by Emmet Moss
Shortly thereafter, a company of city guards arrived and started gathering volunteers to help move the rubble. Both members of the Fey’Derin joined in the cleanup, pushing aside as best they could the larger pieces clogging the road. Eventually, the pathway was cleared, and both scouts returned to their post atop the outer wall.
Accepting a mug of water from one of the guardsman, Bider’s gaze wandered over the assembled enemy troops camped beyond bow range on the outskirts of the city. At least a thousand men lay to the west, another four hundred were guarding any attempt at a sortie from the south gate. A dozen distinct banners flapped in the strong wind, with each company standard easy to distinguish from Bider’s elevated vantage point. He studied the banners, and counted only one northern company among the groups to the south. Most were unfamiliar him, and his eyes settled uneasily on the symbol of the black hyena belonging to Khali’s Reavers.
Nudging Orn, Bider gestured out towards the standard. “What’s the story behind the Reavers?” he asked. “You’ve been around since the early days of the Fey’Derin.”
“The Reavers are a bad lot,” Orn said, spitting over the wall. “A very bad lot.”
“That’s what I know, not what I want to hear,” Bider pressed.
Orn gave his companion a deliberate once over before answering. “Over the last century or so, there have been several unspoken rules in our profession,” he began, “One, is to always minimize casualties of the innocent, especially women and children. Another is to always accord captured officers fair and just treatment. Although such rules were never written into the Code, mercenary companies don’t take kindly to torturers —”
“So Khali’s men tortured officers?” Bider interrupted with alarm.
“If you’re going to interrupt, I’ll stop right here and now,” Orn growled. “Now are you going to shut that trap of yours or not?”
“Yes, sorry.” Bider answered timidly.
“As I was saying, there are several actions that are widely frowned upon. The last revolves around a company’s base of operations during the winter months. Be it a temporary encampment, or a permanent home city, it matters not. You leave the men and their families alone. There’s plenty of time for killing when the spring arrives.”
Pausing to take a long sip from his ever-present flask, Orn shot Bider a suspicious look. “You won’t say anything to the Captain now will you?” he glared.
“Not as long as I hear this story…” Bider responded carefully.
“Well, it was three seasons ago, the year before you came on as a recruit, and the company was staying south for the winter. It was the first time the Captain chose not to take us back north to Briar, instead planning to stay near the eastern edge of the Caeronwood. Sergeant Fenton and the Lieutenant left the autumn campaign early with our newest recruits and built a relatively comfortable camp for the men. Rumours began to swirl by season’s end that a few southern companies had been contracted out later than the usual, and many mercenaries across the region speculated at what might be developing. Seems a few of the nobles in the Protectorate territories held the northern companies in some contempt, deeming them unfit to fight in southern lands.”
“But the Code states that the whole of old Caledun is fit for any company to do battle,” Bider retorted.
“That’s right, but it doesn’t mean it sits well with some of the noblemen hereabouts. The Code isn’t perfect, and men’s hearts can be easily twisted, even by the most mundane of things,” Orn continued. “After the Battle of Cobourne, where the Fey’Derin fought for Lord Erion Brawn, word escaped that an early winter bounty was out on our company. It seems the Captain’s choice of employer over the years had angered certain factions, most notably Lord Yarr and his ally Duke Garius of Imlaris.”
“I’m not familiar with that name.” Bider said.
“He paid a large price to spearhead the campaign against our recruits. They hit the camp before we could muster our strength and warn them. That twelve of the fifty-six men survived, including Lieutenant Burnaise, is something of a miracle. It was a slaughter, and our young men had no chance. Bran, that big brute of an Axeman, still sports a nasty scar under that beard of his, but at least he survived, unlike many of his friends.”
“And it was Khali’s men that attacked?” Bider hesitated to ask.
“Aye, it was. They showed no quarter. Women who had arrived from the north or sweethearts from the nearby towns, it mattered little. Khali’s men murdered them all. Sergeant Fenton died trying to protect his young son and wife,” Orn replied gloomily.
“The Captain was cold that day. He showed no emotion, and yet we all knew he was hurting. His vengeance was swift and as unmerciful as the unjust attack. He mustered half the company and ambushed Garius as he travelled between cities. No one walked away from that battle unscarred. Captain Silveron ignored the man’s pleas for mercy and took his head, sending it in a box to Gadian Yarr. Then we travelled north, taking a winding road through the Erienn mountain range, passing by Dragon Mount and the Silveryn Mages.”
“And the Reavers?” Bider asked, entranced by the sorrow etched in the storyteller’s words.
“We fought them the following season. Sergeant McConnal nearly destroyed their vanguard single-handedly, and the Captain, well he was both terrifying and awe-inspiring to behold. We haven’t seen those bastards in well over a year now, and it’s all any of us involved in that ambush can do to hold our tempers in check. There’s a reckoning still to come. The Captain swore on those dead men that he would kill the man who coldly slaughtered those innocents, and if I know the Captain, that day is coming.” Orn hung his head as he finished, staring solemnly at the ground.
A long moment passed, and Bider felt a pang of guilt knowing that he had reopened old wounds. Ignoring Orn as he took a second and then third pull from his silver flask, Bider slipped down the stone staircase and left his friend alone with his thoughts.
“This is the second letter that has arrived since we delivered our terms to that scoundrel,” Duke Berry swore as he brandished an official looking parchment. “That bastard wants his lovely mistress back in his arms immediately! Does he think I’m a fool?!” the nobleman asked.
“They’ll attack on the morrow, my lord,” Gavin replied immediately.
“How so?” Captain Sledge asked, a befuddled look upon his face.
“In the eyes of the nobleman, he has requested the release of Lady Farraine two times. Two times he will have been refused by the barbaric Duke Berry, a demon-spawned kidnapper,” Gavin replied with a smirk. “He knows that any more delays in attacking could spell disaster should the weather take a turn. He has done all that he can up to this point and will now watch from a distance,” he finished.
“Sound thinking, Captain,” the duke nodded appreciatively in Gavin’s direction. “If you have deduced the truth then we must look to our defenses. How stand the walls in respect to the heavy bombardment we’ve suffered these last few days?”
“Captain Draven?” Gavin asked the commander of the Helmsmen whose company was stationed along the southern wall.
“They are well supplied, that’s for sure,” the officer began cautiously. “They haven’t let up the pounding on our side since last morning. The wall seems sound, but I worry about how much it can withstand before a section merely crumbles under the feet of my men. I’ll be honest, my lord, the damage is considerable.”
“The city damage has been quite extensive,” Captain Sledge nodded in agreement. “The lower town, and anything within the vicinity of the eastern and southern walls, has taken a dreadful thrashing. Our men have done their best to keep the streets clear, but after this morning’s attack, I have more wounded than I desire under our present circumstances.”
“Yes, I’ve seen the lower city with my own eyes gentlemen, and we can only hope to defend the lives of the citizens. We knew there would be damage, so let’s
focus on what we can do to better prepare ourselves for tomorrow,” Duke Berry sighed.
“Is there a chance we might hit their siege engines?” Captain Sledge offered.
“They are well defended and situated near the center of the encampment. It would be a tall order to get within striking distance of those damned catapults… but not impossible,” Gavin replied.
“How so?” Duke Berry asked.
“The Fey’Derin couldn’t do it alone, but Lieutenant Burnaise and I were exploring this same subject earlier with a few of my scouts. If a diversion could be created, some men could sneak safely into the enemy camp. There are enough mercenary companies mingled out there to use as cover as they slip through the lines.”
“And this diversion?” the Helmsmen captain inquired.
Pointing to one of the maps laid out on the table in the council chamber, Gavin indicated a location to the rear of the southern camp where the main body of the enemy was positioned.
“We know that supplies are paramount to their success here at Garchester. With one unexpected winter storm, the advantage shifts to us as we lay warm and safe in the city. Although it would be difficult to stem the supply trains that replenish the garrison, one quick feint could draw enough attention away from where I’d send my men. If we can turn as many eyes as possible to the rear of the camp, we might have one opportune moment to strike the siege engines.”
“A feint is possible, but those men would have to be on mounts. How else would they return to the city before their escape route is cut off? You are asking my men to commit suicide—” Captain Sledge bellowed angrily.
“I would never ask that of any man, let alone an entire company,” Gavin responded. “The soldiers will be well provisioned and would strike hard and fast. Once the supply station is in disarray, they flee to the south and away from the combat. Upon reaching the treeline, they could turn east and head to the foothills,” Gavin finished.
“I would commit no fewer than twenty,” Duke Berry commented while studying the map intently. “But no more than thirty. We need able bodies here in the city. Still, this opportunity to disrupt their operations is one we can ill afford not to attempt.”
“I will commit some of the Falconers, my lord,” Duncan Sledge offered confidently, “But I will need to discuss with my officers who will be chosen from the company, as well as who should lead the endeavor,”
“We must strike tomorrow night. As the sun falls, I’ll send my men over the wall. The Eagle Runners will need some time to get in to position,” Gavin replied.
“Your numbers, Captain?” Duke Berry asked.
“Six or seven, my lord. Ethan Shade will be in command.”
“Alright,” the duke nodded in agreement. “We have scant time to prepare, gentlemen, so let’s not waste any more of what we have. You will still need to meet with your officers, and the night grows short.”
“Word’s been passed that with the morning comes an attack,” Orn crunched on a piece of hard bread, crumbs sprinkling down through his thick moustache.
“I guess they’ve finally tired of launching those cursed stones and want to get rid of us the honorable way,” Bider replied with a chuckle.
“Don’t take it too lightly,” Orn answered ominously. “They’ll be out to spill blood; be wary it’s not yours.”
Orn Surefoot had spoken true. At the first light of dawn, Gadian Yarr’s troops gathered beyond the walls of Garchester and began their march towards the city. Surrounded by the loud footsteps of hundreds of soldiers stepping in unison, the enemy army advanced while the catapults continued to bombard the city in advance of the main attack.
Bider watched in dismay as two guardsmen to his left were smashed by a large stone that landed atop the outer wall, crushing both men in its path. Bravely trying to settle his nervous stomach, he stood firm at his post and took heart in the courage of his Fey’Derin companions. The archers atop the wall loosed their first volley and a storm of arrows rained down on the attackers as they closed in on the walls. With muscles tensing, Bider drew his two long daggers in preparation for what was to come.
The first enemy wave reached the wall with a roar, stepping over many bodies pierced with arrows and bolts as they made their final approach. Bider rushed forward when the expected ladders touched the top of his wall, joining the other soldiers in pushing the heavy wooden steps from the ramparts. The sheer numbers were overwhelming, and a multitude of ladders were quickly moved into new positions. With great speed, the first enemy soldiers scaled the walls and joined the battle in full.
Bider soon lost all sense of time. His world was reduced to the few bloodied feet surrounding him. He thrust his blades outward and stabbed ceaselessly at the attacking men. He struck with swift precise strokes that demonstrated his exceptional skill in wielding the two blades. At his side, Orn Surefoot swore loudly and taunted the enemy mercenaries as they raced towards him. Buoyed by this brash audacity, Bider lent his voice to the rousing shout of the stout defenders as it echoed over the battlements.
Messengers rushed between defensive positions, valiantly delivering messages to officers and subordinates when needed. By midday, word arrived that a portion of the eastern wall had been breached by a timely catapult barrage. Enemy soldiers were pouring into the city as the defenders, Fey’Derin soldiers included, attempted to close the breach and regain the initiative.
Archers continued to rain death down upon the advancing foes from their rooftop positions, but for many hours, the battle to the east seemed to hang in the balance. A company of Helmsmen were pulled from their assigned wall in order lend aid. Orn and Bider soon found themselves hard pressed to hold their own defensive positions.
As the day progressed, Bider strained to lift his weary and cramped muscles, as he fought desperately to keep fresh enemy soldiers at bay. Worried about the fate of the wall, the sudden reappearance of a company of guardsmen bolstered his spirits. With another roar, this time with his voice hoarse and raw, Bider pressed forward. A strong hand gripped his shoulder as he moved towards a hole in the lines.
“We’ve earned a rest, lad,” Orn Surefoot said, the man breathing heavily. The scout spat blood from his swollen lip but was otherwise unhurt. “The reserves will carry the fight while we get water and food. We’re no good up there if we can’t lift our blades.”
Nodding wearily in return, Bider gratefully followed the Fey’Derin scout down the long flight of stairs that would take them to safety.
By late afternoon, the eastern breach was under control, and the forces of Gadian Yarr began an orderly retreat. The arrival of Sergeant McConnal and his platoon of heavy infantry had eventually turned the tide. The inexperienced city guardsmen, all brave but wholly inadequate at holding the opening in the wall, had taken grievous casualties. Yet they had garnered a new amount of respect and admiration from the mercenaries whose livelihood it was to fight. During the chaos of battle, eight of Ossric’s Axemen fell, and another half dozen were sorely wounded. It was a small price to pay for the safety of the inner city and control of the outer walls. Of Bider’s own squad, a half dozen had fallen, with many more wounded.
Bider was faithfully cleaning his daggers when word passed through the ranks that some of the company’s Eagle Runners had been called to the main command tent. It had taken one of the messengers an extended period of time to deduce the whereabouts of a certain Coren D’Elmark, as he had never heard the name before. The scout was known as Bider within the company and was addressed as such by all — except the Captain.
Captain Silveron had situated his command post in a large three level tavern slightly beyond the enemy’s catapult range. The Northern Steel was a reputable establishment, and even Bider had to admit they served a seasoned boiled cabbage that made his mouth water. The slight soldier straightened his company tabard before entering the side dining area currently being used as a meeting chamber.
Giving a slight nod to the other men gathered in the room, Bider took a seat near the window. The stately chair felt somewhat strange beneath his weight. The wood was a rare type of red oak, and he imagined the cost of that piece, let alone the other dozen or so chairs clustered nearby, more than surpassed the largest amount of coin he might ever lay claim to. Shifting slightly in a sorry attempt to make himself more comfortable, he gauged the other Eagle Runners in the room.
Rayn and Garett were both new recruits, and their nervousness was easily discerned by their eager, shifty eyes. They sat quietly, but exuded an uneasy energy that Bider could identify from his own experience as a new mercenary. Embroiled in a siege such as this would be memorable for the two men — if they survived.
Directly across the table was a man Bider knew well, as only two years earlier they had been recruits together. Bron was a tall, rapier-thin man who possessed a stoic grace that impressed most. While not a strong fighter, he excelled in plans of stealth and uncommon tactics.
At Bron’s side, idly puffing a black pipe, was Alec of Derry. A veteran of three companies and over a dozen years of mercenary service, the middle-aged man was rude, gruff, and generally abysmal to be around. His disposition aside, he was a talented archer and shrewd swordsman. The simple fact that he had lived through so many years of campaigning was a testament to his skill on the battlefield. As Bider caught Alec’s eye, his stare was answered with an intense, calculating glare from the man.
It didn’t take long for Captain Silveron to arrive with Orn Surefoot and Sergeant Shade at his side. “Good evening, gentlemen. I am glad to see you are all here and on time,” the Captain said with a hint of a smile. “If only I could get such results from my officers,” he added. Amidst the good-natured laughter that followed, most of the nervous energy in the room dissipated. As was customary, Captain Silveron spent little time with pleasantries when pressing business needed attending. “We are calling this little nighttime endeavor ‘sleepwalking,’ so I assume you men are all ready for a long night’s work?”
