by Dan Gillis
“Arik!” he shouted out to his second, “move the left flank into position. Have them march on the signal.”
“Yes, sir!” the man replied sharply and saluted, hands crossed over the breastplate. He moved away swiftly toward the waiting flank. Hundreds of warriors bided for the call to advance. Kurel could feel the tension moving through the air, like the charge of an electric storm. He beckoned to Hyrlos, who approached with his dark cloak drawn about him tightly. The Ahtol Ashori was decidedly formal and had avoided any attempts to engage in familiarity.
“You have need of me?” a soft voice spoke from within the black cowl.
“I will need you to weaken the walls before the hammer strikes. The timing is essential. Do not fail me in this.”
The Ashori did not turn toward the Lord but his soft voice carried on the Darkwood wind.
“It will be done. You need not fear. The walls will crumble. You need not doubt my ability, rather place your concern upon this rabble you call an army. My weaves may manipulate stone, but your army’s will is weaker than shale, and will break with the simplest counterstrike.”
Kurel’s eyes tightened at the assessment of his force.
“I know that they are relatively untried and newly trained. It was all we could do to avoid detection and prepare the forces we needed for this day. Fear not, sheer numbers will cast the die in favour of us, and it will be the foe who will be shaken in sight of our ranks. There will be no space for fear.”
“I will not deliberate the issue. You have received my warning. I will go now to prepare.” The man bowed slightly and turned away, striding toward the right flank and back from where the ram would eventually end its journey.
Hyrlos was as mysterious as he was dangerous. Strangely, his fee was not that of money, but to access the White Halls unharried and to have claim to whatever he could carry from within. The request was granted, for the Ashori's abilities as Teralor were an intricate and vital tactic in the course of the events. Kurel watched the machines moving ever closer to the wall.
How he longed to give the signal …
* * *
“How dare you say such a thing? Insubordination! I would lock you up now if I did not have need of your skills!”
Menhol stood silently as the spit flew indiscriminately from Corbin’s mouth. The new White Lord was full of fury, his face red and his tongue loosed. The quiet monk simply gazed into space as the words flew all about him. Corbin assaulted him verbally, his voice echoing through the hall.
“Pompous boor! You will do as I command and keep all your suggestions to yourself. I am in command of the Citadel, not a spineless monk!” Corbin appeared to Menhol to be gaining momentum in his tirade. If the last few hours had been painful for the fledgling lord, for the men and women of the White Guard, it had been sheer agony. Clearly, the Ashori had not intended his succession to begin in such a fashion, with a full scale siege upon the White Guard Citadel.
Menhol considered the red-faced man coolly. Each had certain power within themselves, and with such diverse talents it was unclear who would arise a victor in a contest of connection to the Root. Menhol, while specializing in the Alacritor arts, reserved some more aggressive skills for appropriate situations. He did not fear the loathing man before him. The White Guard, and lives lost to senseless and fruitless defence, was chief upon his thoughts.
“Your command is your weakness, a weakness that will drag us all down to an early grave. I say as I said before, we would do better to surrender than throw away so many lives needlessly. There is a time to fight and …”
Corbin cut him off harshly. “That time is now! You have said enough! I will not have you spreading your sedition among the men!” the White Lord sputtered as he hastily signaled for the guard to come. Two impressive soldiers in white stood forward, expressionless. “Escort this traitor to the cells. There will be time for him to answer to his crimes after we beat off this meaningless assault!”
The two soldiers - known supporters of Corbin - stepped up to Menhol and he shifted between them wordlessly. With a last glace at Lord Corbin, he moved with the escort through the halls toward the lower cells. There was little time left for them all, and only death would be found in the end.
* * *
Benel was a mere youth of fourteen, but he had seen his share of conflict. Still, he never dreamed in his short life that he would behold the awesome spectacle that stretched out before him. He took in long deep breaths as he scanned the mass of troops approaching slowly. From his vantage point along the east wall, there was no possible exit or escape from the ensuing battle. The ridge that the Citadel was built upon was chosen for its inability to be assaulted on all sides. The ridge on the west and north side of the fortress dropped off sharply into a vast ravine, leaving only the south and east walls that needed defending. He had spent many a day far below scouring for worms and bugs and, as such, became well acquainted with the Citadel’s defences and geography. Here in the Citadel, his father had lived and died a White Guard sentinel, and Benel wished to follow in his footsteps.
He shifted the weight of the chain hauberk under his white tabard. It had been his father’s, adjusted to his smaller body. He had insisted upon it the day after his father’s interring.
He had passed the Rights of Age mere moons prior to this day. Once eager to prove his abilities to the others, now they seemed to fade in the constant sound of crunching from booted soles upon the short grass. Summoning his courage, he set his jaw tight to the cool breeze that suddenly gusted across the high wall. It was not his courage, rather that of his father. It was echoed in a memory of something he said to Benel years ago.
“Son, remember that it is not from great deeds or from high acclaim from lords and kings where one becomes a man. It takes place in the heart, amidst the turmoil and chaos of the deep. If you can steady yourself in those moments of greatest peril, then you will know.”
“I’m trying, father,” Benel whispered quietly into the wind. He waited patiently for his call to fetch supplies or run a message. In the meantime, he looked along the wall at the preparations that were being made by the other White Guard. Arrow quivers were being set beside the feet of the archers who posted every ten feet. Hastily, others struggled to keep the wind from the flames that heated large canisters of oil. Something inside told him they were too slow and too late. He felt it would not be enough.
* * *
All flanks were in position and Kurel held his hand high in readiness. When his fist dropped, the whole valley and hillside would be thrown into motion. Large boulders would smash upon the wall, weaves would flow, arrows would fly and the men would charge the wall. They would arrive precisely when the ram would strike and break down the stone barrier. Then the Grey Watch would swarm upon the hapless White Guard who would be unable to stop the intrusion. It was all just moments away. He cast his gaze over all the forces assembled. It was the feeling of power that moved him, all these hundreds, waiting upon his signal.
Then the impossible occurred.
The entire southeastern section of forest exploded into great plumes of flame. A concussive blast swept over the portion of his ranks in that quarter. Those in the front bore the devastating brunt of the effect, their bodies flung far afield into the ranks of their comrades. The fires licked high and spread quickly across through the low brush. Kurel stood there dazed for moments, his hand still raised in the air. Then he stared in horror as the flames took the field, sweeping toward his troops along the west side of the ridge. Then another terrifying explosion shook the valley. There was no time to think, already the men were breaking, their formations shattering.
The Grey Watch commander dropped his arm and with that the remaining troops sprung gratefully into action. The Trebuchets rolled back and then snapped their boulders at the far walls. Catapults groaned in gratitude as they loosed their long pent-up wrath. The ram began at once to move; the beasts lumbered under makeshift plating to deflect the arrows that immediately rained d
own from the wall. Ranks of pikemen were streaming up the path that ascended the rock face.
Kurel’s eyes caught upon the billowing flames even as a wave of heat washed over him. The blazing inferno was sweeping with the chaotic northeast wind, shifting southerly at times and then pushing westward toward his troops.
At once he raged into action.
“Set a firebreak upon the rise! I want three crews on the double! Hurry, move!” Kurel watched as the flames began to consume the stragglers of the army upon the south-western flank. He could not save them, for they were already in chaos, trampling over each other in efforts to escape the blazing inferno. The west flank was moving swiftly, and if they could stop the fires there, his forces would be sufficient to break through. His rout had become more difficult, but he still maintained the advantage. He scowled at the disruption in his nearly flawless plan.
“A traitor in our ranks,” he whispered harshly. “It’s the only way they could have prepared this …”
* * *
A great clamour had stirred, which Menhol could detect even in the deep places of the Citadel. The sounds penetrated to his cell, which was stony and dank, with little light. He sat with his legs crossed in the center of the floor.
Corbin would bring ruin to the Guard, with his blind ambition and pride. Menhol thought of the many that would perish above him. Always, he had served selflessly, with the intent to bring life in times of death. That was the way of the monk. In many battles, he had been the target of the enemy, for his role was singular in the lifeblood of any force. Yet he was here below, useless. His thoughts of so many that he knew racing toward death kept drifting like shadows across his mind despite his intentions to find peace.
Still, his sense of duty overrode any sentiment. A Lord’s command was to be obeyed without question. This was the way of things, the only way to maintain order. However, such commitment begged an age old riddle. Was it better to follow a corrupt lord into battle because of oath, or defy a corrupt lord out of principle?
Despite all of Corbin’s failings, there needed to be a semblance of order. Leaving this cell was a paltry thing for an Ashori, but it suggested something more, a disregard for leadership; a lack of a sense of duty. It was something Tey’ur had instilled in him after decades of service together. There were times he questioned the old Lord’s actions, but he never disobeyed a command. Such things were crucial. Even as his heart was torn apart with the shouts of his comrades, he remained seated upon the cold floor. It was the hardest choice he ever made, to stay the impulse to be with them.
* * *
Benel gasped at the fervent heat washing over the parapets. The chaotic wind carried it from the valley, where Benel had watched the ram trundle steadily toward the walls of the Citadel. The access to the ridge upon which the fortress stood was a narrow ramp, perhaps four horses abreast and thirty spears long. This ridge-way rose from the valley floor and bent slightly to the base of the Citadel. Benel’s frail hope faded once the unusually elongated ram had navigated the ramp successfully. The enemy had clearly planned for the siege to the last detail. His apprehension grew when the beasts of burden began to turn, likely to clear them away for the final push to the south entrance. He glanced quickly to the captain who held his arm aloft in readiness. How long before the order would be given?
Finally, Benel heard the call from the command to draw and fire. The archers on either side of him slid their strings back and released. Arrows hummed and slammed into the mass of surging troops. Already, many of his comrades had tried to pierce the shield over the animals pulling the ram, but it was in vain.
The enemy’s counter of arrows swept over the walls, driving Benel to cover behind the shield of the stone wall. He could not carry the full tower shield as the older men, as such would only slow down his errands. As a result, the incoming barrages caused ripples of fear to shoot up his back, especially when the rush of the shafts crashed upon the stonework next to him.
He glanced down the stairwell to the lower corridor. Something was wrong. The ram was still turning without disengaging the animals. Suddenly his mind caught hold of a possibility. It seemed improbable, but the positioning of the ram was no accident. The preparation of the enemy and the new angle of the rolling ram all played upon his mind. There was no sense to the maneuver unless the enemy had prepared something currently unseen. Every move thus far had been executed according to an overall battle plan. In his mind’s eye, he saw the wall crumbling to the earth. The vision frightened him into action. He dashed to his mentor-officer nearby.
“Sir! The ram is tracking strangely. I think they mean to go through the south wall!” he shouted as he approached. The officer turned toward the boy with a scowl even as enemy trebuchet fire blasted apart a section of the parapet close by.
“Benel! What is this nonsense? Get back to your post!” His voice was a harsh rebuke, but the boy continued desperately.
“The South wall! They are going to break it down, I just know it!” he cried out in great feeling, the impression still bright in his memory.
The commander turned his helmed head back toward the mass of enemy below. He pushed the boy down roughly to the stone even as arrows pelted by with great force. Several smacked hard into the officer’s shield.
“Fool! They cannot possibly break the Citadel wall, not with a hundred rams.” The officer’s voice was harsh above the din. He brandished his sword toward the massing enemy. “The south entrance is their only chance. Now get down from here! You are not fit for this responsibility.”
The boy looked to the commander from where he sat. He grit his teeth in youthful defiance.
Picking himself up, Benel charged down the stairs and into a narrow access corridor. Someone would need to hear this warning, but he was just a lad. His counsel held no weight at all. Despite the officer’s assessment, he was convinced the enemy had yet to reveal another stroke. He cursed as he passed the section of the south wall where he was certain they would break through. It would be mere minutes! He was sure of it now, as sure as he knew he was alive.
He looked to where the corridor spilled into the inner courtyard. It was all nearly defenseless inside. The enemy would sweep through with little resistance.
He started to fumble in his steps and then collapsed under the weight of his hauberk and growing fear. Tears of frustration were welling in his eyes, and he cursed his boyish weakness. Thoughts echoed across his mind.
“Son … amidst the turmoil and chaos … if you can steady yourself … then you will know.”
Benel slowly rose as his legs cried out in duress.
“I will, father. I swear I will.”
The boy rushed off to the main hall with all the speed he could muster. The great ballistae roared as they smote against the eastern thick stone walls and Citadel fortifications.
The young errand raced through the halls in desperation. He felt a profound sense of urgency. The corridors were all empty as every available man and woman who could fight was stationed in position upon the walls. He passed by the council chamber and paused to cast a quick glance into the room. Dark and shadowy, it offered little light from the outside. This was where all the battle plans were made and the Guard applicants received. Benel had only been in the room once, when he had been instated as a full member of the cadre. He remembered how his chest swelled with pride as he received the honours and garb. Such thoughts quickly fled from his mind as the panic of urgency set in once more. His eyes caught hold upon something within the chamber. He moved in slowly and spied a form slumped deep in a chair.
Rushing into the dark he called out. “Please, help me! Sir? The enemy is going to breach the wall!
Sir …”
Benel turned in horror to see the man pinned to the sturdy chair by a blade run through the chest. The hilt gleamed in the dim light, tight against the breast. Benel could see a hint of the blade sticking out the backside of the chair. He gasped as his eyes adjusted.
It was Lord Corbin. A look
of shock was inscribed into his final, fixed expression.
As the youth turned to run from the scene his feet slipped upon something on the floor. He landed sharply on his side, and, as he pulled himself upward, his hands were sticky and wet with crimson. ‘I need to get help! I … what can we do?’ Benel thought desperately. He moved away nursing the bruise on his hip where the chain shirt had ground into his skin. Limping in terror, the boy turned into the corridor and dashed down the hall.
“Help!” the lad cried out at the top of his voice. It was shrill and broken in the boy’s prospective manhood. “Help me … anyone!”
* * *
Tohm burst from the blazing trees, hot ash searing his already burn-scarred face. The enemy was pouring toward the walls and time was short. He did not know what fate lay before him or how it would all end. It was Mother Aerluin’s comforting calm that allowed him the ability to focus himself, to allow the beast and man to work in unity. For that gift of sanity, he would throw himself upon the gates of Ahtol - if that was her wish. In large, loping strides, he quickly surpassed the bodies that lay blackened and burned upon the smoldering ground. The enemy had managed to form a fire wall and the flames were dying. Tey’ur’s trap had been moderately successful, and now it was time for the real work of men to begin. His comrade’s words still rung clear.
“Remember, you will need to hold any breach they make, diverting their attention from my attack upon their rear. Are you ready?” The large warrior seemed to perch in the saddle, his body near ready to spring upon the foe. His face betrayed concern within the shining helm.