Amid the thunderous grind of wheels and the creaking of timber, a massive siege tower slammed against the northern wall of Vadel. Twelve more rumbled into position behind it, following in a grim procession. Along the battlements, the roar of battle seemed to hush for a fleeting moment—the engines of war had finally ceased their relentless bombardment.
Atop the walls, Blackbear warriors stood ready, clutching their weapons as tension crackled in the air. Suddenly, with a resounding crash, the siege tower’s heavy ramp dropped down against the stone. Frostbane soldiers poured out in a torrent of steel and frost, their swords gleaming in the pale light. In the first furious clash, Frostbane blades cut through the ranks of the Blackbear defenders, cleaving a path for more of their brethren to surge onto the walls and into the city beyond.
Atop a gentle rise overlooking the battlefield, Rothgur sat astride his warhorse, surveying the siege unfolding below. His gaze first fell on the northern walls, where two of his siege towers burned and smoked, their charred remains falling short of their goal. Despite that setback, he watched with grim satisfaction as the remaining towers made contact. Frostbane warriors surged onto the parapets in a deadly wave of steel and resolve.
Shifting his focus to the west, he saw Rae’s forces pressing forward. All fifteen of his siege towers trundled steadily on, largely unscathed, their ramps poised to slam against the city’s defenses. It was clear they had fared far better in the approach, and Rothgur allowed himself a brief flicker of pride at Rae’s success.
Turning east, he noticed that Mark’s company had stopped waiting for the signal.
Finally, his attention returned to the brutal struggle on the northern ramparts. Frostbane and Blackbear warriors clashed in a maelstrom of blades, the narrow space forcing close-quarters combat. Spells and large-scale frost magic lay dormant—too dangerous to wield at such close proximity, lest they harm allied soldiers as well as foes. Instead, the Frostbane fighters channeled their power inward, enhancing their speed and strength with the icy energy that ran in their veins.
Even from afar, Rothgur could sense the intensity of the battle. Shouts, screams, and the clang of steel carried on the wind. The fight for the walls was always one of the bloodiest stages of a siege—limited room to maneuver, no margin for error, and a single misstep could be fatal.
Still, as he watched his forces begin to link up and hold the parapets, Rothgur felt a surge of confidence. With defenders pressed on multiple fronts, it would only be a matter of time before the city walls fell to their advance.
Beneath the city streets, a hundred Frostbane soldiers inched through a foul-smelling, long-forgotten sewage channel. Slime dripped from ancient stone, the echo of their cautious movements lost in the darkness. At the head of this clandestine force was Battlemaster Mark, personally guiding the infiltration. He held up a single, gloved hand, bringing the column to a halt in the flickering glow of half-dead torches.
They had arrived at a disused access port—an opening built by the city’s original engineers but quietly kept functional by smugglers. Mark signaled once more, and his men fanned out in silence, each footstep muffled by the dank earth beneath.
“Move! Move!” Mark hissed, his command low but urgent as they slipped through the corridor. In a heartbeat, they emerged into the city proper—within sight of the eastern gate’s massive doors.
A sentry’s panicked shout from a nearby tower broke the tense silence: “ENEMIES INSIDE THE WALLS!” But it was far too late.
A surge of Frostborne power ripped through the unprotected rear of the gate, splintering its great wooden beams. The explosion of frozen shards echoed through the courtyard, raining sharp fragments on the disoriented defenders. In an instant, Frostbane soldiers swarmed forward, swords bared, forming a defensive line around the blasted gateway.
“Hold this position!” Mark bellowed, voice cutting through the din as he marshaled his troops. Their task was clear: defend the breach long enough for the rest of the army to flood in.
Within seconds of the eastern gate’s destruction, Mark’s entire company surged into motion. Siege towers that had been inching forward suddenly accelerated, and a large contingent of soldiers broke away from the main force, sprinting toward the gaping breach. In minutes, fresh Frostbane warriors would flood through the shattered gateway.
From a low ridge, Rothgur watched with grim satisfaction. The plan worked, he thought, allowing himself a small smile before turning his gaze to the northern battlements. Though Frostbane soldiers had seized parts of the wall at a steep cost, new cohorts were already clambering up ladders and ramps to reinforce them.
On the Walls Chaos reigned as Frostbane swordsmen advanced in tight clusters, shields held high against the Blackbear defenders, who fought back with savage ferocity. Axes flashed in the dying sunlight, and the walls trembled beneath war cries and the clash of steel. Yet the Frostbanes pressed on, unwavering.
One cohort, led by a Centurion named Arone, secured a small guard tower at the northeastern corner of the wall. Fighting there proved especially vicious. Blackbear warriors attempted to storm the tower’s spiral staircase, only to be cut down by Frostbane swords glinting with frost-infused power. Bodies piled on the steps, and the stones were slick with blood. Again and again, the Blackbears regrouped, but each charge met the same lethal fate.
Not far away, another Centurion, Halvar, led his cohort along a narrow walkway. The sudden crack of timber signaled a toppled Blackbear ballista crashing into the courtyard below—a victory that drew cheers from Frostbane throats. A group of enraged Blackbear berserkers then hurled themselves at Halvar’s men, determined to reclaim the wall. “Shields!” Halvar bellowed. Instantly, his swordsmen snapped into formation, their shields forming a wall of steel. The berserkers slammed into it and recoiled, only to be met by Frostbane blades thrusting in deadly unison. Their momentum died under the razor onslaught.
At the Eastern Breach As the gap in the city’s defenses widened, more Frostbane warriors poured into the streets. Blackbear soldiers rushed from side alleys to halt the advance, but they soon encountered Mark at the tip of a wedge formation, cutting a ruthless swath through all resistance. His sword carved wide arcs, and where it struck, frost crystallized on enemy armor and weapons. Shields splintered, and defenders scattered, struggling to form an effective line.
Just beyond the gate, the clamor reached a deafening pitch. Smoke curled from burning siege towers, and the cacophony of steel on steel, echoing off stone walls, added to the chaos. The city trembled under the weight of the onslaught.
High above the fray, Rothgur felt a surge of confidence. With the eastern gate breached and Frostbane units steadily wrestling control of the walls, the Blackbear defenders would soon be forced to abandon their posts or be annihilated.
As if on cue, a horn blared from deep within the city, and the Blackbear warriors began to fall back, retreating through Vadel’s streets. Some, caught between converging Frostbane forces, found themselves trapped and surrounded—none would be spared.
As the last remnants of Blackbear resistance in the outer districts and along the city walls were swept away, an eerie hush descended upon the battlefield—a moment of calm like the eye in a storm. Smoke curled from fallen siege towers, and the acrid scent of burnt wood and blood still hung in the air, yet no clash of steel disrupted the stillness. It was a fleeting respite before the next phase of the siege.
Under Rothgur’s command, the bulk of the Frostbane army moved into Vadel’s streets, leaving ten thousand soldiers outside in reserve to secure the gates and surrounding perimeter. The cobblestones bore dark stains of battle, and the windows of abandoned homes stared like hollow eyes upon the warriors below.
If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
Rothgur dismounted near a rally point, where his battle masters waited among the regrouping soldiers. The men took this moment to catch their breath, check their wounds, and rotate out for fresh warriors from the rear lines. Frostbane medics drifted through the ranks, administering quick battlefield aid where they could.
“Sir,” Battle Master Rea began, unfolding a rough map of Vadel on a nearby crate. “The Blackbears have consolidated their forces around these three major roads leading to the heart of the city.” His gauntleted finger traced three ominous lines converging near Vadel’s central plaza.
Rothgur studied the map in silence, his gaze flicking from each drawn street to Rea’s grim face. Tension thickened in the air, but a steely resolve flared in Rothgur’s eyes. “All right,” he said at last, turning to address the gathered battle masters. “You’ve fought well to secure the perimeter and walls. I trust I can leave the rest to you.”
Rothgur gave a curt nod of dismissal, and the battle masters dispersed to rally their cohorts. In the distance, new columns of Frostbane soldiers were already advancing—shields raised, swords at the ready. The time of stillness had passed. Now, they would bring the full might of Frostbane to bear on the Blackbear defenders, determined to end the siege of Vadel once and for all.
A cold wind swept through the streets of Vadel’s heart, the sun having spent its last few rays. Now, only pale moonlight and the flicker of torches lit the way. Dust and ash still clung to the cobblestones, stirring underfoot as Frostbane soldiers advanced. The city’s central district lay unnervingly still—until a single voice shattered the calm.
“Forward, men!” a Centurion roared, leading his cohort down a wide boulevard. Their shields were nearly invisible in the dim light, forming a disciplined wall of Frostbane steel advancing step by step. Ahead, Blackbear warriors let out a frenzied cry and charged to meet them, weapons raised in a deafening rush.
“Brace!” the Centurion bellowed. Frostbane soldiers halted, shields slamming together in unison. The crash of colliding forces was thunderous: Blackbear axes and maces hammered into Frostbane steel, while the Frostbanes lunged back with precise counterthrusts, felling the first wave of attackers.
Despite mounting losses, the Blackbears pressed in with wild abandon. Some climbed over their own fallen, striking fiercely at the shield wall; others hurled spears or hacked at vulnerable edges, desperate to break through. The Frostbanes met them with cold precision—swords slicing low at unprotected legs or flanks while the front ranks held firm. Whenever a Frostbane soldier went down, another immediately stepped up to keep the formation tight.
Above the din, fresh orders rang out. “Archers—aim your bows!” shouted a Warwarden. From atop a partially collapsed building, Frostbane bowmen readied arrows tipped with frost. The temperature plummeted around them, and their bowstrings creaked in unison. “Loose!” came the command.
Arrows whistled through the sky in a shimmering volley, their tips glinting with faint, icy auras. On impact, a burst of cold spread outward, causing Blackbear warriors to stumble, limbs and weapons flash-frozen mid-swing. Cries of horror and agony pierced the night as ghostly mist billowed around the wounded.
Seizing the advantage, the Centurion roared, “Push!” The Frostbane line surged forward, shields colliding against ice-bound bodies while swords hammered down mercilessly. Under the dual pressure of melee and frost-arrows, the frenzied Blackbears began to waver.
The fight spilled through a makeshift barricade meant to protect the district’s central square. Frostbane soldiers battered aside the defenses or squeezed through gaps, pressing relentlessly onward. Smaller pockets of Blackbear resistance launched desperate ambushes from alleys or rooftops, but each surprise attack met a disciplined shield wall and the sting of frost-laced steel.
Gradually, the roar of combat drifted deeper into the city, leaving rubble and the fallen behind. Unstoppable, the Frostbanes advanced. Blackbear forces, leaderless and disorganized, fell back in desperation, some attempting to rally around a handful of champions. But the Frostbanes moved like a tide, overwhelming every stand.
Amid the moonlit ruins, the last strong knot of Blackbear fighters made a final stand. Arrows rained on those who tried to flee, while swordsmen carved openings in the enemy lines. It was here that Battlemaster Mark confronted the leader of the Blackbear horde: a hulking warrior named Thorgash Ironjaw, clad in dented, blood-spattered armor. At the center of a tattered Blackbear banner, Thorgash snarled at Mark, war axe resting on his shoulder.
“You Frostbane dog,” Thorgash spat, eyes burning with rage. “You’ve taken my city, killed my brothers. Now you’ll die on my blade.”
Mark’s grip tightened on his frost-laced sword, cold energy rippling through his arm. Nearby soldiers instinctively backed away, forming a ragged circle. Embers from distant fires flickered around them, casting jittery shadows on the cobblestones.
Thorgash attacked first, his axe slashing downward in a colossal arc. Mark sidestepped just in time, the blow cracking the pavement. While Thorgash recovered, Mark lunged, frost gathering at his blade’s edge as it raked across Thorgash’s armor, leaving a layer of ice behind.
“I’ve seen worse,” Mark muttered, evading another crushing swing. He responded with swift jabs, steel colliding with steel in a cascade of sparks. Thorgash snarled again, twisting his axe in a wild backswing that grazed Mark’s shoulder plate, forcing him off balance. Thorgash pressed forward, aiming a vicious downward chop. Mark raised his sword in a desperate block; sparks and shards of ice erupted as their weapons locked together.
Close enough to see the fury in Thorgash’s eyes, Mark funneled more frost power into his blade, freezing the point of contact. Thorgash yanked, but the ice held his axe in place long enough for Mark to knee him in the gut. As Thorgash reeled, Mark broke free and delivered a diagonal slash that tore into the Blackbear’s armor.
With a roar of pain, Thorgash staggered. Still, he lifted his axe for a final strike, but Mark proved faster—his sword plunged through Thorgash’s chest with a splintering crunch. The huge warrior’s eyes widened before he sank to the ground, blood pooling at his feet. Mark withdrew his blade, frost trailing from its edge in the cool night air.
The Blackbear champion’s death shattered the last of his followers’ resolve. Their formation collapsed, and the few who remained fled or were swiftly cut down. In that final moment, all that remained of the Blackbear banner fell in tatters beside Thorgash’s lifeless body.
At last, the clash of steel waned. Frostbane soldiers surged into the central square, where Mark, chest heaving and breath visible in the frigid air, raised his sword high in silent victory. Around him, weary warriors formed up, exhaling in frosty plumes. They had driven the Blackbears out of the heart of Vadel, securing a crucial stronghold in the campaign.
Ice, ash, and broken steel now littered the streets, testifying to the siege’s unrelenting ferocity. But for this moment, the moonlit hush prevailed, a solemn reminder of both the triumph and the price paid for it.
At the south gate, hundreds of Blackbear warriors poured out into the night, believing they’d escaped the carnage. A grizzled fighter named Ragnok Ironfist barked out commands to the terrified mass, urging them to keep moving. They ran for what felt like miles, the distant glow of the city’s fires slowly fading. Once he judged they’d reached a safe distance, Ragnok halted and began shaping the chaos into some semblance of order.
“Form up, all of you!” he thundered, voice raspy from exertion. “We’ll return—we’ll come back with a larger horde! This isn’t over!”
The ragged group stirred with desperate hope. Ragnok’s words, spoken with grim resolve, renewed their will. They hastily assembled into uneven ranks, men panting and sweat-soaked beneath the moonlight.
“We must put more distance between us and the city before we make camp,” Ragnok growled, scanning the darkness for threats. “March! Move!”
They trudged onward, footfalls echoing in the still night air. Then, a sharp cry rang out:
“Over there! What’s that?”
Heads whipped around. In the distance, a single torch flickered among the sparse trees—then ten more, then a hundred, until torchlight dotted the horizon in an uncountable swarm. Ragnok’s eyes widened.
“What the hell?” he muttered, heart pounding. For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of torches in the far-off gloom.
Then came the thunder.
A low rumble, like distant stormclouds, rolled across the plain, intensifying into a roar. Hoofbeats. The torchbearers charged forward, a massive cavalry sweeping over the field with terrifying speed. Ragnok barely had time to draw breath before the riders were upon them, the pounding of hooves drowning out panicked cries.
Steel flashed in the darkness, and screams cut through the night. Blackbear warriors scattered, but the cavalry formation was well-drilled and relentless, tightening in a crescent around the fleeing men. Ragnok lifted his axe, intending to rally his fighters, but the sheer force of the charge swept them away like leaves in a gale.
Far behind in Vadel’s ruined streets, Rea approached Rothgur with a triumphant gleam in his eye. “General, the remaining Blackbears have been cleaned up,” he reported, saluting sharply. The sounds of distant clashes had faded to near silence. “The city is ours.”
Rothgur nodded, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Around them, Frostbane soldiers moved methodically, securing buildings and tending to wounded comrades. Smoke curled up from toppled siege towers, and icy patches glinted under the moonlight—a testament to the fierce battle that had raged.
With the last pockets of resistance crushed and the city in Frostbane hands, the siege of Vadel had reached its decisive end.