Graf sent two young men out to spread the word, starting at the edge of the pit and moving inward. The most important thing from Rogers’ perspective was to organize the archers. Hand-to-hand combat with heavily armed knights would lead to many casualties, but long bows and skilled archers? They could cut the guards down en masse in minutes.

As the archers made their way to the center of the Pit, Rogers was disappointed but not full of despair. There were not nearly as many archers as they would need, but there were enough to do very real damage, and their bows were exactly as Graf described—deadly and made for hunting, not short distance target shooting.

Graf pointed at Rogers, and a group of men bearing short swords approached. “Graf said you were organizing the defense,” one of them said.

“I am,” Rogers replied, surprised yet appreciative that Graf so gladly gave up his authority. “Rao has left to draw the guards to this spot.” He pointed to a cobblestone design in the center of the circular road at the end of the cul de sac. “We need to let the archers empty their quarrels at them and then it will be time for you to attack. We are placing men all around so that the guards cannot focus their forces or escape. You and your men will go over there and await the signal to attack, which will be an arrow with a blue cloth shot into that tree.” The tree stood at the entrance to the cul de sac beside the road.

“Yes, sir!” the man replied, and he gathered his men and moved to the house where they would lay in wait.

More groups made their way to Rogers, and he sent them in various spots in houses around the road. There were women along with men, their faces even more grim than their male counterparts. They were willingly leaving their homes, trusting him with their future. They wielded cleavers, knives, as well as traditional weapons like swords, families united in defending their neighborhood.

Things were chaotic and all Rogers could do was provide the most basic of guidance while telling people where to go. “Aim for their joints.” “Swing for the neck.” “Yes, a dagger can be more dangerous than a sword. You get close and slip it through the gaps in their armor.”

As a positive, the forces were significant, with dozens more fighters than the Merchant Guards, even knowing the guards had Knights coming as reinforcements from behind. Rogers despaired that it would be enough, however. The weapons were barely serviceable. There were swords, for sure, but many of the men had pitchforks and hatchets or worse, while the weapon of choice for the women were sharp kitchen utensils for the most part.

Graf approached after Rogers had sent another group off to a house along the lane, their mission to block the road if the knights decided to retreat. “We are strong, no?”

“We have strength in numbers. We have an advantage in knowing the battlefield. But guards in full armor are formidable.” Rogers turned to the old man. “You do know that many will die?”

The old man stared at Rogers for a moment and then nodded his head. “We will lose many. They will lose all.” He patted Rogers on the shoulder. “Thank you, guild mate.”

In the distance a running boy approached. It is time. Their plan was sound. The archers were skilled hunters, and their bows and arrows were built to be deadly over long distances. The guards’ armor would protect them from many of the arrows, but some would find their mark, and the crossfire would sow confusion.

“The messenger approaches, Graf. Best to take your position.” Graf was to stay behind in his house behind the rooting pig, but Rogers was certain that he would be one of the first to join the fight. As Graf left, Rogers awaited the messenger.

Moments later the boy stopped in front of Rogers, taking in large gulps of air. “Rao has lost some men, but they killed a money counter guard.” The boy bent over and took a few more deep breaths. “The guards called their entire force to chase down Rao.” The boy toward his shoulder. “They are on their way now!”

“You did well. Go to your home and wait. Your job is done.” Rogers made his way to one of the houses at the edge of the cul de sac, the one with the most skilled archers, including the one who would signal the attack after the archers had loosed all their arrows.

Rao’s force appeared before Rogers had even made it up to the archers. He peered out the window to see Rao already at a lawn and heading to the open door of one of the houses at the end of the lane. He had left with a force of about ten, and from what Rogers could tell, there were only seven or so remaining.

Deaths already. Rogers closed his eyes. This will be a bloody day.

Opening his eyes and peering down the lane, he watched as the guards approached. They were slowed down by their armor, yet they still were fast, and they moved as a unit, in the rough outline of a formation heading toward a goal. To his relief, the arrogance of the guards was on full display. There looked to be about two dozen of them and five or six were without helms, presumably assuming that clearing the Pit would be simple and thus their worry was more about comfort than danger.

The formation was also perfect for Rogers’ goals. They would soon be caught in a crossfire of deadly arrow fire from practically all sides, and the orderly nature of their lines would make it easy to focus fire. The guards slowed down when they realized that they were approaching a dead end with a row of houses. They must have seen where Rao escaped, but they were disciplined enough not to march right into an unknown and defensible position like a house.

They did exactly as Rogers had expected—they stopped right in the middle of the cul de sac to chart an attack plan. “Now!” Rogers exclaimed.

An arrow with the green of the Harvest Guild shot through the air from an archer in front of Rogers. The arrow plunged into the ground at the feet of the guard at the front of the formation. He looked down at the odd arrow with the green streamer attached and then over to the house where the arrow had been loosed, but by then it was too late—the signal had been given, and arrows flew from every direction

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The first volley was the deadliest, and four guards fell to the ground, arrows sticking out from eye sockets or their skulls. The decision to leave their helms behind led to their doom. Another wave of arrows flew, but the guards had reacted and were moving around looking for the source of the attack. The chaos unfortunately worked to the guards’ benefit, as they moved in jerky motions looking around, leading to arrows missing the mark and bouncing impotently off thick armor. Arrows continued to fly as a few guards backed up the lane. Another guard fell, his unprotected head his undoing, like that of his brethren.

For a moment, Rogers was afraid that the guards would flee. There were too many to be stopped by the force guarding the lane, and he had no doubt that they would return with the overwhelming and deadly force waiting behind, which would not be merciful. But the remaining guards were moving as a unit, and that’s when Rogers saw that one of their number was directing them with his sword.

A leader. He is assessing where to attack. It was useless, however, as the arrows continued to fly from all directions. A guard screamed out, and fell to the ground clutching his leg, where an arrow had struck him in an unprotected area. Rogers took count as more arrows flew. Eighteen guards remained. A formidable number, despite the deaths.

The captain of the guards pointed toward one of the houses, and that’s when Rogers realized what he was going to do. To escape the deadly fusillade of arrows, they were going to simply attack a random house. Even in the tight corners and unknown terrain, the guards would be safer than sitting in a crossfire.

“Unleash the blue arrow,” Rogers shouted. The archer had arrows left, but he did as he was told. He picked up the arrow with the blue streamer, and shot it at the tree. With a thunk it struck the bark, leaving a fluttering blue piece of cloth behind. The signal did its job, and before the captain could move the guards to more defensible positions, waves of Harvest Guild members flooded out of every house.

They bore swords, knives, axes, pitchforks, cleavers, clubs, broomsticks, and even branches from trees. The knights spun around, preparing for the onslaught. There was no organization to be had when facing raging citizens wearing leather tunics, cloth shirts, and bearing weapons that were laughable and yet coming from all directions. Young boys, faster than their older guild mates were at the front of the charge.

A half dozen of them focused their rush and clashed with two guards. They were nimble and well-armed, with short-swords, but it was still not enough. Two of the boys immediately fell, vicious swings of broadswords leaving behind grievous wounds. But even as the two fell, the others swung their own weapons. The clang of swords hitting armor could be heard across the cul de sac.

A thrust from one sword, and a well-placed slash from another led to two guards falling with mortal wounds. Before Rogers could celebrate, however, everything was chaos. The Harvest Guild members swarmed over the guards, making it nearly impossible to assess the flow of the battle. Rogers turned and made his way down to support the attack. It was clear that their overwhelming numbers would defeat the guards, but at what cost?

As Rogers emerged from the front door of the house, the cost was immediately clear—blood flowed across the cobblestones, bodies lay in piles around the remaining guards. In the time it took him to get to the street, most of the guards had been killed, but they had slashed and stabbed two or three Harvest guild members for every one of their own that had fallen.

Rogers rushed to help, noticing a body clutching a broomstick on the ground as he ran by. The captain of the Merchant guards was dead, and there were three guards left, crouched in a defensive stance with their backs to each other. They swung their swords at whoever rushed forward, the three of them covering every approach. Their chaotic attack suddenly facing a tight group of desperate guards, the Harvest Guild members didn’t know what to do. The fear of dying during an attack had finally surpassed their rage. Knowing what had to be done, Rogers shouted, “I will attack. As I draw their attention, overwhelm them!”

He rushed forward, his sword in a diagonal, preparing to parry and then counter against a desperate defensive attack. The guards were disciplined and didn’t break their formation, which meant Rogers only had to deal with one guard. The trouble was that it was clear why the guard was still alive—he was a skilled swordsman.

Rogers’ parry and counter was easily blocked by the guard, whose own counter glanced off Rogers’ light armor, hidden under his tunic. No longer focusing on anything more than staying alive, Rogers didn’t realize that his attack had inspired the others until he watched the guard he was facing suddenly drop his arms, his sword clattering to the cobblestones. Behind him a Harvest Guild member backed up, holding a bloody knife. The other two guards lay dead on the ground.

They had done it, but the cost had been steep. The two dozen guards were dead but nearly fifty harvest guild members were also dead or critically wounded. Boys, men, and women groaned, and Rogers changed his attention from battle to medical care and triage. “You, over there, gather clean cloth! We need to bind these wounds.” Rogers looked to a man who stood in shock, overlooking the carnage. “You can mourn later. Help me move the wounded indoors.”

Graf had died in the attack, and everyone assumed Rogers was their new leader, even though he wasn’t part of any of the families from the Pit. Their trust in him was both humbling and intimidating. He had never had so many lives in his hands, and with the dead arrayed around him, he wasn’t sure he deserved it. As he tried to direct people, the cries of parents and family-members mourning over the dead filled the cul de sac. There was an odd smell that permeated everything that Rogers couldn’t identify, and it was only as he had moved away from the bodies that it was blood. He had never known that blood had a smell before. The realization made him sick to his stomach.

The wounded ranged from stab wounds that were most likely mortal to broken bones to gashes that needed to be threaded and bound with clean dressing. As he looked over, Rogers noticed a young man who had lost part of his hand to a slash. He was more of a boy than a man and reminded Rogers of Ralan, his guildmaster. I hope Ralan and Alard have a plan. Things will only get worse from here on out.

A shout caught Rogers’ attention. Things were too dangerous for him to ignore anything, so he walked out to see what was happening. His immediate fear was that the Knights had arrived with archers and would just pick them all off from the top of the Wall, but that wasn’t it. Instead, there was a young girl rushing down the road toward Rogers.

“They are coming! A huge force!” The girl stopped in front of Rogers and a few of the defenders. “A huge force of Knight Protectors approach.”

“How many?” Rogers asked.

The girl turned to him, and exclaimed, “Dozens! Some on horses!”

That was larger than the force Rogers had seen arraying behind the guards. The ones who intended to “clean up.” Had they found out about the battle in the Pit? Impossible. No one escaped. Rogers doubted that there were dozens of Knights approaching, but he didn’t doubt that there was a large force, along with the cavalry he had glanced. Maybe a White Guard witnessed the battle from the Wall.

He couldn’t risk it. The potential defense of the Pit against the Knights he had seen following the guards would have been even worse than what had just occurred, yet he considered it possible. But with the potential of a more formidable force approaching, Rogers decided that such risks of life were no longer worth any price. Turning to the others, Rogers said, “The defense of the Pit is at an end. Our goal now is to get to safety.” Rogers looked up the lane. It was empty, but he knew that Knights were approaching. We need to escape. But how?