Velinor nods. "I's know, my friend. I ain't complainin'."
You can sense the conversation threatening to rapidly shift off-topic, so you attempt to steer it back, dismissively saying, "Doesn't matter, anyways. Ain't what I'm 'ere for."
Velinor shrugs. "I guess it ain't."
An uncomfortable silence settles over the two of you. After a pause, you break it, saying, "I wish to hire your services."
This gains Velinor's attention. "Is that so?"
"Aye. I need someone who can organize us a force of archers. The sooner, the better."
"That's a tall order, my friend," he replies. "I assume ye've got some sort of… compensation lined up for any services I offer?" He hesitates, then adds, "Them services with Aurora I did as a favor on Darin's behalf. Don't go thinkin' I normally work for free. I'm a hunter, see, and…"
Velinor trails off, shaking his head. "Ahh, it don't matter. Keep talkin'."
You pause, making sure Velinor is truly done speaking, then continue. "Speak with Darin for the specific terms. What I need to know is if you're willin' to even consider it."
He pauses, running a hand through his black beard. Then he nods. "I's got one condition of my own."
"Pray tell."
"I get total command of the boys I once took huntin', and I get to run my own trainin' regimens." He then adds, "With yer oversight, of course."
You see no reason to disagree. "You got yourself a deal, Velinor."
The two of you shake hands, your gray eyes meeting his own brown ones. You see a dangerous glint in them. He sees the cunning glint in yours.
You've recruited a hunter to fight a butcher.
Next
-Six Weeks after Belos's Sally-
The cold in the air has grown more intense as the leaves continue to fall from the trees. Autumn is truly upon Kanton.
You walk the walls with your men, joining them in the crucial though boring activity of watching the enemy. Your wound still aches. Even months later, you still feel it. It's improved much since then, but you still notice it with every step.
Especially now, three hours in on guard duty, standing or walking the whole time.
The rebel formation has been oddly quiet. They've had the city surrounded for a while at this point. Not long after Belos's Sally, they advanced closer to the walls, setting up their camp at a distance of only five hundred yards. Such range is beyond that of your longbows, keeping them safe from attack.
By now, they've set into a schedule. Every morning, the rebels send out parties to raid the countryside and forage what food and firewood they can. By evening, these parties return.
Not much else changes.
With the recent weeks spent poring over numbers with Darin or hauling dead from the hospitals, you've had little time to bond with your men. You've had even less time to witness Obren's training. You only hope it has been at least somewhat effective.
You know you need to make an impression. The men need to know their commander. You make a mental note to put some time aside to make an impression. Maybe I could have Elya introduce me? The queen's word would go a long way.
All ideas for another time.
Next
You continue to march along the walls with a handful of soldiers following behind you. You pass multiple more troops positioned along the battlements, casually talking with those around you.
Most levies are unarmored, unable to afford any protection. Many that can have grown complacent and no longer wear it to guard duty. You yourself have discarded your coat of plates and helm, wearing only your hauberk and gambeson.
Some of the others are archers, deliberately forsaking bulkier armor for enhanced range of motion. They're sprinkled among the much more numerically superior infantry, wielding longbows instead of spears.
You're armed, like many of those around you, with a spear in one hand, shield in the other, and a sword on your belt.
Darin has done most of the command work thus far. He's been maintaining the army's order with Obren, while you've been trying to hold the royal family together. Though you know this can't last.
You must lead the army again. You must take command. Not small orders in the midst of combat, but the actual process of leading. Of standing before the men who you will order to their deaths, looking them in the eye and getting them to trust you.
Maybe you've deliberately put it off. Maybe you can't bring yourself to lead again. Maybe you don't want to lead again.
Next
As you walk the walls, you see a group start to form. Around a dozen footmen are clumped up on one section of the wall, pointing at something in the distance.
You idly wonder if you should break up this group. These men are not doing their duty. But the men don't know you. They don't know to respect your authority.
You really need to establish yourself.
Instead, you make moderate haste over to the group, wondering what they're so focused on. You lean over the battlements, squinting from the morning sun.
The enemy line is shuffling. They've left their tents. They're forming ranks, dressed for battle. Your heart starts to race again. You curse to yourself and stop looking.
I need to find Darin. I need to organize the defense. I need—
The sound of thunder echoes from the enemy formation.
Next
It's a deep rumbling that echoes across the plains. You feel the sound in your teeth. It rattles you, making you stumble back against the battlements. You look back out at the enemy.
Smoke begins to rise from the rear of their ranks. The wind blows it toward the walls, and you watch as it falls over the ranks, partly obscuring them.
Suddenly, you hear a low-pitched whistle from above. You turn your eyes to the sky, squinting as you try to make out what's causing the noise. A handful of black objects mar the otherwise perfectly blue sky.
At first, you suspect they're ravens. But the objects grow larger. The whistling grows more intense. The men around you are as equally confused as you are, whispering among themselves.
You haven't seen such a sight since…
"Down!" you shout to the men around you.
The world is drowned out by a crash so loud it eclipses all else. You're knocked bodily to the ground, skidding painfully across the castle walls. The air is torn from your lungs, and you find yourself gasping for breath.
You force yourself onto your rear, leaning against the battlement for support. Your vision is obscured by dust and the tears in your eyes.
The group with you is much in the same state as you are. Most are knocked over and gasping for breath. Two footmen right next to you have recovered enough to stand with the battlement's support.
Not a second later, an object traveling so fast you can hardly see it slams directly into their position. You flinch and hold your hand over your face, shielding it from the dust and debris kicked into the air.
The crash is deafening. Your ears begin to ring. When you finally pull your hand away from your face, the two men and the battlement they were resting against are just… gone.
A whole piece of the ancient Ravarian wall has been splintered off, taking the two poor sods with it. Panic commences across the walls.
Men run either for the cover or for the exits. Some are unable to move, either from shock or injury. A footman who found himself on the edge of the piece of the wall that was destroyed is resting against the battlement, his face that of sheer terror and panic.
And he has no leg.
You tear your eyes from the gruesome sight, supporting yourself back to standing with the help of the battlements. A different thunder begins to rumble from the enemy formation.
One much more familiar to you.
The sound of thousands of feet at march.
The enemy is advancing.
Next
You force yourself to your feet, releasing the battlements and shaking the dust from your hair. The panic on the walls is clear. You need to take charge.
Rushing across the walls, you shout to the disorganized soldiers, "On me! On me! Let's go! Form up, form up!"
You run across the splintered section, tripping slightly on the uneven surface. You catch yourself with your hands, wincing as pain fires through your palms and in the wound on your back.
Quickly, you force yourself back onto your feet and scale the gap back onto the wall, moving past the man with no leg. "Form! Form!" you cry, running through the panicking crowds.
More and more infantrymen form behind you, looking up to you to lead them. They look upon you with trust. Trust that you'll see them through.
It's just like The War.
You will let them down. They will die. You will let them down. They will die.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath, resting against the battlements. You open your eyes and look upon the enemy force slowly approaching the walls, hoping the sight of the enemy will bring your focus back to the present.
It doesn't work.
Stay strong, Arthur Hornraven. The commander must show no fear.
Hold it in. You know you must hold it in. Keep the emotions restrained. Keep them deadened. You've done this so much. Don't feel. You must not feel.
A second round of thunder sounds.
You're torn from your internal struggle.
Next
Your eyes are drawn to the rear of their line as the smoke rises once again. Immediately, you scan the horizon, watching the handful of black spots staining the blue sky.
You wheel around, shouting out to the footmen huddled around you, "Brace, brace! Heads down!"
Leading by example, you drop down onto your rear, shield roughly striking the ground next to you. The levies follow suit, dropping down, keeping their heads below the battlements.
There's a tense pause as you wait, pressed against the battlement for cover. Nobody moves a muscle. Then the projectiles fly straight over the edge of the wall, slamming into the houses below. An awful crash rings out as the roof of a residence caves in. You hope nobody was inside.
Without missing a beat, you pull yourself back up, scanning the approaching enemies. Commanding instincts kick in.
Six to seven thousand enemies, judging by the number of rows. They're moving at a steady march. Discipline is poor, clearly not trained professionals.
You squint, attempting to make out the composition of the enemy army. From your position five hundred yards away, such observations are difficult. From what you can see, the enemy is carrying massive scaling ladders, held aloft by men who run up and down the ranks.
Only ladders? You frown. Rade must be very confident to be trying something this risky.
With a deep breath, you consider your options.
While his seven thousand may outnumber the three thousand staffing the walls, and severely outnumber the maybe eight hundred holding this portion of the wall, you have another three thousand men being trained that you can muster. You can also gather the remaining on the walls, grouping them where the enemy may push.
Combined with Velinor's perhaps five hundred archers, these six-and-a-half-thousand total would have no problem holding the walls. If you really wanted to, you could utilize the archers and group up your men on this flank, preventing them from even setting foot on the wall.
However, if Rade were to see this, you are without doubt he would withdraw his forces before suffering too many casualties. If you wanted to bruise his forces, now is the time.
But first, you have orders to give.
Next
You turn around to face the hopeful men still bracing around you. You find whoever looks the eldest and bark to him, "You! Get to the royal palace and ask for Darin. If anybody questions you, tell 'em that you have an urgent message from Arthur Hornraven. Tell Darin when you find 'im to gather Sir Obren and Velinor and head here, fast!"
The man glances around, unsure whether you're actually speaking to him. You shout again, frantically gesturing for him to run. "Go, now!"
He does just that, getting up and sprinting away. You turn to another pair of soldiers, ordering, "Run down that side of the wall and get the men to gather 'ere. Move it!"
They stand up and rush away, leaving you to turn to a final pair. You give them orders much like the second, telling them to rush down the opposite side of the wall.
With the basic orders handled, you realize you must decide upon a strategy.
------
Zelek is a man unused to war. He's a dayteller from the city itself. He knows death, yes, but he does not know war.
The armored man on his right, however, does.
He took charge as the chaos set in. He radiates power and authority. Zelek suspects him to be around thirty years of age, with the scars and presence that makes him seem to be a veteran. When he claimed command, he did so without hesitation. And did so with such efficiency that Zelek felt like he had no other choice but to follow him.
More and more of his fellow countrymen line up around him. As Zelek stares down the approaching army, he feels a pit in his stomach. There are just so many. Each step of this force rattles the ground.
Zelek forgot how long it has been since he formed up. He feels as if it's been an hour, even though it's been but a minute.
He nervously glances at the men around him, whom he suspects to be in much the same state. Zelek then glances behind himself, praying for the reinforcements the man had called for to have arrived.
They have not.
The messengers have only been running for just over a minute, far from their destinations.
Zelek feels panic begin to set in.
Zelek draws strength from the complete and utter lack of fear on this mysterious commander's face.
The commander continues to scan the approaching force. He takes a deep breath and then shouts out, "Archers! Loose at will!"
Zelek can hear the sound of almost two hundred longbows firing in near unison. He hears the damage before he sees it.
Screams of pain ring out from the enemy formation. Dozens fall, dead or dying. The longbowmen begin to loose in a scattered pattern, raining hell down upon the rebels.
The rebel infantry hold their shields at the ready, providing protection from the incoming arrows. They march under this constant assault for the four minutes it takes them to reach the walls.
The commander turns back to the men grouped on the walls. "Prepare to receive ladders!"
Zelek feels something deflect off the top of his helmet, sending a shock of pain down his head. He winces and stumbles slightly but holds his ground. A split second later, an arrow drives itself into the man on his left, causing him to fall back with a cry.
"Shields, boys! We're under attack!" the commander shouts.
Zelek obeys immediately.
Next
The loyalist archers continue to shoot down at the rebel forces. The rebel archers shoot back at anyone exposed. Zelek watches, gripped with a mix of adrenaline-fueled anticipation and horror as men fall right beside him.
Some die instantly. Others are dragged by their comrades to safety behind the line.
The rebels desperately scramble to assemble the ladders under such heavy pressure. Those who attempt to raise the ladder are targeted by longbowmen, quickly being struck down by a hail of arrows.
The enemy archers focus upon the loyalist archers, but the walls of Wrido are well-defensible. Arrowslits inserted into the great stone towers provide excellent cover, making the men using them nearly unkillable.
The occasional stray arrow catches one of the infantrymen atop the walls, killing or maiming them. But the rebel infantry fall in droves. Though they've only been at the base of the wall for a few minutes, already at least a hundred men are bleeding on the ground.
The scaling ladders begin to rise.
Next
Zelek can see the ladders slowly tip forward toward the wall, reaching their apex and then slamming hard into the space between the battlements. Despite the brutal, sustained barrage by the loyalist longbowmen, the ladders have finally risen.
The commander, still on Zelek's right, reacts immediately. He rests his spear up against the battlements and rushes forward, grabbing the top of the ladder. He begins to heave the ladder, trying to force it up. "Help me with this!" he cries.
Zelek can see multiple other ladders reach the wall, and his heart starts to race even faster. But he obeys the commander. The commander knows what he's doing. He must.
Zelek takes hold of the opposite side of the ladder, while a third soldier grasps the center. After a count to three, the trio begins to push with all their might, trying to force the ladder off the walls.
The ladder is heavy. The weight is only increased by the group of rebels already ascending it, shields and weapons at the ready. He watches as the lead rebel takes an arrow to the side and slips off the ladder, joining the rapidly growing pile of bodies at the base of it.
Staring down into the eyes of the enemy, Zelek feels a mixture of fear and anticipation. While he desperately attempts to throw the ladder up and over, a part of him hopes that… the rebels make it up.
He wants to fight them. He has these weapons for a reason. He—
An arrow lodges itself through Zelek's eyesocket.
Next
------
Rosen is a man unused to war. He is a mere peasant from the far east of the country, recruited under the banner of House Mozoroff to fight at Wrido.
He climbs the siege ladder, a mix of fury and terror and adrenaline burning through him. His expensive chainmail armor has kept him safe thus far. Arrows dig into his shield and deflect off his helm and gear.
The desperate defenders hurl rocks and other debris down upon him and his buddies, trying to knock them from their ladders. A loud thunk resonates within his helmet, nearly knocking him off the ladder, but Rosen holds. His head throbs from the impact.
But he must continue on. There's no escape. One man holds the position below him, and one holds the position ahead of him, trapping him in the middle. All he can do is continue to climb, hoping and praying that the man ahead of him can speed up.
A cry on Rosen's right captures his full attention. The scaling ladder to his right, improperly sized and placed from the beginning, is thrown up and over by the defenders, launching the poor sods climbing it off. Those that refuse to jump are smashed into the ground by the weight of the ladder.
Then the soldier ahead of Rosen takes an arrow to the arm. He cries in agony and slips from the ladder, falling hard to the ground below. Rosen then realizes he's in front.
He picks up the pace, rushing up the ladder as quickly as he can but keeping the shield ahead of him. He thinks of his wife back home. He draws strength from this. He will survive for her.
With a determined cry, Rosen rushes up the ladder. Arrow after arrow strikes his shield. Another arrow catches him on the shoulder, partly penetrating through his mail. Blood begins to run down his arm as white-hot pain radiates from the wound.
Teeth gritted, Rosen continues to rush. He wields a battleaxe in one hand and a heater shield strapped to the other. Perfectly chosen for close-quarters melee.
Rosen is almost at the top. He glances downwards, assuring himself that men are following below him. And with a final, determined battle-cry, he leaps onto the walls, ready for combat.
A man stands before him, spear in one hand and shield readied. But instead of striking, he raises his shield and starts falling back. At the same time, he cries to the rest of the loyalist infantry, "Fall back! Fall back!"
The entire mass of soldiers begins to step back, the movement seemingly disorganized. All Rosen sees are cowardly men running away from the fighting. All he sees are those that he and his buddies will kill.
Were Rosen more experienced, he might have noticed how calculated the maneuver appeared. Disciplined or not, there was no panic amid the ranks. They moved sloppily but deliberately.
Were Rosen more experienced, he might have pointed this out to the bloodthristy rebels around him.
Were Rosen more experienced, he might have prevented what was about to happen.
Next