Vengeance of Hope

by P J Berman

  There was a howl from the ramparts on the far side of the wall, on the other side of the Preddaburg Gate. Craning her neck, she saw that the first siege tower on that side, despite being on fire in some places, had reached the walls and she watched as its door was winched down. With the door in place, a torrent of enemy militia hurled themselves forward into a storm of flaming arrows and burning fire pots.

  Despite the third siege tower on her own side of the walls still being out of range and shielded temporarily by the wreckages of the nearer two, Silrith had no time to watch as below them, the ram stopped in front of the portcullis and despite the fiery barrage, five or six Divisiomen climbed out from underneath it and on to its roof, moving nimbly despite their heavy armour. Seeing them climb on to the ram with their shields raised, Silrith suddenly knew why no wet animal hide had been put on top of it. As the arrows and fire pots battered them, striking one of their number down and engulfing him in flame, the remaining Divisiomen on the ram’s roof hurried forward, throwing down their shields when they reached the portcullis. Each took its bars in their grip and in unison they heaved upward. The portcullis gave a horrible creaking noise, though the walls of the gate prevented Silrith from seeing how much it had moved. The bravery of those on top of the ram gave heart to those below and more began to lift the iron gate. The creaking noises got louder and louder. Surely the gate wasn’t coming up? There was an enormously heavy lock in the gatehouse to stop just that.

  ‘Shoot at the ram! Shoot at the ram!’ Silrith ordered. The creaking noises were getting even louder and more intense. The enemy must be gaining some purchase on it. Silrith’s heart sank as there was a loud cheer from all below. The portcullis ceased creaking. Surely it couldn’t be up? Two more of the Divisiomen on top of the ram were struck down under the rain of fire, but it was too late. The remaining three leapt off it and took up their positions with their comrades under the ram. With one slick heave, the ram lurched forward towards the wooden gates.

  Then it happened. A spark. A small, arrow-born flame that took hold.

  ‘It’s alight! More fire! More fire!’ Silrith bellowed. Another fire pot was ready. Silrith picked it up, hoping that what they had left would be enough before the attackers on the ladders, who were now at least half way up the walls, reached the top. It smashed down on the top of the ram, bursting into flame. Most of the siege engine’s roof was now alight. The smoke must have been choking the soldiers underneath, but nevertheless, it reached the walls and there was an awful crash of metal on wood as the huge head slammed against the gates.

  The Defroni warriors were almost at the top now and Silrith had to smash away a glancing blow with her shield as one thrust his spearhead over the edge of the ramparts and he hauled himself up the last rungs.

  With a swift downward thrust, she split open the bare-chested warrior’s pony-tailed head while he was still on the ladder and he flopped backwards and plummeted back to earth. In a moment another was coming at her; the attackers screaming their battle cries as they scrambled over the top of the ramparts to clash steel on steel with Silrith’s troops.

  The defenders were holding their assailants back, but then came the terrible moment when Silrith looked up to see that the third siege tower had got around the burning carcasses of the other two and was almost at the walls some meters to her right. With a terrible screech, the door began to winch down towards them. Yet Silrith could only look for a moment as she was forced to parry a blow from yet another screaming Defroni warrior.

  Down on the ground, outside the walls, Jithrae advanced forward at a run amid the jostling crowd of advancing soldiers as more Defroni warriors climbed the ladders, swarming over the walls like a cloud of locusts. Despite the first of their allies having reached the top, arrows still fell, cutting down great swathes of men and women as they pushed forward, heedless of the two burning siege towers, desperate to get on to one of the four others or on to one of the ladders. The enemy seemed to have some other terrible weapon too and every so often a group of soldiers would be hit by something and they would disappear into a ball of flame to ear piercing screams.

  Jithrae kept his round, white wooden shield held over his head, blocking much of his view, as the hail of arrows continued to fall. He was ruled by fear, but even as he tried to slow down he was being haplessly pushed into the embrace of death by the relentless wave of warriors hungry for blood and plunder. Despite carrying a ladder in the chaotic first attack he’d somehow avoided combat; escaping as the units broke. But now he was being buffeted ever forward in the thronging mass as all around him soldiers screamed and fell, while officers tried to keep some form of order and with its roof ablaze, the ram still rhythmically struck away at the gates.

  In moments that incessant sound went from being in front of him to being somewhere on his right and before he knew it he’d been taken further by the momentum of the crowd and was on a ladder on the wall’s left-hand side. Without having time to think, he tried to get a grip while still carrying his shield and spear and started to climb, but something sent him flying and he crashed to the ground with a force that jarred his whole body. There he lay, flat on his back, stunned and unable to move.

  Inside the citadel’s walled courtyard, Gasbron surveyed his troops. By Silrith’s order, they had taken up position behind the Preddaburg Gate, where they listened to the repetitive bashing of the enemy ram.

  ‘You hear that?’ Gasbron barked. ‘That is the sound of glory coming to us! The sound of lambs so desperate for the slaughter that they would break down our gates to reach our blades! So, we’d better not disappoint them had we?’

  The soldiers roared and beat their swords against their shields as he raised his own blade aloft. At the front, with their pristine armour and colourful shields that denoted their unit, were Rildayorda’s elite troops, the men and women of Divisio One Bastalf. They had originally numbered five hundred and losses in the previous day’s combat had been minimal. They stood at the heart of the battle line, in uniform ranks of twenty-five. They were flanked by groups of dismounted Hentani, including Chief Hojorak and Prince Kivojo, as well as Blavak, who translated Gasbron’s words for those Hentani less versed in Bennvikan, causing a slight delay between the Bennvikan cheers and theirs. Behind them were a motley crew of militiamen, as well as some longbowmen waiting in reserve, taking the overall number to over a thousand troops crammed into the walled courtyard.

  All they could do now was wait as battle raged on the walls and the ram carried on hammering. Gasbron took up position with his comrades, almost subconsciously readjusting to the weight of the rectangular shield, which was heavier than the oval one he’d become used to since his promotion to the cavalry. There was no room for horses here though and he overlapped his shield with the troops either side of him. The Hentani did the same with their circular shields, creating a wall of tribal and Bennvikan military might.

  With one final blow, the metal head of the ram crashed through the oak gates, causing a loud cheer from outside.

  ‘Wait for my signal! Let them think they’re winning,’ shouted Gasbron.

  The buckled doors came apart as the roaring enemy militia charged in, but in their bloodlust, they had neglected to fully remove the ram. The obstacle slowed the advance of those behind and a group of only fifteen or twenty troops hurled themselves at the defenders. Gasbron almost laughed at their mistake.

  ‘Front row only! Throw pilums!’ he bellowed and a deadly volley followed Gasbron’s own weapon into the air in an arc and struck the oncoming militia, felling each of them down with ease. The briefest isolation was all it had taken. Now though, the ram was removed and a torrent enemy militia and Defroni warriors burst through

  ‘All units! Ready pilums!’ Gasbron roared. He took the whistle that hung from his neck and put it in his mouth. He thrust his sword out from behind his shield and straight into the torso of an oncoming militiaman, then ripped it out and deftly tripped the man with his foot, before slashing his throat for good meas
ure.

  ‘Throw pilums!’ he shouted.

  A vast, dense wave of shafts flew over Gasbron’s head from behind, but the enemy charged blindly onward into the storm of death, filling the air with their screams as the deadly weapons found their mark.

  A woman of the enemy militia charged directly at Gasbron, screaming an animalistic cry. Their shields crashed together, but the woman’s spear was too clumsy at such close quarters. With an almighty push, Gasbron made her lose her footing and just like the man before, she tripped backwards and Gasbron stabbed deep into his enemy’s chest, before retracting the weapon ready for his next attacker. More enemies were piling in behind now, crashing into the shield wall. Gasbron ducked behind his shield and braced for impact as a loincloth-wearing Defroni warrior smashed into it. The man’s momentum almost toppled Gasbron, but out of nowhere a blade came to his rescue and pierced deep into the warrior’s neck. Gasbron regained his footing as the tribesman slumped down on to the other bodies at Gasbron’s feet. He nodded his gratitude to the man next to him, Corpralis Candoc, whose sword it had been that saved him.

  Gasbron gave a hard blow on his whistle and in a single movement every Divisiomen took a step backwards, while simultaneously the Hentani to their left and right intensified their attack, cutting down the militia with ease and advancing over their bodies. In the background, looking over the heads of the swarm of enemy soldiers, Gasbron saw that a unit of Jostan’s Divisiomen had formed up in the open gate and were advancing forward behind the peasant militia and warriors.

  ‘Now!’ came the shout of Silrith’s voice from amid the fighting up above. Gasbron blew on his whistle twice this time and the reserve longbowmen at the back of the formation fired in unison, sending thousands of arrows high over the walls, just as in the previous battle.

  Again Gasbron blew on his whistle and the Divisiomen took another step back while standing firm as their shields took impact after impact. As the enemy hurled themselves at the battle line, Gasbron quickly got into his fighting rhythm. Whistle, step back, shield thrust, attack, whistle, step back, shield thrust, attack. After less than ten repetitions though, there was no more ground to give and as he fought, cutting down opponent after opponent, Gasbron couldn’t see how far the Hentani had advanced on the flanks. But then - yes - that was it!

  As he felled yet another assailant, he saw the faintest flash of a scimitar diagonally to his right and no Bennvikan, nor any Defroni tribesman carried a sword like that. A moment later, amid the carnage, he picked out more scything scimitars off to the left. The enemy started to panic as they realised they were being outflanked by the Hentani warriors. Gasbron’s troops stood firm like an impenetrable rock, while the Hentani enveloped the enemy, like a serpent that had slithered out from behind them, pushing between the militia and Jostan’s Divisios. A bugle sounded in the distance, heralding the retreat. In the background, he saw the enemy Divisios withdrawing barely minutes after they had entered that battle.

  ‘Cowards!’ Gasbron bellowed after them. ‘You’re a disgrace to the Divisios.’

  He looked the Divisiomen either side of him as he easily cut down an enemy peasant.

  ‘Come on you lot. Let’s show these toy soldiers from Kriganheim what real Divisiomen are made of!’

  Gasbron’s troops cheered and advanced forward as the enemy began to break. The Hentani warriors cut into the enemy on all sides, swinging their curved swords with a deadly grace. Within moments the tide of the fight had turned completely in the defenders’ favour. Although a lucky few enemies had managed to escape through the gates, the defenders now completely surrounded the rest. Gasbron raised his sword to the heavens.

  ‘Now let them join their comrades in death.’

  Chapter 20

  That battle ended the way all battles do. Bodies. A pile of bodies, surrounded by the cries of victory from the triumphant. Once they had surrounded the enemy, Gasbron’s troops had pushed inward, constricting them further and further like a snake with its prey. With the enemy expelled from the walled courtyard and the battered gates pushed closed again, Gasbron’s troops had then been called to the ramparts to help defend from a counterattack by the ladder climbers and those in the remaining siege towers. With the might of the extra Divisiomen and Hentani warriors on the ramparts, the enemy had been unable to get a foothold, even once their own Divisiomen had entered the fray. They’d soon lost their nerve and it hadn’t been long before a second, full-scale retreat to the camp had been sounded. Now, with the siege towers torched and the ram withdrawn, came the calm after the storm and the citadel’s walled courtyard reeked with the stench of death.

  ‘Get the portcullis down and start work on those gates. They must be repaired and reinforced by nightfall,’ ordered Gasbron as he picked his way over the corpses. As he trod on a hand he heard a groan. He looked down to see where it had come from and saw a middle-aged spearman with a large gash on his head, lying on the ground covered in blood.

  ‘Please sir,’ said the spearman, raising his head slightly, causing more blood to drip down his face and into his bushy beard.

  Gasbron shook his head and raised his sword.

  ‘No!’ the man cried desperately. ‘I have information about the King!’

  Frustrated, Gasbron lowered the sword again. He knew Silrith would be angry if he passed up an opportunity to gain information.

  ‘You there!’ he barked at the nearest militiaman. ‘Get this man’s wound seen to so that he can be questioned.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Gasbron,’ called Silrith’s voice. Gasbron looked over his shoulder to see her standing by the entrance to the gatehouse. He walked over to her, picking his way over the dead.

  ‘Yes my Queen?’ he said as he reached her.

  ‘Come and look at this,’ she said. She opened the door to the gatehouse, walked in, strode past the spiralling, stone staircase that led up to the walls and opened the wooden door into the Gate Master’s quarters. He followed her into the small, dark room, which had no windows and was lit by only a single brazier. He shut the door behind him, then raised his eyebrows at what he saw.

  At the side of the room where some stone steps that led up to an antechamber in which the portcullis’ pulley system was housed. It sounded like a soldier was up there turning the main winch as outside the portcullis creaked slowly downwards. Yet what had caught Gasbron’s attention was the bloodied corpse lying at the foot of the steps. He was a relatively young soldier in a militiaman’s uniform; presumably the Gate Master. The gaping wound in his neck was the obvious cause of death.

  ‘So,’ said Silrith who, like him, was looking down at the body. ‘There has been an attempt on my life while I slept; someone tried to push me off the walls during the last battle and now this. If we weren’t before, then we can now be certain that there is a second spy in our midst. The girl Vaezona wasn’t working alone. Apart from the Gate Master, who has access to this room?’

  ‘Just about everyone really,’ said Gasbron with a sigh. ‘It’s not a job that is only done by certain soldiers. We all do our shift just as we do with guard duty anywhere else and the equipment is quite simple to use once someone’s shown you.’

  ‘Well,’ said Silrith, putting her hands on her hips and beginning to pace around the room. ‘Perhaps we’d better become clearer about the kind of men and women that make up the rank and file of our army. It is obvious that Jostan had devised his entire battle plan based on the knowledge that there was someone in the citadel who could undo the portcullis lock and work the pulley system so that they could simply lift it up from the outside.’ She indicated the bloodied body.

  ‘We may have dodged an arrow this time,’ she went on. ‘But we won’t be able to forever.’

  ‘No,’ said Gasbron, looking at the corpse and then at Silrith. ‘But, it is possible we may have found our man already. One of the prisoners we took today claimed to have information. I’ve given orders for him to be questioned the moment his wounds have been seen to.�
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  ‘Good,’ said Silrith, looking at him sternly. ‘With luck, it will have been him. But if not, I want everyone in the city to know there is a spy here, so that he or she may be exposed.’

  THE CAPTAIN’S QUARTERS, THE IBBEZRON, THE ETERNAMIC OCEAN

  Out on the Eternamic Ocean, Voyran sat in the plush soundings of the Captain’s Quarters aboard the Ibbezron. He sat at his table looking at a map, lit by candles and by the moonlight that gleamed eerily through the ship’s windows. They were well on course and were making good time. In fact, if their guide was to be believed, they would soon be entering Bennvikan waters.

  Next to him sat Emostocran in his blue uniform and across from them sat the Bennvikan woman, Viktana. Like the two men, she also wore the blue uniform of the Rilanian Navy, looking every inch the Rilanian sailor, save for her physical appearance. After all, pale skin like hers was still almost unheard of in Rilana. Indeed, it was a symbol of weakness and low status. In many cases, even the country’s lighter skinned inhabitants were darker than her. These people were generally the servants or slaves of the darker nobility; those who were descended directly from the founding citizens of Rilana.

  Based on the Bennvikan’s accounts of her homeland, it sounded like many races lived in Bennvika, with complexions ranging from the very darkest to the very lightest; though it seemed that social status was less affected by one’s ethnic group than in Rilana, only their direct family heritage. Paradoxically, it seemed also that certain tribes, namely one known as the Hentani, lived under Bennvikan rule, yet keeping their traditions and cultural identity. This openness was very much like Rilana and its colonies, but it seemed that the Bennvikans were known to allow people to climb the social ladder to some extent and where the Rilanians were free to take, buy and sell slaves at their leisure, it appeared that the relative levelling of social status between the races in Bennvika had brought about an almost complete abolition of slavery there. In many cases, servants were employed instead. The only slaves one could have were those taken as the spoils of war and the trade of these slaves was illegal. All this seemed most foreign to Voyran, but whilst he wouldn’t have dreamed of fraternising with the primitive lower classes, he had always found the concept of slavery an unpalatable and decidedly uncomfortable subject, so it was gratifying at least to find that it wasn’t rife everywhere. If only the rest of Rilana had shared that view.