mine, that much I can assure you. I'd be happy to kill you in battle, but I would never stoop to such dishonourable lows. I hear Ser Ingfred is in your host?"
The prince nodded, and a small smile broke across the man's face.
"A pity we should end up on opposite sides. We fought together at Klandahar as our first battle, and when we met again fighting Triarios two decades later we placed bets on who would be the last survivor of Klandahar. We must be some of the only ones left now."
Lykourgos coughed, and the man looked back at him.
"Surrender your forces or prepare for battle. That will be all."
The man frowned and turned away.
"It will be battle, boy. It will be battle."
The ride back to the camp was spent in silence, not quite comfortable but not tense either. Riding back past the pickets it was Elikoidi who greeted them, grin on his face.
"So, no luck with doves then. Look on the bright side! The crows are gonna love you!"
Romanos snapped tersely at him.
"There is a time and a place for such jokes, Master Elikoidi. This is not it."
Elikoidi opened his mouth, but Lykourgos spoke before any escalations took place.
"We spoke briefly of the events of last night. It wasn't any of his men, according to him."
He snapped his fingers, an idea coming to him.
"This talk of the assassins reminds me; Eli, make sure everyone knows my sister has taken up with the Choir. Maybe that will turn a few more heads our way."
The stretched grin widened further, and for once there was genuine mirth behind the expression.
"An excellent idea, your Grace."
Lykourgos smiled.
"I did it hours ago."
The smile left.
"Little shit."
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The hours ticked by, crawling towards the time of the attack, and Lykourgos found he could not sit still. He needed to do something to keep himself occupied.
Almost without thinking he found himself outside Romanos' tent. The guards at the door saluted and parted ways, allowing him entry to the resplendent bivouac.
He found Romanos inside talking animatedly with Lieutenant Isen, both men clearly trying to remain calm despite the nerves in the camp. Lykourgos spoke, and to both men's credit, neither seemed perturbed or surprised by his appearance.
"You are prepared to commit to the assault, Ser?"
Romanos nodded stiffly, experience lowering but not muting his nerves.
"Indeed your Grace. I hope to have the castle in your hands by sundown."
Lykourgos smiled.
"I had meant to talk to you about that, your Grace."
Lieutenant Isen's voice cut through the frigid air, his disposition almost as nervous as Romanos'.
"About what, Isen?"
Lykourgos wasn't sure when he'd become informal enough to use the Lieutenant's name, but the man didn't falter at the overfamiliarity of the young royal.
"I mean no disrespect when I say this, Ser, but I believe that the first wave should be led by... well, you, your Grace."
He pressed on before either of the others could speak, trying to press his case.
"The men will be heading into a position that is well fortified and held by motivated defenders who are buoyed by their recent victories at Carthos and against the former garrison here. Our own men will need something to help us match their own level of morale, and that something is you, your Grace."
The men would die to see you on the throne.
The words played back in his mind as Romanos spoke. If those men would die for him, it was only fair he lead them as they deserved.
"And what of me? If his Grace chooses to attack here then I will be by his side."
Isen shook his head.
"You hold real command in the absence of his Grace. You will be needed here to ensure cohesion amongst the men remaining in camp in case of a counterattack."
"The chances of a counterattack are extremely low."
"But not zero."
"You speak as if you already have assent for this last minute change of plans?"
Lykourgos blinked and looked at the two commanders, thinking over what had been said.
"Lieutenant Isen does raise good points."
"They are points that pander to your wish to lead from the front, that does not make them g-"
"Thank you, your Grace. Myself and my men will be at your side to-"
A stern look silenced him, not from fear but begrudging respect. The prince cut him off, raising his hand.
"No, you won't. The armsmen need to be conserved for the upcoming battle to take the capital, and you need to be alive to command them. You will remain here, with Ser Romanos, in the camp."
Both men's expressions became shocked, seemingly forgetting that they were not the only two men in the army genuinely wanting to see him survive. Why are they so worried? It's not like im going in by myself.
"There will be others around to see me through this. I'll likely stick with Lieutenant Wulfstan anyway, not that I need protecting now that I have full use of both hands again."
He flexed his hands in his gloves absentmindedly, as if his body was trying to prove his hand had already healed.
"I'll be in full plate and fully armed, surrounded by loyal men. I don't see too much risk in leading the assault myself."
"Your Grace, with all due respect, swords and spears are one thing, but you'll be under constant arrowfire the whole way."
Romanos nodded in agreement with the young Lieutenant.
"Indeed. And lest we forget, there will be men throwing the rooftiles down at you as well. They might not seem fearsome to many, but they'll shatter bone as readily as a mace if they make contact."
Lykourgos nodded at the protests of his subjects.
"Alright. I'll make sure to keep my shield raised where possible."
Romanos groaned, exasperated.
"You know damn well that wasn't what I-"
"It is done. Romanos, I will lead the men and you will see to the camp and prepare for the potential of a counterattack. Isen, I want your men running drills constantly with the rest of the Longbowmen-at-Arms in the camp. Dismissed. Now where is my cupbearer?"
"I am here, your Grace."
Ilias knelt, but swiftly rose at a gesture from the prince. He wasn't sure how the boy kept popping up, but then he supposed keeping track of and staying close to the prince was his job.
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"Summon Lieutenant Wulfstan, Squire Eros and my Personal Champion. Have them meet me outside the command tent, please."
"Aye, your Grace."
The young boy scampered off, and returned not three minutes later with the requested men in tow.
"Your Grace."
The words fell from their lips in a chorus.
"Eros, Dreamwulf, you're to stand at my side. Wulfstan, I'm leading the assault with you."
If Dreamwulf was shocked it was well hidden. He looked as though he'd expected this since the initial orders to Ser Romanos had been given.
Eros and Wulfstan seemed surprised, but not apprehensive. If anything they seemed excited to fight alongside him, smiles flitting across their faces before dissipating under careful professionalism.
"I am honoured to fight at your side, your grace. I shall ensure my blade is sharp and shield ever ready."
"Likewise."
Dreamwulf's voice was a low rumble, half teasing and half concern.
"Angels, I wish you'd stop trying to get yourself killed. I can't believe you were always like this."
The prince smiled.
"Have you been speaking to Elikoidi by chance?"
"I have. You're right, he did apologise in his own way."
The prince nodded.
"I'll want to hear exactly what that entailed later. As for now, we have a breach to storm."
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There were a dozen men around him, almost all hefting a kiteshield in their left hand and a greatsword in their right. Dreamwulf and Eros were immediately behind him on his left and right, moving behind the shields of the other men.
Dreamwulf had made his discontent at being behind the prince well known, claiming that he couldn't protect him properly if he wasn't in front of him. He was right, of course, but the prince would be damned if anyone else went through the breach first. Call it pride, call it arrogance, call it stupidity if you want, but Lykourgos would not shield himself behind another man and let them die for him.
He would fight properly.
As soon as the body of men began moving towards the castle the artillery of the defenders opened up. There was precious little in the arsenal of the smaller force to combat the trebuchets of the attackers, but the small scorpions on the wall would still punch through plate armour with impunity.
The onagers on the wall were smaller than those in the attackers camp, but they were well placed. Large rocks fell on the men far behind, crushing bodies and limbs into nothing.
One hundred metres to the wall.
The scorpions opened fire.
Men fell up and down the column; not many, for the men inside were peasants, not well versed in the use of such weapons. Even if they were, they were being used at the very limit of their range. Nonetheless, men fell.
Sixty metres.
He was closing in. He gripped his longsword tight in his hand and tried to keep himself hidden behind his shield without making it look as though he was hiding.
Somewhere behind him Eros let out a shaky breath. His first battle, no doubt.
The prince's face contorted to something between a grimace and a smile.
To play at war with duels and jousts was one thing, but to truly fight in one?
It was something else entirely. Glorious and shameful.
Forty metres.
The first volley of arrowfire came as they crested the tiny hillock that marked forty metres to the walls. The shortbows of the men fell far from the front ranks; most arrows fell more than ten metres in front of their intended targets, the furthest planting itself at the princes feet. It seemed almost like a challenge.
The prince nodded at the man directly to his right, and the men raised their shields in a tight, protective shell.
They continued their advance at the head of the attacking force, and the arrows fell like rain.
The prince felt the impact of two arrows falling in quick succession upon his shield over his head. More thunking noises could be heard to his left and right, and behind, but these were inconsequential.
Twenty-five metres to the walls.
The man three places to the princes left fell to the ground with a gurgling noise. An arrow had burrowed through his throat, its tip gory and visible through the back of his neck.
Lykourgos turned his head from the dying man, and walked on. There was nothing to be done for him.
Eros gasped as they passed the fallen man, but when the prince turned Dreamwulf had his hand on the squires shoulder.
"Keep moving. Don't look at him, just keep moving."
"Stick with Dreamwulf, Eros."
He didn't wait to see if either had acknowledged his order, simply turning and keeping his place in line.
On the last stretch their shields had been moved to cover their heads, leaving their fronts exposed.
Lykourgos wasn't a fan of his helmet, but he was glad for it at a time like this.
Ten metres.
The prince lowered his shield, and the men around him did the same.
Any archers looking to target them would have to physically crane themselves over the walls and draw back their bowstrings. Not an easy feat, especially when the enemy's own archers were returning fire.
The prince raised his longsword high, bellowed out a war cry, and charged the breach.
Chaos. Chaos and madness.
The shieldwall had collided with the enemy's as they ran across the ruined section of wall, resulting in a ruck that had lasted almost three quarters of an hour.
It was as exhausting as it was deadly. The men in the front ranks pushed against their shields with all their strength, whilst those directly behind made opportunistic attacks with their weapons. Further back those with spears attempted to stab where the shields parted, but these all met with little success.
Someone at the back of the defender's formation ran. As did another. three more. It was only a trickle of men, but it meant his own forces were winning. Eventually they would break through and be overrun the foe.
For ten more minutes the ruck had continued, men falling and being replaced by whoever stood behind. By the end of it entire sections of both sides were stood on the corpses of those who had been in front of them, raised a few inches and on uneven ground.
Those men fell quicker, but not as quick as whoever was unlucky enough to find themselves without a shield at the front.
The foe pulled back, not from the cowardice of those early runners, but because they knew they were beaten here. The prince should have felt relieved, after all, he had been first into the breach and had stood at the front as the enemies shieldwall broke. As always however, there was always more to do.
The shieldwall had been sundered, but after that came the daunting task of facing the foe in the narrow alleys and streets of the castle, not to mention those in and on the buildings still standing.
Dreamwulf and Eros were still fighting at the prince's side, watching his flanks and covering his rear, but even so he was in danger. His crowned helm marked him as a target for his foes, and the knights of the enemy descended on him like baying hounds. They hurled and swung and battered with sword and shield and fist, but he stood firm. He had to. He fought with all he had against them, fighting with as much skill as he could muster.
He caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Wulfstan a few dozen feet away, and carved his way through the men standing between himself and his Lieutenant.
Levies were carved in twain with his longsword or else batted aside with his kiteshield, and the two knights that sought to intercept him were quickly dispatched by himself and Dreamwulf.
Eros had not acquitted himself particularly well in battle, though that was to be expected; it was his first time surrounded by death, and it wasn't even a gentle introduction like the prince had endured as a child in Seastream. This was bloodier, tougher, and far more chaotic.
But none of that mattered. Eros had made himself far more useful in another way; Dreamwulf may have been an excellent fighter, but he was unsteady on the rough, unfamiliar ground. Eros negated this, calling out warnings for anything that might trip or impair the man. A large stone to his left, a wall four paces in front, a corpse just behind him. Eros called them out, and Dreamwulf moved around them as though he could see them with his own blank eyes.
For all the prince's efforts, and for all the good his regular sword and shield were doing him, he was tiring. The men were too, and arrowfire peppered them from windows and rooftops, forcing men to choose between shielding their front or up above. Another knight, this one wielding a greatsword, turned from Wulfstan to face him.
Half a second later a Billhook emerged between his eyes, splitting his head in two. Eros puked off to the side as Wulfstan, tired and bloodstained, failed to wrench his bill free and stumbled forwards as the knight fell.
Lykourgos gripped Wulfstan's surcoat and hauled him to his feet. He had to shout at the top of his voice to make himself heard, but they flashed each other a bloodthirsty smile nonetheless. The prince poured as much of his flagging bravado into his words as possible, hoping his fatigue didn't show.
"Good killing Lieutenant! Come on, gut the bastards with me!"
No sooner had he finished his sentence than a roof tile impacted against his comrade's skull; a welter of gore sprayed across the prince, and Lieutenant Wulfstan was no more. What was left of the young man's head lolled forwards, and Wulfstan's corpse fell with it. The top of his skull had splintered like rotten wood, and grey matter was smeared across his surcoat in a fine film. The prince forced down a lump in his throat and let his fallen comrade drop to the floor.
Angels, we'll all be killed here. He looked around. Chaos and death everywhere. His heart sank as he looked back towards the breach
Men were running back through the gap in the walls, and the prince realised if he didn't go with them he'd be left behind here.
"Orders, your Grace?"
Lykourgos stared and grit his teeth. He was shaken out of his state by some levy with a shortspear, who he cut down with a single stroke.
"Lyk, what do we do?"
He forced the order out through his teeth, a grimace on his face.
"Fall... fall back."
He swallowed hard once more, and a few seconds later he made to join the retreating men.
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Lykourgos grimaced as the thousand surviving men retreated from the breaches in the castle. They'd given a good show, for sure, and the retreat was at least orderly, but they had failed nonetheless.
The tired prince rode to the form of Ser Romanos before dismounting and removing his crowned helm.
"I can only apologise for my failure, Ser."
The prince stumbled forwards. He was tired. He should have let Romanos lead the men.
He would have fared no better, a voice in his head cried, at least through doing this we made sure it was only us in danger, not our friends.
Except Dreamwulf and Eros. The prince chastised himself for endangering his friends, his inner voice becoming more spiteful.
He would have fared no better. Better me than him.
Romanos nodded in acknowledgment, unaware of Lykourgos' thoughts, then helped him rise.
"Pay it no mind, your Grace. You gave it a good try. Where is Lieutenant Wulfstan?"
Lykourgos looked away, unable to meet his friend in the eye. A small part of him wanted to joke that Wulfstan was all over his helmet, but he beat that instinct down as soon as he realised what he was about to say.
"Dead. A roof tile was thrown down from one of the buildings, and cracked his skull. He died quickly."
Romanos hauled him to his feet, and the Prince sighed to himself. He was right not to scoff at improvised weapons. Somehow he knew Romanos would be thinking along those same lines.
"A shame, but there is nothing to be done for him now."
Lykourgos nodded tiredly, then snapped to attention, startling Romanos.
"Elikoidi, is that you?"
The scarred face of his friend remained as smarmy as ever, though a deep well of concern was building behind his eyes.
"Hah, I knew you were worried."
A snarl crossed Eli's lips, but it melted away in an instant. Instead he smiled, and called out loudly to the gathering men.
"Hark! Last out of the breach, last to safety, yet he remains unbroken!"
His voice carried across the camp, and a great many men turned to look at their prince.
Lykourgos realised what his friend was doing, and moved to better stand on his own two feet. If Eli was going to try and turn this into more propaganda, then he'd better play his part well.
He planted his feet as firmly as he could in the ground, and steadied himself by forcing his longsword point-down in the dirt, leaning on it as one would a hiking stick.
"Assassins came for him in the night, and he remains unbroken! The enemies harry him through the breach, and yet the prince remains unbroken!"
He tried to look as princely as he could, but in his current state he was unlikely to match the old songs. He was covered from head to foot in blood and gore, exhausted and dirty from fighting in the narrow streets of the castle, and yet he had to look unaffected by everything that had happened. Such was his duty to his men.
"Hail to the Unbroken!"
He wasn't sure who had first let out the cry, but soon enough thousands of voices carried his new name on the wind:
"Lykourgos the Unbroken! Unbroken! The Unbroken!"
As epithets went, he'd heard a lot worse.
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"Marren!"
The Lieutenant, having worked through the night with a short sleep, approached with a tired gait. Symon rode at his side.
"Aye, your Grace."
"Switch ammunition. Stagger the shots, fire continuously."
He needn't have added the last part, after all, Marren invented the substance, he knew how best to use it. To his credit, the Lieutenant took no offence.
"Certainly, Ser!"
Symon smiled at him, and Romanos grimaced.
"Your Grace, is this necessary? The fires-"
Symon's voice rose above Ser Romanos', drowning out the protests of the knight.
"Will burn out the ones hiding in the houses and on the roofs. Don't listen to the bleeding heart, your Grace. This is war. Men will die either way. At least you can make sure it's mostly them that fall, not us."
It was a common saying amongst soldiers that the man who invented carcass shot was destined for hell. Knowing Lieutenant Marren, Lykourgos wasn't sure he disagreed. The man hid behind excuses designed to fool himself about his own creation; "I only learned the nature of the reactions, it's not me that fires the weapons, it's not my fault it kills people."
Still, it was uncomfortably similar to Lykourgos' own flimsy excuses that he wasn't responsible for the deaths in this war.
He shook his head and cleared his thoughts, watching as the sacks, reinforced by iron hoops were loaded onto the onagers. Larger sacks had been readied for the trebuchets that they may join in this infernal bombardment. Within the reinforced sacks was a terrible mixture of turpentine, tallow, saltpetre and pitch. On impact the sack would burst, and the resulting fires from their contents were nigh impossible to put out. It burned too strong for anything less than a constant stream of water to extinguish, and the sheer number of the sacks being launched in would render any effort to smother the fires impossible. It was only a matter of time before one of them caught a wooden beam, or stored hay by a stable or some-such thing, and then the whole castle would begin to burn from the inside out.
The shot would burn until it expired of its own accord, and they did not expire easily.
Then the second wave would be sent in, with considerably less resistance than before, and more importantly, less enemy cover.
Assuming there was anyone left to take cover by the blaze's end.
He found Lieutenant Ingfred speaking with Marren overlooking the artillery.
Ingfred was a good man, and an even better soldier. Ser Nikolaus was correct about his military life, at least. He'd seen four-and-sixty winters, and almost twice as many battles. The man had grown up a soldier, and it showed. He'd first tasted battle some fifty years ago at Klandahar at the age of ten-and-four while Teleytaios and Nordicos were engulphed in a war against the Al-Alema to the south.
He'd never say it himself, but Lykourgos suspected what most agreed.
Ingfred had left a piece of himself on every field he'd fought on.
Back then armsmen were far rarer than they were now; wars were fought and won by knightly steel, and the dull conscripted masses trudged along behind.
To hear him tell it he'd never seen a field so bitter or glorious as the battle at Klandahar. He wore his scars as a measure of pride, and refused to look on his war-filled life as anything but magnificent.
But, as with Lykourgos himself at Seastream, he suspected that a part of the old soldier would always remain in Klandahar, his youth left to wander a desolate field as the man moved on.
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He needn't have worried about a second assault. After less than two hours of bombardment with carcass shot white sheets were being flown from the walls, a stream of men trudging out of the gates and the very same breach the prince had retreated through some time earlier.
Ser Nikolaus rode up to him, face contorted in fury. He spat bloody phlegm at the prince, and turned away, dropping his standard in the mud.
Lykourgos smiled. The siege was over. The last chapter of this civil war was beginning, and when it ended he would sit atop the throne in Anaria.
Assuming he didn't find a way to get himself killed first.