Lord Remy Van Calcar had three sons
The firstborn they found bound in bloody leather thongs
Deep in them reeds where the air cries in squishes.
The feared Wolffish still roams the bogs writing wrongs
Rotten, whispery murmurs, bones and untold buried riches
The third be lording in Pascor and in ‘em sultry songs
While he tends to the blue lobster lass’ wishes
Old-Hag singing amidst the Wolf-fishes
Thou should fear the lake witch’s wishes
-
The ancient Fenlands Song
Here the full controversial verses of its first turn
(Circa 193)
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Lord Ton Van Calcar
Maiden’s War
Part IV
-The Wolffish-
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[https://i.postimg.cc/MHm78Yhk/PARCOR-CITY-PLAN-v2.jpg]
Ulf Vicard, his bodyguard, waved the Mayor’s man away to give Ton some time to catch his breath. He’d ridden fast from the port district upon hearing of the assault on the Citadel, but by the time he arrived, the situation had sort of resolved itself.
“Jos,” he greeted Lord Hagels, his Treasurer and the disheveled Baron of the Isles gave a nod with his head from across the room.
“My lord.”
“How many did we get?” he asked tiredly walking to a cupboard to find something to wash the bad taste from his mouth. He opted for a bottle of Aegium wine. Sweet and stomach turning enough to make you forget everything else.
“About fifteen of them,” Vicard replied. A Nord-Issir half-breed he’d personally risen in status and kept around for the stuff weaker palates couldn’t handle. He belched, the burning in his stomach increasing. “Mostly around the market and one in the slums. A brothel.”
Ton nodded and eyed Sir Blenk returning probably from a meeting with Sula.
“Anyone alive?”
“In the dungeons,” Vicard replied, his square jaw and black skin contrasting to his yellow-orange short hair.
“Weren’t the cells flooded?” Ton asked and Vicard shrugged his broad shoulders indifferently.
“Bring him here…no,” he decided seeing Aafke coming out of her quarters to greet him. “To the stables old building. Aafke, I’ll come to you in a moment,” he added. “The worst is over.”
She nodded, looking at the men surrounding him, but Ton doubted she’d believed him. Aafke was young but not stupid.
“How the fuck did they manage to slip by Sula?” He grunted the moment the young woman left them, directing his ire on the worn out Sir Blenk.
“They didn’t,” Blenk replied. “They came from the Fenlands. We’ve multiple witnesses confirming they returned there also.”
No way, they just waltzed through that plaguing place!
Is the Hag dead?
“Hagels,” Ton rustled seeing the Baron poring over a map open on a large conference table near the west wall of his throne room. One of the three used in his wedding, the other two he had them made into a coffin for Blenk’s son. Ton walked across the hall to approach the busy Lord of the Purse. “The west approach is out of the question. The currents coming from the river delta and the terrain make it impossible to land there, more so find your way towards Pascor. Has something changed, I’m not aware of?”
“They didn’t come from there,” Hagels assured him. “They landed either on the Isles, or the side of the Fenlands facing the north, where the land is sturdier.”
Blenk rubbed his face with a gloved hand tiredly. “We still control the Isle Port,” he informed him.
“Dolf is engaged with the Crabs fleet,” Ton murmured and made to have some more of his wine, but decided against it. “Someone bring me a beer, or a carafe of ale,” he ordered one of the guards and the man nodded leaving the hall and closing the door behind him. “Right,” Ton continued and stooped over the map of the Lake Hagels was reading. “You think they peeled off the transports and made a landing afore Wolffish Isle? Fishermen use those beaches. A good number of boats can unload troops there.”
“So they marched through?” Blenk asked looking over the leather map. “How did they know where to find the paths?”
“They obviously did,” Ton said. “If they managed to stumble upon our road… a big if this. Huge. Anyways, then it’s easy to find Pascor. You just follow it back.”
“The path is probably unusable,” Hagels murmured. “Unless there are a lot of soldiers cutting through the bogs, a lot of hands can open a path. Then it don’t much matter.”
There’s an elephant in the fucking room no one wants to address it appears, he thought.
“What does Sula say?” Ton asked.
“He expects an all-out attack from Duke Henk afore the end of the week. That’s a couple of days’ time, or less,” Blenk reported clearing his throat.
“Even if they come over the wall, we will fight them street by street up the slopes,” Ton said gravely. “They’ll run out of men.”
But having that sneaky motherfucker Hoff on his flank is a problem, he thought sourly. Unless Dolf wins the naval battle, then it’s still a problem, but not as big.
Unless…
“Hoff wouldn’t have risked all his marines in the Fenlands right? Without even knowing where to go? That attack came too close… we would have spotted the fleet. This was done in one trip. Right?” Ton asked thoughtfully.
“You think he has help?” Hagels asked and raised his head from the map.
“Obviously he does,” Ton grunted. “I could get lost in there and I built the fucking road!” He breathed once deeply to calm himself down, the burning in his stomach increasing and then grimaced. “There’s a ruffian in all cities, at least one,” he explained looking at them. “The thing is, why is she letting them come here? Or is she?”
“You are not suggesting the Hag is on our side milord,” Blenk grunted, his arms shaking trying to combat his rage. “Surely you can’t be thinking that!”
Ton smacked his lips, a severe tick on his left brow, then used his thumb and index finger to press at the bridge of his nose to alleviate some of the pressure and give himself time.
“Blenk it was a simple query,” he finally said hoarsely. “The moment I trust the Hag, I’ll be a dead man,” Ton sighed. “She killed my brother. Killed my sister. I have no love for her. But this is war and Hoff has no idea what he’s stepping into. What seems implausible to us, might appear logical to him from afar. Now would he have unloaded his forces afore engaging Dolf?” he asked them again. “If the answer is yes, or maybe, then we must know.”
“What do you want me to tell Sula?” Blenk asked furrowing his thick white brows. “He wants to counter Duke Henk’s assault and for that we have to secure his flank.”
“How is he going to counter…?” Ton asked a little perplexed as all Sula had to do was stay behind the walls and wait for winter, or reinforcements in his opinion. Let them come again and again.
“He wants to attack across the river,” Blenk replied. “The machines have him spooked.”
Witch’s tits.
“Anyone has any idea where that cunt Henk found it?” Ton grunted, but his query was met with a lot of blank stares. Vicard’s return livening the atmosphere somewhat.
“Milord,” The trusted warrior reported. “The prisoner is in the stables.”
Hagels raised his head with a perplexed frown. “What prisoner?” He hadn’t heard them talking about it earlier.
“You sit this one out Jos,” Ton replied with a thin smile. “But do visit the Mayor to learn whether the citizens of Pascor are ready to murder us yet, or not. We have to know how much wiggle room we have here.”
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Shit.
The blood spurt had sprayed him in the face. Ton turned away and used a dirty cloth to clean some of the gore away.
“I nicked a vein milord,” Vicard apologized, trying to stop the bleeding applying a tourniquet on the man's almost severed right arm. The Tollor soldier squirming in pain, his muffled cries through the cloth Vicard had shoved in his mouth nigh disturbing to the animals.
“Difficult not to,” Ton noted dryly and stooped over the soldier again. “Hey, you’ve got another arm. So this isn’t a total loss. Now I’ll make another question, or two. This time I want aye, or nays for answer. Free his mouth,” he ordered Vicard and waited for his man to finish the task afore asking gruffly.
“More than a thousand?”
The whimpering prisoner nodded grinding his teeth. Jolts of agony making him squirm this way and that on the chair.
“Do they know the road?” Ton asked, forgiving him for not managing to speak immediately.
“Aye… gods!” The soldier cried out.
“Hmm. Tell the truth now and all this will be over. What about the Hag?” Ton queried.
“Ah… it hurts so much. Please. I don’t know…”
“You know there’s a vile witch living in the swamp, right?” Ton continued patiently.
“No… what… witch?”
Damnit, Ton cursed and used the bloody cloth to clean his face some more. They didn’t meet her at all.
Is the Hag dead then? Was her fucking up his wedding a last act of malice towards his family?
Is that it you vile witch? Have you kicked the bucket at last?
“Cut a bit of the other arm milord? Or use the screws?” Vicard asked unsure, bloody steel bonesaw in hand, the Tollor soldier gasping in horror. He ogled his eyes pleadingly unable to speak.
“Huh? No reason,” Ton replied and the soldier all but cried out in hope afore the Lord of Pascor finished his thought. “Just kill him and toss his body in the bogs with the others.”
> An increasingly worried Sula watched as the First Foot regrouped, a portion of it securing the north flank against another attack from Gatrell’s cavalry. Henk had his reserve troops, mainly Tollor’s force that had stayed beyond the Serene (around two thousand soldiers) brought over. It was most of his force, as the Duke had left the north flank across the north docks guarded by scouts and a detachment of regulars. The failed attempts to take the fishing village the previous month had soured him to that option.
>
> His decision heavily influenced by the presence of Tollor’s marines, almost twelve hundred well-trained men -though the number had been given as high as two thousand, inside the Fenlands. With that flanking force on Sula’s south he trusted that if he engaged the by now crumbling and poorly manned walls of Pascor directly, the defenders would retreat further inside the city. Once there panic and citizens turning on Lord Ton could probably seal Pascor’s fate.
>
> Sula fortified main street arteries and the houses, blocked access to the north part of the city, but Pascor was built in such a way that it was easy for an attacker to penetrate the large south vines field, all the way to the small lake before the East Gates and cut the city in two. Especially if an attack from the south overwhelmed or knocked out the Citadel’s defenses.
>
> You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
>
> The biggest reason for not favoring a fighting retreat was that Henk could receive reinforcements from Badum, or Riverdor. Even if Tollor couldn’t commit more troops, the other two larger cities could. Despite the losses in men due to the catastrophe in Rida, the Van Durren had the bigger pool to replenish their manpower, even to a lesser extent. Sula had nothing, but Lord Ton’s hope that Brownfort would support him. Even if he did, the Baron might come too late and if Lord Ton was overthrown, then the Fourth would have found itself in enemy territory and without any allies at all.
>
> Lord Ton, luckily for the Legatus, had returned to the city and took control of the situation from the slow moving Baron Hagels. The Duke had spent most of the siege in the half a day away Port District worrying about Tollor’s fleet. His fear of a landing to his rear, where the terrain was more favorable, was alleviated when news finally reached him that Pascor’s defending fleet had found, fought and eventually won against Hoff’s invading force.
>
> The caveat being that the force had already landed in the Fenlands and was now moving against him. Lord Ton had around eight hundred men, plus Marlene’s Brutes that could be used to defend the south flank, where the walls had been ruined by the encroaching swamp. He had the option to wait for the Tollor marines to come out of the Fenlands and defend the Citadel, or venture forth into the wilderness himself.
>
> Sula proposed, quite unsurprisingly an attack. They knew the way they were coming, he elucidated in a very long and tense war council that dragged deep into the night. Lord Ton wasn’t enthusiastic about fighting in the Fenlands, but the Legatus suggestion while risky held merit. The men knew the land, they also feared as much as respected it, but Hoff’s men had no idea what they were getting into.
>
> So he begrudgingly agreed to Sula’s bold plan, deciding to lead the men himself and ordered Sir Dolf that was to bring the battered fleet to port along Pascor’s marines and then inside the city, to instead turn around and follow the remnants of Tollor’s fleet that were ahead of them.
>
> If Hoff’s remaining ships didn’t lead them to the transports, or if the latter were gone, then Sir Dolf was to follow and assault the fleeing fleet again if they anchored near the beaches west of the Clay Quarry. Sink the ships and cut off the Duke from his reinforcements.
>
> Sula didn’t want to survive the battle. He wanted to win it decisively.
>
> But first Lord Ton had to march into the Fenlands, win and come out.
“Milord,” Vicard said clad in hardened leather armour. The Wolffish painted on his chest, its gnarly mouth open and mean eyes glaring. “The men are ready to march over the bridge.”
Ton stared at the white gravel he’d used for his wedding. It had held up surprisingly well, the lack of rain helping and with only the dark spots where the gore had sipped in, marring its rather fancy appearance. He turned his eyes on the Grime Citadel next and wondered why he hadn’t moved away from the bog. There was land away from it. Good land near the mountains and material to build a better home. Aafke with little Krista in her hands waved at him from the tiny stone balcony and he nodded trying to appear nonchalant about their adventure.
“Get them started Vicard,” he rustled and fixed the sheath of his sword on his waist. Checked his dagger and the shortsword as well. The mail vest loose on the sides, but a tight fit on the shoulders.
“There’s word Sir Dolf captured five ships, sunk seven, milord,” Vicard said and Ton realized they were already walking over the half-rotten wooden bridge. “We lost four and Captain Assen.”
“Mmm,” Ton murmured, his boots thudding in the muddy cobblestone. The road almost four meters wide, but holding surprisingly well with dutiful pruning. “Assen was a good man.”
Vicard frowned unsure. “Whatever you say milord. The win will bolster the lads for sure.”
“Tollor can build more ships,” Ton said crooking his mouth. “But marines he can’t make as easy. Nor troops.”
“They are not coming out of the bogs milord,” Vicard assured him and Ton stared at the rows of fighters walking before them. As many following after them. The thing with the Fenlands was you couldn’t bring animals inside, not in numbers.
Any excursion involved a lot of walking.
Swimming, if ye were unlucky.
Wit creepy company, if Luthos wanted to make an example out of you.
He shivered all over at the thought.
“If it starts raining,” Ton commented glancing at the cloudy sky. “We might find it difficult to get back as well.”
“Only thing I fear is the Hag,” Vicard argued, as if Ton’s bigger concern was the blasted weather. He’d take on twice as many marines if that meant he wasn’t going to face the witch. “But the men say she’s gone. The Crabs killed her. Maybe she got injured at the wedding. She’s gotta be almost two hundred years old by now right?”
Wouldn’t surprise him none if that thing was ten times that.
Ton sighed and smacked one meaty bug away with his gloved hand as the terrain started changing and the wild flora surrounded them from all sides.
Gods help us.
“You and I know,” he rustled, glancing about him nervously. “The Crabs have no idea she was even there.”
“Where’s she then?”
Lord Ton didn’t know the answer to that so he said nothing.
Battle of the inner isles,
Hag’s Fenlands
Late fall 192
Part of the greater siege of Pascor,
Also known as the 'Battle at Serene River',
-Native name ‘Wolffish & the blotting mire’-
Sixth week
Eight hours later
Unknown location
“AAAAH-HEERLG!” the Tollor marine running towards him, both arms raised above his helmet to swing that long sword-cleaver of his, had his furious bellow turned into a yelp of pain, then a weak gurgle. He’d stumbled abruptly, left boot finding a sink in the mud and staying rooted behind him. The tall man had lurched forward, bone snapping at the knee joint and then shockingly tearing away completely, everything under the knee staying sunk in the mire’s hard grip, long sword-cleaver –the blade on it more than a meter- flying towards a wildly grimacing Ton that ducked under it losing his own helmet in the spastic attempt.
Lord Ton rolled on the loose gravel, reached the end of it and splashed inside the water that snaked around the rises all about them. He jumped out of it panicked the next moment, landed next to the still shuddering in his death throes marine, the man had nailed his neck on a sneakily sharp protruding root clean through, carotid to back of nape. Ton grunted in disgust when another Tollor marine jumped out of the foliage and trotted towards him, nasty steel-bladed harpoon in hands.
The initial scrap had turned into an all-out battle deep inside the bogs, with Ton’s force splitting in smaller and smaller groups, as men got lost inside Fenlands’ misty innards and its wilderness, which was in a sense exactly what had happened to Hoff’s invading force. A big, long battle, fought in many smaller skirmishes, further and further away from the carved road Ton had tried to build. Hours in it, Ton had given up trying to win and was just determined to make it out, as he had no idea if Hoff’s men would ever reach Pascor. They appeared hopelessly lost and that first initial success a fluke, or a cunning lure.
Ton parried the harpoon aside, darn thing scraping down his left leg, cutting through his pants and injuring his ankle. The Lord of Pascor retaliated with a brutal off-hand dagger in his opponent’s face, the thin blade snapping when he tried to yank it out of the horrific wound. Ton growled in pain, the half-dead marine recoiled spraying hot blood everywhere and another group of five came running out of the wilderness.
Blood in my piss.
“Milord!” an injured Vicard cried out, with a grim-looking Sir Blenk following right behind looking for him.
Ton opened his mouth to warn them, had no breath to spare and grunted, unsheathing his shortsword instead. The Tollor marines reached his position, recognized the bronze, gnarly-looking fish-heads, on his shoulder-pads and flinched half-excited half-scared shitless.
In a rare proud moment for that horrid day, Ton Van Calcar realized it was as scary for his enemies to face him in the swamp as it was for him and grinned a toothy smile. Initial surprise aside, the Tollor marines rushed him with cries of fury, loud enough to alert Vicard and Sir Blenk, as despite the day not being over yet, the thickening mist and diminishing light made it difficult to spot stuff in the swampy wilderness.
Which was of course outright murderous in a close fight.
Ton blocked a sword with his, the blades flashing where steel met steel and pushed it back. He stabbed a second man right at the hilt, mistaking his blade for shorter. His opponent lost three fingers, one of them smacking Ton on the nose, but his sword tip ripped his mail vest where it was loose, the rings breaking and the force making the bindings snap. Ton groaned and kicked violently the inside of the Crab’s right thigh, got punched in the left ear with a bloody hit and twirled around dazed as a trout brought over the boat’s rails.
The Tollor marine with the missing fingers went for his dagger, left hand fumbling with the handle in his panic, mutilated right spraying blood like a rotten sewer hose. Mud, roots and decaying leaves. Drenched foul smelling grass and bleached bones popping out of the sludge as he faltered backwards trying to find his footing. Vicard bodied a Tollor marine with a roar, the scrap losing any semblance of tactics, or plan and devolving into a chaotic brawl to the death with no visible, or clear objective other than staying alive.
Blenk severed an arm downing his longsword, the unwieldy blade striking the watery mire and sinking to the midst. The knight made to wrench it out, but got more than a foot of shaft through the back, the harpoon’s blade exploding out of his wrapped plate, a handbreadth to the left side of his navel.
“Duck!” Ton growled furious, the injured knight heard him and complied stooping over the messy bloody wound and Ton’s blade whipped with a scream over his back, caught the Tollor marine bellow the chin. It was just a touch as the man had jolted his head back to avoid the slash, but it was enough. The torrent of blood jumped a meter high and then fell like rain over them, but Ton paid him no more attention already moving to help Vicard, who was getting knifed in the kidneys repeatedly from behind by a cursing marine, while he was busy sawing another’s head off with his custom fat cleaver-like blade. The man under him, using his own hand to stop the gnarly blade going back and forth, but despite steel grinding on bone, it didn’t slowed down at all.
Ton stumbled forward on a bad, still bleeding, ankle and hacked at the Crab’s hard leather armour with his sword. Once and it bounced off the metal shoulder pads, the blade slicing the screaming man’s ear clean off, the severed piece of bloody flesh flying away into the mist. Twice and the injured marine dropped his dagger and twisted away, but got nailed under the nape just the same as Ton had followed him, the split in the armour showing white bone afore filling with gore. Thrice and the snarling soldier turned around, gawking scared green eyes huge, Ton’s blade plunging towards him without pity.
Ah.
Ton coughed a splotch of phlegm down and yanked the blade out of the caved in Tollor marine’s face, some of the pulverized brain matter spilling out of the split skull along gory liquids and pieces of splintered bone as the blade has turned in Ton’s hand at the last moment.
All Ton could hear was a swamp frog burping between croaks and Vicard’s pained groans.
A fucking mess.
“You need… to get out of the accursed bogs Ton,” Blenk grunted, the loyal Shield sitting under an ancient moss covered tree, blood trail leading there looking like just darker shaded mud. “We did all we could.”
“Hmm,” Ton murmured and stared at Vicard’s bloodshot eyes. The half-breed had his opponent’s severed head still clenched in his gore-covered hands. Drink as much ale as you can milord, was Vicard’s motto in life and die fighting like mad over clean frozen snow.
It was as close as it can be Ulf, Ton thought, but that was all he could do for him.
“I’ll take you back on the road,” he told a fainting pale Blenk and glanced up trying to catch a glimpse of the cloudy sky. The mist had cleared a bit, but there was no visible sun above them, or sky. A green and brown mouldy canopy. When his eyes returned on the still, misty opening deep inside the bogs, a young half-Issir half-Lorian man was standing two meters from him. He had stitched garbs on and no armour, but was armed to the teeth.
“What are you?” Ton grunted raising his sword. “Where did you come from?”
“I’m Nard, of the Wolffish Isles,” the young man said, a strained look on his face. “Milord.”
Eh.
A bloody native.
“Any more of them that way?”
The young man shook his head in the negative. “They emptied their camp and marched in three large groups. One following the other and the path,” he said in his Fish-Folk heavy dialect. “A village walked inside the bogs milord heading for your city.”
“What happened?” Ton knew they hadn’t face that many, or perhaps they had and he didn’t know.
“They didn’t.”
“Didn’t what boy?”
“Made it milord,” Nard replied and smiled toothily, a creepy undertone in it. The Fish-Folk of the Isles were a weird breed of people. All they knew was fishing and the ways of the Fenlands.
Ton glanced at the still breathing Blenk and gulped down. “You’re going to help me carry him back on the path. You know the way—”
He paused and stared at the blade the young man had shoved in his ribs. The blood pooling around it and leaking down that weakened part of his armour.
Little shit.
Ton slashed wide with his sword, but Nard jumped away from him nimbly and stopped two meters away, afore getting up. The murderous native had tears in his eyes. The Lord of Pascor tried to move towards the crazy teenager, but the blade had cut him bad and he stopped to get it out. The pain blinding, so he went slow at it.
It probably didn’t help at all.
“Why?” he groaned grinding his teeth, eyes narrowed and his injured bleeding ear ringing.
“She made me do it,” Nard cried, a harpoon held tightly in his hands.
Ton cursed and stumbled, then dropped on a knee frustrated. Fucking… bitch.
“YOU FUCKING BITCH!” He growled tipping his head back, the roar echoing about the sinister drenched moss-covered trunks, the rotten branches and the bloating already attracting hordes of insects’ corpses.
Ton used his sword as a cane, but failed to lift himself back up. The blade sinking in the mud slowly unable to take his weight. He dropped on his arse, breathing heavy and eyed the distraught Nard looking at him from a safe distance.
“Where is she?” He spat angry and the lurking Hag stepped out of the tall reeds, walking carefully to avoid the watery sludge, using her long staff to keep her balance. She stood next to the bleeding out Blenk, the knight on his last moments and grimaced.
“He loved your sister,” the Hag told him and chuckled seeing an incensed Ton trying to force himself upright. “Don’t blame the kid.”
“Curse his rotten lineage. Fuck his blasted village and fuck him!” Ton growled irate, too hurt to move and feeling his strength draining.
“I have,” the Hag replied and frowned as if surprised he’d figured it out. “But it is unimportant. I have to go now Lord of Pascor. Our deal is completed.”
“We… had… no plaguing deal!” Ton growled, his mouth flooded with his own blood and a bit of vomit, the hand kept on his sweltering wound drenched in it. It was warm and sticky.
“You ruled in your brother’s stead and brought the general here because you were greedy and lustful,” the Hag explained. “Your brother that is not as greedy, but has more ambition where it matters, shall take over. Make a couple of good kids out of your bride and honor his deals. And yours I suppose. I can’t have you backing out.”
Screw you.
“Drink piss and… die,” Ton croaked and looked about him with bloodshot eyes for something... anything, to use against her.
“You won this Wolffish, but you’ll never get out. One in two, it’ll have to do, eh?” the Hag replied tauntingly and with a sigh stared at the sad Nard. “Are you ready my clumsy lover? Let’s go visit the city and leave Lord Ton to his own accords. Sshhh,” she warned the livid, scornful Lord of Pascor. “Noise will hurt you.”
Ton watched her walking away, followed by the young man, until the mist covered her completely. He stayed there, where he’d dropped for many hours and was alive for most of them. Even survived stubbornly having his whole face slowly eaten away by bugs and succumbed to severe blood loss eventually, a quivering madman, leaving a gnarling bloody skull behind.
> The mud had claimed all signs of the scrap a day later, or two and a heavy rain that started a week after that and lasted for well over a week, took care of the rest. Nobody knows what happened to the Lord of Pascor, or his entourage and while there is an official version told by the few survivors that made it out –Pascor lost all but a hundred men inside the bogs- the story the natives whisper until this day, is that Lord Ton took the Hag’s place in the Fenlands after killing her. The Wolffish is still lurking about in the clammy mist, amidst the reeds and the Willow trees. Lord Hoff’s whole marine force had the same exact fate. Nobody has seen or heard from them again.
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