“Think on it milord, all of ‘em skills, gone to waste.”
-
Nine Lives speaking to Glen aboard the Marquette
Late summer of 188NC
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Don’t expect anything to make sense.
Unless yer fixin’ for a scrap, then it’s on you.
-
Commandant Rollon Martel,
Famed officer of the Gallant Dogs
in the
The wandering blades
-An old dog’s memoir-
Circa 201 NC
-
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‘Nine lives’ Stiles
The Reaper’s Due
Part I
-This is the butcher’s bill son-
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Part IA
Blockade of Eikenport
Third Week, First attack on the inner city main Gates
The chilling rattle of the heavy scorpios’ firing from the undersized gate towers barely cut through the noise, with screams and yells answering the sound of the impact heard over the walls. Stiles grunted, clad in his leather cuirass-type armour, the mail underneath making him heavy and the sun above his head not helping.
Gervin Marbet who stood as the unofficial civilian authority in Garth’s District blinked, but kept his composure. Stiles had to talk with him, despite having his attention drawn on the ‘Three Hundred’ testing their defenses.
“Yes mister Gervin?” He yelled to be heard, his eye on a couple of kids running about excited with all the ruckus.
“We’d like to offer assistance as I said,” Marbet repeated standing underneath the walls. “We won’t be uprooted again mister Stiles.”
“I don’t want ye clumsy lot in me feet,” Stiles griped and watched the men bringing up the long iron bolts the machines used and creating piles under the towers to replenish the ammunition. Those manning them, three people per machine, could easily ask for more to be brought up the ladders without leaving their post.
In theory it was great.
“A lot of civilians want to help,” Marbet insisted. “We have grave concerns.”
Ye don’t fuckin’ know why we’re fighting! Stiles thought.
And all this graveyard talk ain’t helping none!
“Can you take over the resupply from the warehouses?” Stiles yelled, just as the Lesia mercenaries recoiled and retreated back down the road. “I need to pull some men from the walls here to reinforce the other gates.”
“Will they attack elsewhere?”
Abrakas black toes, Stiles cursed and climbed the short ladder down quickly.
“Wouldn’t you mister Marbet?” he grunted looking about to find Clint, or Dob.
“I’d never assault a wall mister Stiles,” came the civilian official’s affronted retort.
“Can your people handle the job? I need an aye, or a nay now Marbet!”
“Of course,” Marbet responded with a frown. “Why not let the Dogs handle the battle?”
“I am trying to help,” Stiles hissed and shoved him aside, spotting Sergeant Martel rushing to the walls with a group of twenty. “Hey… mate,” Stiles said stepping in his way.
“Yes?” The stiff necked officer replied, his helm touching his thick brows.
“I need these men on the other gate,” Stiles told him and seeing him scowling, he added grinding his teeth. “Fuck’s sake not again, I’m the leader here!”
Martel turned his head and barked to the soldier standing behind him.
“Find Ottis, we’ll follow the pirate scum around.”
Huh?
“What’s wit the fuckin’ personal assault sergeant?” Stiles protested.
“Just stating the facts mister Stiles,” Martel deadpanned.
“Head north and check the gate there,” Stiles grunted irate. “I’ll be there shortly.”
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Stiles rushed to the large Mastaba where a group of Gallant Dogs fighters in their hardened leather cuirasses and chainmail shirts were loading military supplies and weapons to wagons. A sergeant, recognized by the bronze epaulets on his shoulder guards, was directing the loaded with swords, shields, spears, axes and iron bolts wagons to the gates.
“Sergeant,” Stiles told him reaching the thirty men strong group, a heavy breathing Clint joining him a moment later. “Marbet will be sending help soon.”
“The ‘Mayor’?” the Dogs officer grunted. “Should we pull the men out?”
“Leave behind someone that knows where is what,” Stiles replied. “And report to Ottis. Take these already loaded wagons wit you.”
The sergeant nodded and gave the order to a burly soldier.
“What are we lacking?” Stiles probed whilst the order was passed around to the men inside the massive building.
“Archers sire, more men in general to cover the perimeter,” the sergeant retorted. “We have bows and arrows. Spears aplenty and poor quality blades.”
“Poor?” Stiles queried.
“The blacksmiths you have here will make a great horseshoe, but some of the blades need a lot of work,” the officer explained.
“What kind of work?”
“Sharpening.”
“Right, anyone on top of that?” Stiles asked, seeing how this could be a big inconvenience.
“Martel and his boys are handling the unit’s gear, but these new ones in ‘em boxes are another story. Marbet better bring a grinder along.”
Eh.
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“Where’s Marbet Clint?” Stiles asked the troubled looking ‘former’ thief. Now the former part is used very loosely in this case.
“Haven’t seen him, but Dob is wit the dwarf and Anne’s people.”
“Ye make it sound as if he up and disappeared,” Stiles grunted hurrying back towards the watch tower. “I just fuckin’ talked wit him, it’s not even an hour!”
“Ye know more than me boss.”
“It would seem that’s the case,” Stiles hissed, seeing Norec coming their way. The dwarf wore a chainmail shirt that reached his boots and looked more like a long tunic. He was also carrying a warhammer as big as him.
“The parapets are yay tall,” Stiles told him with a sly smirk.
“Folk fight on the ground,” Norec spat with a scowl. “No climbed up on walls like wenches!”
Stiles nodded and removed his hat in an attempt to wipe his sweaty face. “I know that’s a brag dwarf.”
“Partially it is,” Norec admitted and placed the long steel hammer shaft on his shoulder. “Will they break through?”
“They’re testing us,” Stiles said with a sigh, taking the opportunity to rest. “The machines are working at least. Boy, I really thought this was a scam to drain me purse.”
“Hmm,” Norec grunted and stared at the wall beyond the Watch Tower. The area had been cleared of debris there, with only the outlines of buildings remaining. Beyond the warehouse across the street though, the old ruins touched the wall from the inside at certain points, or were part of the fortifications. “This needs more work,” he finally commented.
“It’s the same on the other side,” Stiles replied. “People might climb in, but it won’t be in numbers and Ottis has ten man strong patrols covering the blind spots.”
“Difficult in the day,” Norec murmured. “Wake has the report from Sid,” he added.
“Where?”
“Sopat gate,” Norec replied. “You better tell your lackey to get us some horses.”
“You heard him,” Stiles said turning to a blank faced Clint. “That’s you mate.”
“You’re listening to the dwarf chief?” Clint protested.
“Aye,” Stiles replied. “I know him far longer than you. Now get to the stable and get us a couple of horses. Ah,” He added just as a dejected Clint started shuffling his feet towards the yard. “Grab a bottle of rum from my office. Look under the cupboard, leave the sack, it’s for another purpose.”
Clint paused unsure, not wanting to walk back and forth. “We have the barrel under the shade chief, next to the stable.”
“Whence it shall remain,” Stiles reassured him fully serious. “Until the rats come back.”
Damn thing had wiped them out in a day.
Well, props to old Burton I guess. He has really made something useful this time, he thought, no doubt about it.
“We might have a fight in our hands my friend,” Norec told him and Stiles fixed the hat on his head again. “Can you still swing that blade?”
“Push comes to shove,” Stiles murmured. “Is Dob wit Anne?”
“Ayup,” Norec replied giving him a stare. “Sigurd didn’t like it.”
“Fuckin’ snake,” Stiles grunted. “I don’t trust him.”
“She doesn’t care for him in that manner and he knows it,” Norec said with a grimace. “For you, I’m not as sure.”
“Ah, that’s not what worries me mate,” Stiles replied. “It’s the fuckin’ circle. We’re in it, I can feel it in me bones. I can live knowing she’ll be fine somewhere, such greed is Glen’s weakness. I can let go of me darlings. In a sense I’m where you were at this point.”
“Life makes a circle indeed,” Norec nodded seeing his point. His face darkened at the memory. “I can’t let go as easy as you friend. Fikumin misses her even more. It’s a Folk thing. But just as when we first met mister Stiles, I’ll fight afore going down.”
“Aye,” Stiles agreed and spat down, his mouth dry. “Cursed be Abrakas harlots.”
Clint came towards them bringing up the horses, a bottle slotted into his shirt bulging.
More than one bloody bottle.
Ugh.
“Have you ever seen one?” Norec asked casually.
Abrakas harlots was his meaning.
Or daughters.
Stiles nodded and stepped away from his shadow, the Ticu’s song humming in his head.
“Once,” he replied. “Eyes black as the deepest well. Shriveled me cock proper.”
> A notorious gang of outlaws from Rida, the Marauders, led by the wanted criminal Sid Cross –he had a standing bounty on his head since eighty six in several cities, citing murder in all of them, armed robbery in Rida, Altarin and Castalor, heavy looting in all of them and mutilating a king’s magistrate in Altarinport- got involved in the third or fourth week of the stalemate/blockade, with a coordinated attack on the mercenary company’s warehouses.
>
> Although the rented area was located deep inside the ‘safe’, or neutral Cofol controlled district, the cutthroats managed to slip through the inadequate Cofol patrols –though it must be noted here that the local commander had been forced under pressure from D’Orsi to guard closely the so called ‘Sopat Gate’ and street that directly connected the ‘sieged’ Garth’s District with the Cofols- and set fire to two of the buildings.
>
> Half the first division that was standing in reserve, or resting near the company’s three large galleon type ships moored in the Cofol docks, moved to crash the gang members. A brawl broke out in the middle of the night with the armed cutthroats ambushing the patrols rushing to the area and killing rear area personnel until finally the mobilized division managed to push them away. The company saved the third building and stopped the fire with the help of the Cofols that had woken up from their sleep shocked at the sudden explosion of violence.
>
>
> D’Orsi upon being informed of the ruin to most of his unloaded supplies took control of Eikenport’s Cofol docks completely and installed strong armed units near his ships. He then used the first division to strike inside the pirate neighborhoods to find the terrorists. The mercenaries cut down anyone suspicious for the rest of the day, but got attacked again the moment dark descended upon the city. Equally well-equipped cutthroats ambushed the night patrols and tried to burn the hostel the first division used as barracks, next to the large Sopat Building.
>
> Realizing the city’s criminal elements had been somehow supplied by the closed off Garth’s District, D’Orsi ordered Captain Ramos to test the timber walls and gates. Ramos made a push for it, but got fired upon from the heavy ballista –a type of Legio’s Scorpio siege engines- Captain Ottis had installed on the six meters in height main city gate-towers. While the mercenaries packed on the main road artery had less than a hundred meters to traverse in order to reach the gates, they retreated to safety, when an iron bolt penetrated five lines deep killing all five soldiers and critically injuring the man standing on the sixth row.
>
> Ramos asked D’Orsi to order the third division camped north from his position and just at the edge of the Pirate’s District to advance on the North Gates kilometers away and test the defenses there. D’Orsi sent the third in, but they got intercepted again late afternoon whilst marching down the empty streets of this ruined part of the city from a force of almost two hundred fighters by at least two criminal groups working together. Sid Cross’s Marauders and a local gang the ‘Illuminated Rats’ led by a Wake ‘Rats’. It is not known whether it was his moniker or the lowlife’s real name.
>
> Whatever the truth about the name is, the armed cutthroats came out of side alleys and ruined buildings, or fired on the parading mercenaries from half-collapsed rooftops using slingers, stones and the occasional javelin. With the struggle happening in very close quarters after the first minute, tactics were abandoned and an all-out fight broke out in the middle of the street. Eventually the mercenaries coming up behind their friends managed to push the cutthroats away killing many. But their casualties and the psychological shock of losing their Captain a minute into the scrap to a piece of glassy rock the size of a watermelon dropped from above, forced them to retreat again to their positions.
>
> It was said the heavy volcanic type small boulder shoved the hapless officer’s head and helmet deep into his chest cavity, afore breaking his spine.
>
> D’Orsi was so irate upon learning of the division’s decision, he rode into the camp himself, located amidst a flattened area north of the center of city and assumed command of the third. He sent for Captain Ramos in the middle of the night and they devised a plan to attack simultaneously using the only catapult they had left and their own Ballistas –those they brought from the ships- to weaken parts of the wall, or even bulldoze their way through the gates.
“INCOMING!” A Dogs sergeant yelled standing on a wall’s corner. Stiles clenched his teeth, a nervous tick on his strained face turning to a flinch just as the catapult shot that had been missing spectacularly up to this point struck the north gatetower right at its middle point. It exploded out the back and inside their perimeter, the exit hole huge. It sent debris in a ten meter radius, be it pieces of blackened timber, sharp splinters, half a ladder, or the bloody pulverized remains of a soldier rushing ammunition upstairs.
The gutted tower crumpled and collapsed into a pile burying the other two soldiers manning the scorpio, one side of the gates cracking and shifting to the north.
“Fuck,” the sergeant said and Ottis seeing the men reeling behind the gates barked at the second tower to continue firing on the Lesia mercenaries.
“We need to bring the other scorpio forward,” he grunted seeing the scowl on Stiles face. They had striped the Sopat Gates of its machines to use them elsewhere, seeing that the mercenaries were making a rigorous push for the North and Main gates, about three kilometers apart from each other. Ottis had split his force in two leaving very few men in between, or facing the Cofols. The ruined part of the city appeared quiet and even with the Three Hundred Company’s larger numbers this was a big front to cover, or test appropriately.
Stiles unsheathed his saber, as Ottis run to help the men unload the heavy war-machine, his eyes on the closed now, a tad slanted gates and the second tower firing in an effort to hit the catapult the Lesia mercenaries had brought dangerously close to improve their aim.
“How many scorpios behind the ruins?” Norec asked him yelling to be heard over the cries and curses of the defenders mainly the citizens bringing up supplies.
“Twelve,” Stiles rustled with a grimace. “Them fuckers stripped those ships clean.”
The dwarf from Brightos, a village in the bowels of the Northwall Heights near Hellfort, nodded his scowl deepening just as the sound of many giant steel crossbows firing at once reached them.
TWANG
Repeatedly.
Shite, Stiles cursed his only eye ogling.
WHOOSH
Multiplied many times as the heavy bolts crossed the distance and struck the walls right and left of the gates.
But for three.
While the walls stopped the iron bolts, those hitting the gates went through, one stopping and protruding like a long nail from a plank, right at the long and thick wooden latch, the other two coming out and ripping through anything that stood upright.
Eight soldiers died in a short second, one of the bloody three-fingers thick iron bolts bouncing off the tiles after missing Stiles’ head –the ‘former’ pirate was standing twenty meters behind the Gates- retaining enough momentum to decapitate a young boy a couple of feet to his right that was watching the event stupefied.
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The catapult shot splintered the top right corner of the weakened gate, the rest of the three meter wide door cracking, a piece of it folding down and leaving a three foot opening. An archer standing atop the parapets yelled a warning as he could see the mercenaries approaching determined.
“RISE UP!” Ottis roared to the fighters’ right and left of him realizing the Scorpios had stopped firing. “MAN THE DOORS!”
But it was too late. The left door that been shredded from multiple shots swung open violently by the small battering arm, the hefty beam-sized latch broken earlier. The right door, the one with the opening at its corner, held fast despite its state and Ottis shoved the slow reacting men forward to block the first Lesia mercenaries from coming inside.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Stiles rushed after them, the chaos unfolding making the scene appear surreal and dreamlike, but for the mutilated soldiers and civilians bleeding out from the bombardment. The first Lesia mercenaries jumped inside behind their gold shields, the number 300 painted in red bold letters on them.
The first one got stabbed from his left side by a Gallant Dogs soldier hiding behind the still standing door and went down, but the man lost his sword arm to an opponent coming right after the first ‘Gold Contract’ mercenary.
He pulled back with a yelp, a torrent of blood spraying the enemies pouring in shouting insults. They made it four meters before they got stopped by twice the number of blades they were bringing to the fight. Steel bit on leather and mail, clanked on shields and helms, then found flesh with rapid thuds.
Blimey! Stiles cursed, ducking under a flying chopped off head spraying foul gore in an arc. A Dog went down screaming, slashed across the face, head turning into a bloody mess. A burly Lesia mercenary stepped out of the gap, but Stiles swung at him wild with the saber and he had to pause hard to deflect it with his shield. The blade clanked on the iron edge and went sideways. Stiles flinched away from the man’s return swing, losing his hat, which was much better an outcome than losing his head and thinking on his feet chopped down aiming for the mercenary’s unprotected knee.
Down came the saber with a hiss, the man sliding his right leg backwards to dodge, but got his heel stuck on debris and the sharp blade caught his retreating foot, chopping off the protruding part of his boot.
The Lesia mercenary shuddered and stooped forward with a horrified gasp, a wayward thrown spear catching him on the shoulder, above his lowered shield. He was shoved to the side like a ragdoll, his other shoulder smacking the gate still standing, leaving the front of his leather boot behind and still containing the lower part of his foot.
“Bah,” Stiles grunted and twisted around to avoid the reformed Gallant Dogs line pushing forward, in a wall of steel and angry glares.
“ENOUGH!” Ottis barked to stop them from going on the attack beyond the gates. “BRING THEM BACK SERGEANT!”
Stiles run towards him breathing heavy and a little deaf from his right ear. He could hear a slight hissing and that was just about it. Added to the fact he’d just lost his hat in the brouhaha the whole matter stunk to high heavens.
“Hells are ye doing?” He barked at the Captain that was signaling to the rising armed civilians and soldiers behind them. Several of them had pushed the extra Scorpio not twenty meters from the gates and were quickly loading it.
“They are coming sire!” A soldier yelled from the gates.
“STAND ASIDE GOD DARN IT!” Ottis roared irate and raised his arm, fingers extended. He snapped it downwards the moment the first Lesia mercenaries appeared at the opening.
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“RELOAD!” A hoarse sounding Ottis barked.
Eh, Stiles thought seeing the remaining flap of the gates swinging back and forth. That’s a lot of turds in this barrel.
The door’s weakened beams crackled and came apart, the opening growing another three meters. The number of Lesia soldiers appearing behind the dust cloud haze staggering. The mercenaries on both sides roared and stepped forward, one side trying to plug the gap, the other attempting to slip through to the open.
“Our lads are in the way sire!” An engineer roared and Ottis who had one eye on the parapets and the remaining guardtower, where archers and soldiers were shooting arrow after arrow into the packed rows of enemies, along with rocks, sharp shards of glass –the material plentiful in Eikenport- javelins and even plain pieces of cut wood, the other on the unfolding heavy fighting on the broken gates groaned in frustration.
“Sergeant,” he ordered a scowling Gallant Dogs officer. “Keep the second line back!”
“They’ll never hold Ottis,” the wiry sergeant from Rida argued, but the Captain would have none of it.
“Do it,” he hissed and signaled for the idle engineers manning the Scorpio on the guardtower to start firing again despite the bad angle. He then turned around and stared at the men operating the second war machine.
“Ah,” Norec grunted standing next to Stiles left knee. “Allfather helps them.”
Stiles closed his eye just as the order was given.
> While D’Orsi’s attack was spoiled at the main street’s gates mainly due to the ‘dogged’ resistance from the defenders, the brutal fighting lasting hours and leaving dead bodies pilled in and out of the mostly destroyed by this time fortifications, his Northern Gates assault fared even worse, as the regrouped outlaws that had plagued him for weeks, flanked his attacking group and bloodied it so much it reached the gates in disarray and assaulted from multiple sides. A sally from the defenders there sent the aggrieved Lesia mercenaries back to their starting position. With the day ending the Three Hundred licked their wounds and their officers gathered for a war council in their commander’s hastily constructed headquarters.
>
> D’Orsi wanted another attack to take advantage of the coming dark, but Captain Ramos disagreed reminding him they were expecting reinforcements arriving with Wyncall. Captain Wyncall was missing in action though for over a month, presumably traveling with Sir Gust De Weer through the desert and D’Orsi had been humiliated too much to palate a patient approach.
>
> According to the Code of the Company, if an order was deemed unwise, the ranking officers got to vote on it, but with Wyncall who was second in command absent an agreement couldn’t be reached. It did produce though some pretty colorful conversations with every officer present passing the blame to the man standing next to him.
>
> The hour late and with injured soldiers being treated outside the headquarters grating on everyone’s nerves, the old Commander of the unit, Lear Hik offered another plan that could placate both D’Orsi’s thirst for blood and Ramos more strategic approach. ‘An attack’, the aged former mercenary had declared, ‘can succeed even if it’s repelled, especially if it’s naught but a ruse.’
>
> Whatever his plan had been, the details didn’t survive as the man disappeared from history for several years, but D’Orsi got to have his revenge attack a couple of hours later.
>
> Early at dawn.
Part IB
Battle of main street Gates
Third day, late evening
“How many?” Ottis asked looking haggard and nodded at the number his shoulders slumping. Stiles turned around and walked slowly to where Gervin Marbet stood directing the large number of civilians that had come to help the wounded and gather the slain. As gruesome a job as one could take on.
“You think they’ll return?” The so called ‘mayor’ by the refugees asked him, although Marbet had been nothing but a low level administrator back in Rida, a ‘minister of crops’ as he’d jokingly admitted once.
“I don’t see ‘em up and leavin’ mate,” Stiles rustled truthfully, seeing no reason to beat around the bush.
“They’ll attack again,” Ottis agreed. He’d approached the group, conned helm in hand. “Attrition is on their side.”
Stiles grimaced and checked his blade afore sheathing it. He was the only one still having his sword drawn.
“How did the others fare?” He asked the Captain of the Gallant Dogs.
“Better than us for sure,” Ottis admitted. “Wake and Sid lost a lot of men though, but at least our force at the North Gates is intact. Both the lads and the gates as a matter of fact.”
Stiles stared at the gap where the gates stood. Even a part of the walls had been damaged, especially next to the collapsed tower. Thinking on the effort he’d put in finishing it, Stiles felt his anger returning.
“Marbet we need to block the way again,” Ottis said while the pirate seethed in silence. “Use timber, stones and dirt. Any kind of debris, nothing fancy, but see it’s at least a couple of meters in height.”
“How much time we have?” Marbet asked him.
“Assume we have no time,” Ottis retorted.
“What about those that want to help?” Marbet countered.
A very big number of refugees had armed themselves, taking the opportunity to get their hands on weapons whilst helping carry the supplies from the Mastaba.
Ottis grunted and glared at him.
“How many?” Stiles asked, his eye on a young man wearing a conned helm, a short mail shirt, armed with a shield and spear.
“A couple of thousand,” Marbet replied.
“How many that know which end is the front of the bloody spear?” Ottis blasted him.
“A third?” Marbet chanced.
Ottis grunted and turned to go near his sergeants, but Stiles stopped him placing a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s five-six hundred men,” he told the tired officer. “Use them.”
“They’ll get in the way Stiles,” Ottis replied. “I have another two Scorpios delivered from the workshops. We can surprise them late in their charge, cut them down.”
“These are men with long pointy weapons,” Stiles argued. “Put them in a large group to guard one side of the opening, as a blocking force. No one seeing them standing behind their shields will go that way. I sure wouldn’t and I know how to cut a man down.”
“I’ll have sergeant Lodrik drill them for an hour,” Ottis sighed. “You’ll catch some sleep?”
Stiles stared at the dark sky, the moons only half visible.
“Aye,” he replied a moment later. “You should too.”
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“Chief,” Dob’s said, putting a heavy hand on his chest. “Wake up.”
“Uh,” Stiles murmured opening his eye and realized it was still dark. “The tower is on fire?” He chanced unhappy.
“No, but they gathered again Ottis said,” Dob replied and helped him to his feet.
“Fuck’s sake,” Stiles grunted and rubbed his face. He fixed the patch over his ruined eye and groaned. “Where’s Clint?”
“Outside with Anne.”
Stiles murmured and stumbled to the door of his office, banging a hip to the desk along the way. He walked outside and breathed once deeply. Anne stood next to Sigurd and Kasters, dressed as an adventurer, but looking mighty royal to his eyes.
“Mister Stiles,” she said in that refined Common, you don’t expect to hear in a pirate port, during a siege and whilst expecting to be killed by mercenaries. “How can I help?”
“Keeping yerself safe,” he replied with a small smile. “Would be of great help to us Anne.”
She pouted, her eyes glowing.
“He’s right your grace,” Sigurd said.
“Chief,” Clint intervened nervously.
“I need to check on the lads,” Stiles explained scrunching his jaw, trying not to think of anything else and lose his courage. “There’s a fight coming.”
“How can I reward you for your services Mister Stiles?” Anne asked, sounding genuine.
Ah, Stiles thought and wetted his dry lips.
“Plenty of time to ponder on prizes later Anne,” he said trying to sound confident and with a nod followed after Clint, leaving Dob with the three Issirs behind. A flushed Anne, the indifferent Kasters and the furious Sigurd.
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“They are going to do the same thing again?” Norec grunted still climbed atop his horse, looking like a very short, ugly and hairy kid.
Very hairy.
Mean as fuck.
“Seems that way,” Stiles murmured watching the lines of Lesia mercenaries setting up for a march on the hastily constructed barricade that had replaced the destroyed gates. Ottis had placed the four Scorpios in a single row, ten feet apart and ten meters behind the opening to keep them unseen for as long as possible.
Around a hundred and fifty Gallant Dogs on one side of the engineers, the massive group of armed volunteers on the other waiting in tensed relative silence, with the occasional cough, or weapon clinking breaking it.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Norec grunted frowning even more.
“Ready to fire on command,” Ottis told Sergeant Lodrik. Martel had been left in charge of the North Gates and the much larger Dogs force there.
“Is that all of them?” Stiles asked.
“They pulled most of the force from the river,” Ottis replied with a grimace, just as the Lesia mercenaries started marching under the sound of a sole drum. “They lit many fires to hide it, but the scouts confirmed it.”
“They sure don’t go for the silent approach,” Stiles noted thoughtfully and wiped his face with a shaking hand.
“What is it?” Ottis grunted seeing him looking sick.
“You kept men patrolling the wall right?” he asked him.
“Since the night, they haven’t finished the rounds yet.”
“Has any of them returned?”
Ottis frowned. “You want me to check on that now?”
Stiles gulped down.
“READY!” The sergeant barked the rows of approaching armoured mercenaries coming to view, under the pale moonlight that slowly gave way to a blood-colored hue over the horizon. Almost dawn, Stiles thought the ground shaking under the boots of hundreds of men incoming and glanced nervously back towards the dark mass of the Mastaba, now unseen in the blackness. The light atop of the Watchtower a tiny flickering dot, giving him perspective and contrasting with the darkness of the ruined central part of the city in between the distant gates.
“FIRE AT WILL!” Lodrik barked and the Scorpios torsions snapped in action releasing their lethal projectiles under the roar of the defenders.
“We need to go!” Stiles yelled at Norec and the dwarf tossed him the reins of his horse as if expecting it.
Captain Ottis saw him climb up the saddle, then turn the horse around and blinked in shock.
“What are you doing?”
“The patrols should have returned!” Stiles roared to be heard over the rumpus of the soldiers charging the barricade, huge gaps in their lines where the iron bolts had ripped through.
“Wait,” Ottis yelled ogling his eyes and glanced about him, but Stiles kicked his legs and galloped after the dwarf.
His instincts were telling him staying put was the safer bet, but he’d done that plenty of times in the past, always felt worse after it. So Stiles decided to rush the other way and try to milk this life for all it worth. Make something more of it so he could stand tall and look Anne in the eyes.
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The Mastaba came into view, the torches burning at its entrance and across it the light of the Watchtower Glen had restored. Behind it open empty space, as the ruins had been cleared and turned into a wall, parts of it made of timbers blocking what was once streets, tall remnants of buildings still standing and incorporated into the fortifications.
As tall as five meters at points and over it the ruins of the city, piles upon piles of debris, bombarded terrain and remnants of ancient neighborhoods going nowhere. Stiles had encountered the first returning patrol already, a ten man strong unit and that had calmed him down a bit, but reaching this better lit part of the district he expected to find the next one loitering about the nearby tavern, just after the warehouse.
He found it close instead, which made sense given the time and circumstances, but that didn’t answer his question.
“Where the fuck are they?” Stiles grunted and Norec who was riding in front of him jumped from the saddle landing like a small boulder on the tiles. Dob who had seen them riding past him, the Cofol was standing guard outside the tower, started coming towards them.
“I’ll check near the wall,” Clint said and pointed at the torches set at regular intervals at the base of the long structure.
“Go,” Stiles said just as a man got out of an alley next to the tavern, leading to the half-demolished blocks of buildings bordering the walls and started running towards them. Behind them the patrol he’d left behind approached as well at a slow trot.
“Hey,” the man said. A Lorian wearing an apron.
“That you Rey?” Stiles grunted recognizing one of the locals working at the tavern.
“There’s screaming amidst the ruins sire,” Rey reported breathing heavy. “Heard commotion from the open window. Was preparing yeast bread—”
“Abrakas toes!” Stiles blasted him. “When was that ye fuckin’ idiot?”
“Just now,” Rey replied sternly. “Near the walls of the old estate.”
“Plenty of old walls standing there,” Norec commented and went to get his warhammer from his horse. “Difficult climb from the other side, a maze to navigate afore that. Unless yer determined.”
Aye, Stiles thought nervously and signed for the soldiers to follow him. Or a sneaky motherfucker.
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The rising sun had given the sky a sinister crimson tint, the ancient ruins standing ominous as they approached. Naked stone walls and parts of roofs connecting them, large portions of the remains turned to glass, broken pieces loitering what was once a street, but was now a debris field. The estate walls extending for more than a hundred meters, a cracked colossus that had collapsed in on itself.
The mercenaries had slaughtered the patrol, but the fight had dragged on longer than what they would have preferred and had cost them in blood. Stiles counted more than ten corpses scattered in an arc, several of them struck by arrows.
A soldier cursed seeing the dead and rushed the three mercenaries patching up their wounds, near the north corner of the building, the rest of the Dogs patrol charging after him. Stiles made to stop them, but by the time he’d barked the order, the rest of the mercenaries came out of the ruins and fell on them.
No time, or warning.
You can prepare yourself for hours and still get surprised when violence explodes.
“That’s the other patrol,” a grey-haired Lorian noted confidently stepping out of the ruins, a weathered long coat over his armour making him appear robust and armed with a longsword. “Be quick about it.”
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Fuck, Stiles thought, his heart thundering in his chest and moved aside to avoid a spear to the gut. He stepped over a bleeding out patrol soldier next and cut a Lesia mercenary across the back, just as he was about to finish off another. The blade bit the leather armour and stopped on the mail underneath, but Stiles heard a loud crack, the man’s spine splintering and he went down on his knees shuddering.
Stiles turned, but got his elbow blocked by a shoulder, the mercenary shoving him back, heels tripping on a boulder. He twisted around trying to find his footing, but got slashed across the chest, the cuirass denting but holding. Stiles stumbled a couple of feet, parried an attack instinctively, lost his footing again, but his opponent opted to headbutt him using his helm instead of trying again. It gave him the time to step back, narrowly avoid having his face caved in and reach for his waistband to find his dagger.
The mercenary lifted his head to see where he’d gone and Stiles stabbed him in the left eye once, flinched to avoid a wild slash and then stabbed him again below the chin, the blade going in to the hilt. The mercenary gurgled, spitting blood down his jaw and Stiles shoved him aside to reach the next one.
He made two strides and got intercepted by the spear wielding maniac from earlier. Stiles grunted feeling the tip penetrating his skin above the nipple, slashed to keep him away, but the man snorted seeing as he had the range. He tried again aiming for his head, but Stiles jerked his neck the other way, the steel tip cutting him below the left ear as the man had angled it down on the return.
Stiles cursed the mercenary’s famous harlot mother, the man snarled showing him his yellow teeth and Norec who had rolled in between them swung with his Warhammer and nailed him between the legs pulverizing everything. A scream and the hapless man doubled over, Norec finishing him off with a well-placed smack across his lowering forehead that cracked his skull after breaking his helm.
“Move!” Norec grunted and shoved him aside, just as the warrior with the two swords rushed him. Stiles ducked under the twin blades panicked, but got kicked right in the mouth, losing two good teeth and that gold one that always bothered him. He landed on his back, mouth full of blood and feeling broken.
“Edge,” the old mercenary leader barked to his friend. “Help the others, I’ll deal wit the dwarf.”
Ye fuckin’ old goat, Stiles cursed and rolled to the side trying to get up. He found a rock with his elbow, left arm turning numb and growled furious standing up. He made to help Norec who was fighting said old goat, but a Dogs soldier got cut down in front of him and Stiles had to defend himself against his killer.
He dodged a dangerous slash aimed for his face, got blood in his eye and missed his chance, made to wipe it with his free hand, but saw the mercenary coming at him again through the bloody haze, so he had to improvise.
“Arggh!” the Lesia mercenary protested irate, a face full of phlegm, bloody saliva and pieces of Stiles broken teeth, whilst the pirate wiped his face with a hand. Stiles couldn’t feel his jaw, but he left the matter aside to slash at his reeling opponent. The man raised an arm to protect himself, forgot he didn’t have a shield on him since they had to discard stuff to climb the wall and lost most of it.
He recoiled with a wretched cry of pain and Stiles swung at him again with everything he had, his blade bouncing off the man’s helm with a sharp clanging sound the angle wrong. Stiles cursed Abrakas not finding it funny, but the mercenary collapsed senseless on his face just the same.
“Eh,” Stiles mumbled and spat blood between his legs, trying to catch his breath. He didn’t have the time as the double sword wielding warrior came at him again. Apparently and despite their surprise the Dogs patrol had given as much as it got and now the only people still standing were the two older mercenaries.
Every single one of the Gallant Dogs soldiers had been cut down as well, so the only others standing from their side were a bloodied Stiles and Norec who had been injured. The dwarf was bleeding badly down his right thigh.
The warrior swung with his right blade and Stiles blocked it, but had to jump away from the second one. Again and this time, he got a slash on the left shoulder, the retreating blade almost taking his other eye off. Stiles was outmatched. It was clear his opponent was much more skilled and the pirate had to retreat, always on the defensive under the barrage of attacks, his heart beating so loud in his chest, Stiles could hear the heavy thudding coming from all around him.
“What in Hell’s gates?” Edge cursed twisting his neck around, just as Dob arrived like a bull poked in his nether regions with a very hot iron.
A loud thud and Edge got hurled on a partially collapsed piece of wall. Dob grunted and went after him but got an arrow through his right bicep and had to stop a couple of strides in. The big Cofol groaned and broke the shaft to get it out, whilst Edge was slowly getting up with a grimace of pain.
Son of a bitch, Stiles thought grinding his teeth and spotted the hidden Cofol archer casually reaching for another arrow stooped on the portion of the roof still standing, in what had been at some point the estate’s first floor. He made to rush after him, but spotted Edge going after Dob and paused unsure, Norec’s roar snapping him out of his haze.
“GO!” The dwarf urged him and swung wild with his Warhammer meeting his opponent’s blade and breaking it. Stiles started running towards the building, knees hurting and ears ringing from blood loss. Behind him big Dob locked swords with Edge and the old mercenary that was their leader stepped back with a disappointed sigh, tossed his broken blade away and reached for another one he had sheathed under his coat.
“Shoot the pirate Bolt,” he ordered his friend.
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Bolt, apparently that was the sneaky Cofol ranger’s name, missed him entering the destroyed building, the arrow whistling over a manically slouching Stiles.
Still alive, he thought, his mouth hurting and gulping down blood. He reached the half-collapsed internal staircase, put a boot on it and saw the aged Cofol appearing at the top, bowstring already drawn.
Witch’s tits!
Stiles rushed upstairs an arrow smacking his cuirass and going through his lung, exiting out of the back, below a rib. He was shoved violently backwards, almost toppling to his death, but found a wall with his left hand, broke two nails trying to keep his weight from overcoming his momentum and barely managed to hold on.
“Huh?” Bolt snorted not expecting it and dropped his bow to reach for a long knife. Stiles who felt his chest burning and his throat clogged with blood, rushed the remaining stairs and bodied him backwards. They rolled on the part of the roof still standing, the edge at the corner of the building, trading blows with their free hands. Bolt tried to knife him in the gut, but he put a hand on it running on pure adrenalin and smacked him in the face with the guard of his saber.
Bolt’s head hit the tiles and he kicked him to get away. Stiles toppled backwards, the arrow fletching’s messing with his balance, but managed to stop on a knee just before he run out of roof. Under him Dob was still fighting with Edge and Norec tried to defend against the mercenary leader’s attacks. Stiles got up groaning and Bolt who was bleeding from a cut on his cheek hissed.
“Lear shall finish this,” the ranger told him and reached for a small axe he had on his belt. “Yer a dead man.”
Stiles should have been dead years ago.
“Uhm,” Stiles grunted, blood running down his neck, as he couldn’t spare energy to talk and snapped the protruding arrow shaft with his free hand, then reached behind him and pulled the rest of it out from the slippery tip.
Bolt shrugged his shoulders, licked the blood running down his cheek from his lips and rushed him.
Dying is a fuckin’ skill, but death is a connivin’ ruffian, Stiles thought feverishly his vision blurring. Bolt went at him with the axe, but Stiles jerked aside on instinct and slashed downwards, barely catching the retreating arm at the wrist, opening the veins there. Bolt groaned through his teeth, the axe clanking down between them and knifed him in the gut, the blade going through the cuirass, the tip penetrating the chainmail.
You never know when yer clock is about to run out.
By the time you realize it, it’s too fuckin’ late.
Stiles felt the deep cut, but he’d made peace with himself a long time ago and didn’t worry about it. The pirate used the broken part of the arrow he still had in his hand to viciously stab Bolt in the neck. The ranger jerked away feeling it going in, but Stiles raised his saber when he did and cut him once across the face.
Bolt died at the same time Norec got hacked down by Lear and just before Dob succumbed to his injuries after badly injuring Edge, who sacrificed an arm to slay the big Cofol. Stiles didn’t see any of the above as he was stumbling towards the staircase trying to make it downstairs, but his legs failed him right at the top and went down on his knees with a frustrated moan.
Ah, gods darn it, he thought sourly, gulping down blood, when the old mercenary came slowly up the staircase like Oras shadow. Fuck was his name? He didn’t remember it.
Ah, yeah.
It rhymes wit fear.
Lear kneeled near him, a sad expression on his face. The sun rising over them, revealed wrinkles as deep as scars. He glanced towards the spot Bolt had fallen and sighed.
“Where is she son? The tower?” Lear asked tiredly, as if he didn’t really want to be doing this shite at this stage in his life.
Stiles ogled his sole eye, to better see him.
“Ain’t scared… of ye mate,” he hissed and it was the truth.
Stiles couldn't feel anything.
Lear smacked his lips and got up with a grunt.
“Wise men know when to make a deal. All this carnage, it’s on her,” the aged mercenary told him and reached for his sword.
“Yer anglin’… for a deal?” Stiles queried with a murmur, thinking of Anne. The thought strangely comforting, inappropriately pleasant for the place and time.
Cursed be Abrakas, who cares?
“That was afore. I’m not the man for that,” Lear explained, once again sounding sad. “This is the butcher’s bill son,” the old mercenary added and placing the tip of the blade on his chest very professionally, pushed down and run a strangely grinning Stiles right through.
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read it at Royalroad : https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/46739/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms
& https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/47919/lure-o-war-the-old-realms
Scribblehub https://www.scribblehub.com/series/542002/touch-o-luck-the-old-realms/
& https://www.scribblehub.com/series/547709/the-old-realms/