At any given point, scores of sentinels could be seen on the walls. In addition, every turret had a handful of archers keeping watch. Under the pale moon, they looked for anything that might arouse suspicion in the blanket of night covering the approach to Middanhal. The reflection of moonlight in a helmet. The quick flash of a torch otherwise hidden under a cloak. Any kind of movement in the dark. Even just the sound of anything besides the wind or the footfall of patrolling defenders.
The blackboots left no such trace. Their clothing made them part of the night, and they moved without causing the slightest stir. Cautiously, three dozen of these scouts crept forward, spread across the wide area that led to the walls. They crawled among the rotting bodies of their own soldiers, abandoned wicker screens, and destroyed stone throwers until they came close enough to count the defenders, who took no notice. As quietly as they had approached, the blackboots returned to their captain to inform him of the garrison.
With this knowledge, Sikandar gave his commands. The order rapidly spread down the ranks, and five columns of soldiers set into motion against different parts of the wall.
~~~~
"I can't believe we got night duty," Nicholas complained. He rubbed his hands together by a brazier, where a few coals burned to provide light and heat.
"You've said that three times," Quentin growled.
"Well, there's no sign of dawn yet, so be prepared to hear it again." The other archer yawned and leaned against the parapet. They stood atop one of the many turrets that adorned the fortifications of Middanhal. East and west they had the other towers along with the inner and outer walls. If they looked north, the city itself could be seen. But their eyes were turned south.
"Don't take cover against the wind," Quentin admonished him. "It'll help to keep you awake." As if summoned, the cold night breeze swept over them, making Nicholas shiver a little.
"To think I could be warm in bed," Nicholas said with longing.
His companion glanced at him before returning his attention to the darkness beyond the fortifications. "You should have slept after the fight, like I did."
"I had to let Ellen know I was safe," Nicholas protested. "She’s worried sick, every day I’m on the walls."
"I’m sure that was it." Quentin narrowed his eyes. "Hey, look over there."
"Where?"
"At the only thing that’s not pitch-black," the other archer told him, pointing over the parapet. "Is that red? Dark red?"
"Hard to tell." Next to him, Nicholas strained his eyes. "Could just be another body. There’s plenty of them out there."
"Too much of it to be just a single corpse – it’s moving!" Quentin exclaimed. "There’s movement!"
"It’s the same direction as the wind. Could just be that."
"And if it isn’t?"
"Do we – what should we do?" asked Nicholas.
"Let’s see if we can make sure." Nearby, a great torch stood unlit. Quentin ripped a piece of the oil-soaked rag and tied it around an arrow. Next, he stuck it into the brazier, where it quickly caught fire, and placed it on his bowstring. He drew it back as far as his strength allowed and let it fly.
"It’s too far," Nicholas pointed out. "It’s half a mile or longer at least. You won’t hit."
"I don’t have to," Quentin mumbled. "Keep looking."
The arrow flew several hundred yards, igniting a bright streak across the night sky. When it fell, a small ring of light glowed briefly before it went out.
Moments passed where nothing happened. The two archers had their eyes pooled, staring into the dark. Finally, something moved again, but in a different direction than before, going around where the arrow had landed – against the wind.
"It’s them," Quentin declared with clenched jaw. "Make the signal!"
Nicholas grabbed the large torch next to them and ignited it in the brazier. He ran to the other side of the turret, facing the city, and swung the flame wildly.
Meanwhile, Quentin moved over to open the hatch that led inside the tower. "They’re attacking!"
~~~~
As signals spread across the defences, the outlanders abandoned stealth to favour speed. They rushed forward to cover the final distance, raising ladders in five different places. Every available soldier of the garrison gathered in those locations, assembling on the outer wall to beat back the assault or buy time for reinforcements. Order troops, peasant levies, mercenaries, rivermen, heathmen, and foresters, everyone available. Armed with spears, swords, axes, clubs, bows and more, they heard the dreaded sound as the ladders hooked onto the stonework. Gripping their weapons tightly, they stood ready.
With screams to inspire dread, shadow warriors leapt over the parapet. They disdained every blow made against them, moving in close with short swords to fell defenders left and right. Behind them, soldiers came with fire pots, creating havoc. Bursts of flame lit up across the walls followed by the screams of dying men to disturb the night sky.
~~~~
Once their feet touched stonework, the outlanders had only one purpose. Led by the shadow warriors, they slaughtered their way through the defenders to seize the towers, gain access to the inner walls, and flood into the city before reinforcements could push them back. If they achieved this, the Arnsbridge would be their next destination; once this chokepoint fell, the rest of the city would be theirs.
Unable to hold the outer walls, the garrison mounted a desperate defence of the towers. Doors were locked while their own soldiers still fought outside, leaving them to die. Barricades were made from anything that might serve the need. These measures could not defend, only delay, buying precious moments. And still, the outlanders pressed on.
At the western-most turret, a shadow warrior leapt over the barrels and weapons rack blocking the entry from the outer walls. Taken by surprise, the nearest defenders dropped the furniture in their hands, meant to reinforce the barricade. Before they could draw weapons, the shadow warrior's swords sliced them open.
While other outlanders pushed to demolish the blockade, the dread soldier continued up the stairs. Blood dripped from his blades as he ascended the tower. On the highest step, an Order soldier waited, wielding not a spear, but a torch. Looking down, the shadow warrior saw specks of blood mix with viscous drops of oil. He snarled, raising his eyes to see the defender drop the torch, setting the stairs ablaze.
~~~~
Furthest to the east, a similar story played out, except for a different outcome. Butchering the defenders, the Godking's dark champion took the tower; storming up the stairs, the garrison could not hold him back. Behind him came a hundred outlanders, themselves the vanguard of a thousand; further beyond the walls waited another ten thousand to hear word of where the breach had happened. Unlike the worn defenders, all of them were fresh troops who had yet to see battle during this siege.
The shadow warrior kicked open the door that gave access to the inner walls. A spear came against him, striking his thigh; barely flinching, the shadow warrior hacked the haft into pieces and rushed forward to kill its wielder. Already in disarray from their desperate retreat, the unskilled levies could not mount a proper defence. Chaos ruled the fighting, where the shadow warrior excelled. Peasant boys from the villages of Vale or Isarn died, one after the other. And all the while, more and more outlanders stormed up the walls, filling the outer walls and pressing onto the inner counterpart. Step by step, they pushed towards the nearest staircase that led from the fortifications into the city itself.
Another defender fell. His comrades wavered. Death stalked the walls on this gruesome night in the shape of a terrible warrior with yellow eyes behind a steel mask. Whether struck by arrow or blade or club, he continued to advance, barely bleeding regardless of wounds sustained.
Amidst the howling gale and pained screams, another sound began to resonate; the beating of hooves against cobbled stones reached the men on the walls. Distant at first, but rising swiftly. At the foot of the staircase, the riders abandoned their mounts and pushed their way forward. Reaching the fighting, warriors in surcoats with a golden dragon threw themselves into the fray. Alaric and Glaukos, names already known to many, led the charge. They struck as the tip of a lightning bolt, shocking the outlanders and stalling their advance. Behind them, wielding his blade of sea-steel, came Brand.
"The kingthanes!"
"It's the king!"
"The king fights with us!"
"Dragonheart!"
Thirty men wearing the golden dragon filled the wall. In heavy armour and highly adept at close combat, they held the outlanders at bay.
Yet while their skill might measure up against the shadow warrior, they could not cause him injury. Still he fought on until his fell eyes saw the blade in Brand's hand. With a scream more suited for a beast, he leapt forward.
His eagerness became his undoing; taking a step back, Brand evaded the blow aimed at his throat and swiftly retaliated. His blade buried itself in the shadow warrior's chest, tearing unholy flesh apart. With a kick, Brand pushed his enemy back to free his sword. Stumbling, the dreaded warrior fell from the inner wall down to the outer among the outlanders still trying to push into the city.
Seeing the Godking's champion dead, the Anausa broke. With loud cries and fearful shouts, they turned back, fleeing from the fight.
~~~~
At a third point of contention, the outlanders had also reached the inner wall. But their advance had been halted; soldiers of Belvoir, hardened from previous battles against the king of Ealond, pulled back and regrouped. They presented a host of spears on the narrow path, slowing down even the fearsome shadow warrior.
At a standstill, the outlanders called for more fire pots to disrupt the defenders' lines. The decision came too late; down the other side of the wall, a contingent of Order soldiers arrived. Led by a score of knights, they punched into the attackers, caught between the drakonians and the rivermen.
The shadow warrior looked behind to see the soldiers wearing the Star; turning his eyes ahead, the same mass of spears awaited him. Growling, he jumped over the parapet from the inner wall to the outer. Another retreat was sounded. One after the other, as reinforcements arrived, the garrison beat back the incursions. As the sun rose to an early dawn, the defenders breathed a sigh of relief.
At any given point, scores of sentinels could be seen on the walls. In addition, every turret had a handful of archers keeping watch. Under the pale moon, they looked for anything that might arouse suspicion in the blanket of night covering the approach to Middanhal. The reflection of moonlight in a helmet. The quick flash of a torch otherwise hidden under a cloak. Any kind of movement in the dark. Even just the sound of anything besides the wind or the footfall of patrolling defenders.
The blackboots left no such trace. Their clothing made them part of the night, and they moved without causing the slightest stir. Cautiously, three dozen of these scouts crept forward, spread across the wide area that led to the walls. They crawled among the rotting bodies of their own soldiers, abandoned wicker screens, and destroyed stone throwers until they came close enough to count the defenders, who took no notice. As quietly as they had approached, the blackboots returned to their captain to inform him of the garrison.
With this knowledge, Sikandar gave his commands. The order rapidly spread down the ranks, and five columns of soldiers set into motion against different parts of the wall.
~~~~
"I can't believe we got night duty," Nicholas complained. He rubbed his hands together by a brazier, where a few coals burned to provide light and heat.
"You've said that three times," Quentin growled.
"Well, there's no sign of dawn yet, so be prepared to hear it again." The other archer yawned and leaned against the parapet. They stood atop one of the many turrets that adorned the fortifications of Middanhal. East and west they had the other towers along with the inner and outer walls. If they looked north, the city itself could be seen. But their eyes were turned south.
"Don't take cover against the wind," Quentin admonished him. "It'll help to keep you awake." As if summoned, the cold night breeze swept over them, making Nicholas shiver a little.
"To think I could be warm in bed," Nicholas said with longing.
His companion glanced at him before returning his attention to the darkness beyond the fortifications. "You should have slept after the fight, like I did."
"I had to let Ellen know I was safe," Nicholas protested. "She’s worried sick, every day I’m on the walls."
"I’m sure that was it." Quentin narrowed his eyes. "Hey, look over there."
"Where?"
"At the only thing that’s not pitch-black," the other archer told him, pointing over the parapet. "Is that red? Dark red?"
"Hard to tell." Next to him, Nicholas strained his eyes. "Could just be another body. There’s plenty of them out there."
"Too much of it to be just a single corpse – it’s moving!" Quentin exclaimed. "There’s movement!"
"It’s the same direction as the wind. Could just be that."
"And if it isn’t?"
"Do we – what should we do?" asked Nicholas.
"Let’s see if we can make sure." Nearby, a great torch stood unlit. Quentin ripped a piece of the oil-soaked rag and tied it around an arrow. Next, he stuck it into the brazier, where it quickly caught fire, and placed it on his bowstring. He drew it back as far as his strength allowed and let it fly.
"It’s too far," Nicholas pointed out. "It’s half a mile or longer at least. You won’t hit."
"I don’t have to," Quentin mumbled. "Keep looking."
The arrow flew several hundred yards, igniting a bright streak across the night sky. When it fell, a small ring of light glowed briefly before it went out.
Moments passed where nothing happened. The two archers had their eyes pooled, staring into the dark. Finally, something moved again, but in a different direction than before, going around where the arrow had landed – against the wind.
"It’s them," Quentin declared with clenched jaw. "Make the signal!"
Nicholas grabbed the large torch next to them and ignited it in the brazier. He ran to the other side of the turret, facing the city, and swung the flame wildly.
Meanwhile, Quentin moved over to open the hatch that led inside the tower. "They’re attacking!"
~~~~
As signals spread across the defences, the outlanders abandoned stealth to favour speed. They rushed forward to cover the final distance, raising ladders in five different places. Every available soldier of the garrison gathered in those locations, assembling on the outer wall to beat back the assault or buy time for reinforcements. Order troops, peasant levies, mercenaries, rivermen, heathmen, and foresters, everyone available. Armed with spears, swords, axes, clubs, bows and more, they heard the dreaded sound as the ladders hooked onto the stonework. Gripping their weapons tightly, they stood ready.
With screams to inspire dread, shadow warriors leapt over the parapet. They disdained every blow made against them, moving in close with short swords to fell defenders left and right. Behind them, soldiers came with fire pots, creating havoc. Bursts of flame lit up across the walls followed by the screams of dying men to disturb the night sky.
~~~~
Once their feet touched stonework, the outlanders had only one purpose. Led by the shadow warriors, they slaughtered their way through the defenders to seize the towers, gain access to the inner walls, and flood into the city before reinforcements could push them back. If they achieved this, the Arnsbridge would be their next destination; once this chokepoint fell, the rest of the city would be theirs.
Unable to hold the outer walls, the garrison mounted a desperate defence of the towers. Doors were locked while their own soldiers still fought outside, leaving them to die. Barricades were made from anything that might serve the need. These measures could not defend, only delay, buying precious moments. And still, the outlanders pressed on.
At the western-most turret, a shadow warrior leapt over the barrels and weapons rack blocking the entry from the outer walls. Taken by surprise, the nearest defenders dropped the furniture in their hands, meant to reinforce the barricade. Before they could draw weapons, the shadow warrior's swords sliced them open.
While other outlanders pushed to demolish the blockade, the dread soldier continued up the stairs. Blood dripped from his blades as he ascended the tower. On the highest step, an Order soldier waited, wielding not a spear, but a torch. Looking down, the shadow warrior saw specks of blood mix with viscous drops of oil. He snarled, raising his eyes to see the defender drop the torch, setting the stairs ablaze.
~~~~
Furthest to the east, a similar story played out, except for a different outcome. Butchering the defenders, the Godking's dark champion took the tower; storming up the stairs, the garrison could not hold him back. Behind him came a hundred outlanders, themselves the vanguard of a thousand; further beyond the walls waited another ten thousand to hear word of where the breach had happened. Unlike the worn defenders, all of them were fresh troops who had yet to see battle during this siege.
The shadow warrior kicked open the door that gave access to the inner walls. A spear came against him, striking his thigh; barely flinching, the shadow warrior hacked the haft into pieces and rushed forward to kill its wielder. Already in disarray from their desperate retreat, the unskilled levies could not mount a proper defence. Chaos ruled the fighting, where the shadow warrior excelled. Peasant boys from the villages of Vale or Isarn died, one after the other. And all the while, more and more outlanders stormed up the walls, filling the outer walls and pressing onto the inner counterpart. Step by step, they pushed towards the nearest staircase that led from the fortifications into the city itself.
Another defender fell. His comrades wavered. Death stalked the walls on this gruesome night in the shape of a terrible warrior with yellow eyes behind a steel mask. Whether struck by arrow or blade or club, he continued to advance, barely bleeding regardless of wounds sustained.
Amidst the howling gale and pained screams, another sound began to resonate; the beating of hooves against cobbled stones reached the men on the walls. Distant at first, but rising swiftly. At the foot of the staircase, the riders abandoned their mounts and pushed their way forward. Reaching the fighting, warriors in surcoats with a golden dragon threw themselves into the fray. Alaric and Glaukos, names already known to many, led the charge. They struck as the tip of a lightning bolt, shocking the outlanders and stalling their advance. Behind them, wielding his blade of sea-steel, came Brand.
"The kingthanes!"
"It's the king!"
"The king fights with us!"
"Dragonheart!"
Thirty men wearing the golden dragon filled the wall. In heavy armour and highly adept at close combat, they held the outlanders at bay.
Yet while their skill might measure up against the shadow warrior, they could not cause him injury. Still he fought on until his fell eyes saw the blade in Brand's hand. With a scream more suited for a beast, he leapt forward.
His eagerness became his undoing; taking a step back, Brand evaded the blow aimed at his throat and swiftly retaliated. His blade buried itself in the shadow warrior's chest, tearing unholy flesh apart. With a kick, Brand pushed his enemy back to free his sword. Stumbling, the dreaded warrior fell from the inner wall down to the outer among the outlanders still trying to push into the city.
Seeing the Godking's champion dead, the Anausa broke. With loud cries and fearful shouts, they turned back, fleeing from the fight.
~~~~
At a third point of contention, the outlanders had also reached the inner wall. But their advance had been halted; soldiers of Belvoir, hardened from previous battles against the king of Ealond, pulled back and regrouped. They presented a host of spears on the narrow path, slowing down even the fearsome shadow warrior.
At a standstill, the outlanders called for more fire pots to disrupt the defenders' lines. The decision came too late; down the other side of the wall, a contingent of Order soldiers arrived. Led by a score of knights, they punched into the attackers, caught between the drakonians and the rivermen.
The shadow warrior looked behind to see the soldiers wearing the Star; turning his eyes ahead, the same mass of spears awaited him. Growling, he jumped over the parapet from the inner wall to the outer. Another retreat was sounded. One after the other, as reinforcements arrived, the garrison beat back the incursions. As the sun rose to an early dawn, the defenders breathed a sigh of relief.
