‘Do not be tricked by Lucien Blodyn and the Intelligence Service, for he seeks to rewrite history. They fight back against the truth, propagating that two just men are criminals for a crime that they did not commit; just like Horyd Coeden. It is not a coincidence that when power is abused once, it is abused again. It was forewarned that if such accusations were true, it might happen to us next. The truth has played out before our very eyes, that Lucien Blodyn should not be trusted. He has begun to manoeuvre against us, the eight great families. How can we trust the service to be working for the betterment of our nation when we don’t trust their leader, Lucien Blodyn?’ - Excerpt from an anonymous letter sent to a member of House Masarn; the sender found dead by Fadyn Lafant of the Intelligence Service, January 1263.
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The metal tassels attached to Cyffre’s cuirass rattled, metal against metal, as she, Rupert, and Cythraul stopped at the northern walls. It fought against the booming war drums that resounded from the shrouded distance, barely surviving against their auditory onslaught. They entered inside a populated building that writhed and bustled with activity.
The once lit crimson torches had been extinguished, the figures of the Praeteritum brigade were hidden behind a wall of darkness. Men and women intermittently updated the strategic intelligence division with the ever-changing positions of the Berserkers. Their leather riding boots, wet from the mud of the planes, left trails leading to and away from the building which housed the division.
“Commander!”
“Duke Honnen!”
A union of voices rippled throughout the crowd, and they parted to make way for Rupert at a wooden table. A map of the fortress was spread out at its centre, with figurines that corresponded to the different divisions within his army.
The figurines were individuated, providing a necessary distinction between the legions Hepa and Draig that were defending the fort, their respective duties of external and internal defence.
There were excess reports which formed stacks of paper scattered around the edge of the table. Those who needed to be briefed of the general situation picked them up, reading the reports. Rupert took his position at the head of the table, standing next to Marquis Tasai and Marquis Modau, the respective commanders of the legions Hepa and Draig.
Rupert took in the crowd, looking carefully at each officer that stood before him. Only the senior ranked officers were present. The Knights and Barons were defending the walls. It was vital that they understood precisely what he said now, for they were needed to control and organise their divisions in coordination with each other. This was the kingpin that would make them victorious.
“I assume that everyone has prepared in advance by reading our core strategies on defending our fortress. For those who haven’t, read up now!” Rupert said with a domineering tone. No one moved, the officers had finished updating themselves of the situation.
“Good. Your soldiers should be in their positions, defending the fortress. You will join them shortly. Remember this, we are fighting against an enemy that consists of 546 Knights, three Earls, and a Marquis. Only cowards cower before such numbers! In this army I know of no such people, only brave warriors, and noble generals! By following the commands dictated by the strategic corps, we all will be victorious.” Rupert clenched his fist, pounding it into his palm.
“We will light the planes, and from there you will need to be reactive in your defense. When you return, tell them this.” Rupert gave his final instructions.
“Some of you will be called upon tonight to honourably serve our nation by laying down your lives. But you will not die in vain! Wastage of even a single soldier is a sin so great and foul that it is unintelligible. Your lives are commanded by benevolent hands! Finally, for this, we have placed the order for victory. It is on you to purchase the goods, and to return with the fruits from triumph’s boughs!”
The room erupted into cheers with ranked officers moving to rally behind Rupert’s back as he walked around the table. Rupert moved with purpose, as instructed by Cythraul on their run to the building.
He watched to see the faces of his officer’s and their reaction to his motivational speech. While some cheered, others were stone faced. Coincidentally, these were a mixture of people whose names appeared on the list given to him by Cyffre, but also some of the replacement, scab officers. He recognised all of them, memorising their names.
‘Tasai, Gelis, Druan, Methiant…’
He stopped before a segment of the map, specifically, the north-eastern wall where the battle was to take place. He murmured a chant, placing his hand gently upon the map. ‘Flare’. He created a small orb of light in his hand with Malevolency, then he let it hover above the mapped walls for show.
“It is time for our first act. Let there be light, for we shall be disadvantaged when they attack under the cover of the night. Let them believe that for now our sight is limited. Once they cross into the moats and ditches, with no cover in sight, with nowhere else to go, that is when we shall rid them of their comrades.” Rupert slapped the table for emphasis.
“Now return! We await news from our scouts of their positions. Your divisions need you. Return victorious!” Rupert concluded.
A unified cry answered him, this time all officers cheered. The situation wasn’t unrepairable, he still had an army rallied behind one core goal. Glory.
As the crowd filtered out of the room, a man and a woman joined him at the table. It was Cythraul and Cyffre. As he turned to face them, a young woman in a wheelchair leaving the room caught his eye. She was gone by the time he checked again, so he quashed his thoughts about why she, Hanabl Cadarn, had attended this meeting.
“When shall I fight?” Cythraul asked bluntly.
“Soon. After we set the flares alight, you can kill their Marquis. You will add to the disruption caused by the deaths of their barbarian Knights.” Rupert explained.
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Cythraul nodded in response, and left the group, snaking through the wave of administrators and intelligence operators, and exited through the door. Cyffre, once again with a stack of papers in her hands, had a concerned expression on her face as she spoke.
“We have missed a report. All five members of the 7th watchers’ platoon from the Hepa’s scouting division were meant to report at the previous time slot, during your speech. They are still yet to return, and we are considering the worst…” Cyffre trailed off.
“They might not be dead, just yet. They could be fighting. However, their delay is a serious concern. If it is the worst, then it is an unfortunate case. We can only hope that the rest of the scouts remain hidden and can keep updating us of the Berserker’s whereabouts.” Rupert replied.
“What should we do if this becomes a common occurrence?” Cyffre asked.
“If more watcher platoons fail to report back, then we change our strategies. If this is an isolated occurrence, then we continue as planned.” Rupert said. Cyffre nodded, bowing her exit respectfully, and disappeared into the crowd of officials.
Her responsibility was intelligence and strategy, Rupert’s key advisor. She would update him if changes needed to be made, or if she required the plans to be changed as the battle diverged from initial expectations.
Rupert himself left the room, making his way to the interior bastion walls; he would command from the front tonight. As he entered the streets, he noticed the paradoxical wartime peace that descended upon the fortress.
The few civilians had hidden inside their homes, while those who were stationed as soldiers had left for the barracks or the walls depending on whether they were on active duty or reserves tonight.
While the streets weren’t void of people, they were far quieter than both the daytime peace and the night-time activity. Soldiers, messengers, and administrators caught his eyes as he walked past them, unobstructed by the once littered streets. They were clear from the stalls or wastage, but rather were clean and empty.
He reached the staircase that ascended to the interior walls. They were chiselled out from the end of the street. Rupert walked among the orderly files that split the staircase in two. Those who walked up were on the right, and those who walked down on the left. As he was halfway up, he watched as a woman ran in the middle between both files, a permanent parting for emergency use.
An entourage awaited him at the top, shepherding him to a central outpost that gave him vantage over the whole north-eastern walls, and soon to be battlefield.
Darkness veiled much of his sight, like staring into the depths of an ocean. However, it roiled and rippled with agitation, action taking place within.
Ephemeral flickers of light burst intermittently, pushing the darkness away temporarily, before it receded under the night’s containment. Great swathes of distance were covered between each instance of light, occurring in a space that was comparable of one end of the north-eastern wall to another.
Rupert rubbed his chin in contemplation.
‘Our scouts and the Berserkers are engaged in combat. Our strategic division should know this already, and should be preparing for a change of plans… However, the fact that they’re fighting between such distances means that the Berserkers are either strategically inept, disorganised, or spread out over a very wide range…’ He thought to himself.
“Write a note for Countess Cyffre and explain the current situation to her. Put emphasis on how spread out the brigade is.” Rupert commanded a member of his entourage. They scuttled away, running towards the building Rupert had just left.
He watched, waiting for more changes to the battle, yet there were none. The lights from the fighting had vanished, and a silence descended upon the battlefield.
On the exterior defences, the northern crownwork and ravelin, all soldiers were haunted with grim expressions. Their faces were lit by torchlight, held within sconces between parapets. A stern patience had taken over them, they were determined to keep their lives intact during the battle ahead.
The sound of an explosion broke the deadlock, and something rocketed into the sky. It burst into a blinding bright light that lit the fortress and the planes like the noonday sun. It swept the darkness within its harsh glare away, carrying it off a great distance, where it waited in bay to return once more.
A temporary stupor stalled everyone, though it shortly broke with soldier’s tightening their grips on their pikes. Yells of surprise erupted on the walls, infecting soldiers like a plague.
‘It seems it was worst case scenario…’ Rupert thought to himself in response to the flare’s appearance.
He finally took in the battlefield for the first time since night fell. The barbarians were everywhere. Men and women, suited in lamellar armour, helmet and war masks, climbed corporeal ladders made from Malevolency up the exterior walls. Some had managed to breach the walls themselves, jumping into a horde of soldiers and Knights that were stationed in their walkways.
Brutal fights were initiated between the outnumbered Berserkers and Cymorth’s soldiers. A Berserker crumbled to the cobble flooring of the wall with a pike stabbed through their neck. Another Berserker cut through the breast plate of a soldier with a thrust of a sword, their blade searing red.
For every Berserker that was killed by the mob of Cymorth’s soldiers, a soldier or two fell in return. The combat didn’t last long, though. Too few Berserkers breached the walls and died within the swarm of soldiers. Their Malevolency wasn’t strong enough for them to take a platoon or unit down with them. They were still mortal.
Rupert watched from the outpost dispassionately, assessing the battlefield. It was the only thing he could do to preserve more lives from being lost after their initial surprise attack. His assessment of the brigade was correct. They were broadly disorganised, which led to mixed results for the barbarians.
While they had breached the exterior defence, not enough Berserkers had made the climb. Their glowing, corporeal ladders were still held up against the walls, but were swiftly destroyed by the Cymorthian defenders.
There were some barbarians left in the moat, trapped without any cover in the water’s depths. They were swiftly pierced through like a pincushion by a barrage of arrows from the archers on the walls. An officer’s hand was resetting back into position to call for the next volley.
In the distance, the main forces of the brigade prepared for an extended conflict. They had stationed war tents upon the planes for the housing of soldiers, but also to centre their command chain. Their army had spread out, and Rupert watched as some coalesced to the tents, while others charged to where the planes ended, and the ditches formed.
“Write another letter. The Berserkers are about to begin tunnelling to the walls. Interior defenders are to go to the bunkers and listen for them. Exterior soldiers are to mine their own tunnels to meet them. Prepare officers to remain on standby. They may need to reinforce our miners, and certainly to explode walls.” Rupert commanded another member of his entourage. She made the journey to the intelligence department, as the previous returned.
As he spoke, a figure flashed past in the distance. They flew out of his periphery, but Rupert’s sight caught up to them as they ran across the moat, charging towards the flock of war tents.
A commotion erupted throughout Praeteritum’s encampment as the figure ran through it, stopping before a prominent tent. Berserkers on horseback charged at him, encircling him outside the tent with glowing spears, sabres, and maces, which pointed at him.
A man suited in lamellar armour, of quality evidently better than his peers, swaggered out of the tent’s entrance. He raised a hand, and the horsemen withdrew. The lone Berserker and the Cymorthian Knight turned and ran into the distant planes, away from both armies.
‘Damned Cythraul… Doesn’t like to waste time, I guess. But it eases our burdens.’ Rupert shook his head. The battle was to continue once more.