by A. D. Green
The urak didn’t breach the town though. Bizarrely gathering just outside, butchering the fallen and watching with a mix of hate, hunger and contempt as the survivors disappeared into the town’s depths.
The old man groaned in pain as they hit a bump in the road.
“Welcome to the slaughterhouse old man,” Morten shouted, fear lending his voice a desperation Nihm felt herself. They were trapped in a town with no defences and no defenders.
Chapter 67
: Besieged
So many bodies lay dead in the misty pre-dawn light. There wasn’t much to do on the tower so Amos counted them. He gave up once he got past a thousand. It was quiet down in the fields, fitting though, considering the death that lay upon its ground. The only sounds were their own. The creak of armour as men moved and soft voices as they talked in hushed tones.
Low cloud had moved in through the night obscuring the moons that had cast the fields below in a silvery twilight. After the disaster of their first attack the urak had withdrawn and made no signs of following up their assault.
Junip had woken during the night but was in a state of shock and not fit to answer questions. So Amos still had no idea what she’d done to visit so much death on the urak or if she had anything left if they came again. When they come again, Amos corrected himself. He turned at the sound of boots on stone.
“Tea,” Jobe handed Amos a wooden mug and he accepted it gratefully. The autumn morning was chilly with the promise of rain and standing around looking at dead bodies did nothing to warm him.
“Thanks. How’s she doing?” He took a sip from the steaming mug.
“Bit shook up still. Jerkze is taking her to the keep like you said.” Jobe sipped his own tea joining Amos at the wall. He glanced out and Amos saw his shoulders go back; his mug paused half way to his mouth.
“What?”
“Someat’s off Boss.” Amos saw the hawkish look in his friend’s eyes as he surveyed the destruction below and he turned to survey the field once more. Nothing, the dead were still dead far as he could tell. They lay a hundred paces out, their bodies scattered like autumn leaves in front of the wall of earth and rock Junip’s magical attack had created. It ran the length of the field like a dyke only it held back no water, just the dead.
“I don’t see anything,” Amos said.
Jobe hocked and spat over the embrasure before setting his mug down. Turning he grabbed his bow. “Ring the alarm boss.”
Amos looked again at the field below even as Jobe started stringing his bow, bracing the haft against his foot. “Okay you got me worried. What are you seeing?” He set his own mug down.
Jobe took an arrow and nocked it. “No buzzards or crows taking their fill. And unless you killed a bunch more urak whilst I was sleeping there’s a lot more dead this morning than there was yester eve.”
Jobe drew and released and Amos watched fascinated as the arrow leapt from his bow. It missed, thudding into the earth. Had the urak it landed near moved? Amos wasn’t sure.
“Sound the fucking alarm.” Jobe nocked another arrow.
Fuck it he’s right, Amos thought. He turned and shouted to the guardsman, sat dozing by the signal poles. “You man, ring the alarm.”
The guard jumped up looking tired and bleary eyed.
“Sound the alarm, now.” Amos shouted again.
“Aye Lord.” The man reached behind for the bell as Amos reached for his bow. He deftly strung it as the clanging of the bell rang out loud in the still morning air.
Amos moved to another embrasure reaching for his own arrows. In the fields below the dead were rising to their feet and behind them, behind the mounds of earth and rock more urak stood where they had lain hidden by the earthen dyke. All held heavy looking bows.
Another bell tolled, more distant, from the corner tower to the east.
A roar went up as the dead charged the wall. Flights of arrows were released, their dark shafts disappearing in the dark skies to drop invisibly on the defenders, most falling harmlessly against the stone work or past the wall to the ground beyond. Amos drew, sighting on an urak not fifty paces from the wall. He judged the angle, adjusted to lead his target and released. His arrow punched into its torso, spinning it off its feet.
He reached for another arrow, glancing as he did down at the wall to his left. Defenders were filing out to join the few already there, most still pulling on boots and buckling on harness as they ran. It was slow, too slow, Amos thought grimly. There was no organisation, many stopping at the first embrasure they came to making it difficult for others to get by. It was chaos.
A few archers managed to get shots away but the charging urak were so close they had to lean right out over the embrasure. Black shafts peppered the walls taking most as they were exposed. One skittered off the merlon next to Amos and he flinched, sending his own arrow wide.
Longhair was on the tower then, looking as dishevelled as he had the day before, haranguing his archers into formation. Amos watched as he sent several to each side of the tower where they could cover the walls. The rest he formed into a ragged block at the tower’s centre where they started firing volleys.
“Two hunred tweny paces lads, let’s take their bows,” Longhair shouted.
Amos approved. It made sense they had the height of the tower to rain arrows down without needing to expose themselves at the walls to enemy counter fire. Looking again along the walls the defenders looked too few. Masses of them were gathered on the grounds behind, bottlenecked at the steps up.
Amos’s gaze was drawn out past the earthen mounds and urak archers, something catching his eye in the grey haze of receding darkness. A lone figure emerged into the half-light, then another and suddenly there was a black mass of urak. A growing dread built in his gut.
The sound of iron clattering against stone made Amos turn back to the walls. Urak had reached the base of the curtain wall and launched hooks and grapple irons over the battlements. Guards hacked at the ropes but seemed to have little effect.
Urak appeared over the embrasures and the defenders thrust with sword and spear before they could get a purchase. Urak wore little armour and many fell, holes punched into chest or gut. It was like sticking fish in a barrel.
A cry sounded further along the wall. The defence was thinly spread and several urak had crested the battlements and gained the walls. With ferocity they attacked, hacking, slashing and clubbing a clear space for more urak to climb up behind. As one was killed another was there to take its place, and they were winning Amos could see.
The urak dwarfed the soldiers, not just taller by a few hands but broader and heavier. It looked like men fighting children thought Amos excepting these men looked feral in their white painted body markings and attacked with an unrivalled brutality. The defenders fighting them looked close to collapse.
Bowmen in the grounds below started firing up onto the walls and many urak fell allowing the defenders to regroup as reinforcements with long spears pushed along the wall.
A score of urak dropped from the walls to the ground below and with a bellowing war cry charged the archers. It was carnage as they lay about with large cleavers and swords, blood and limbs flying as they were hacked to pieces. The wall would be lost in moments.
Amos turned to find Longhair at his side looking over his shoulder. In the din of battle he’d not heard the man come up behind.
“Lost cause if ever I seen one,” Longhair shouted. He turned before Amos could respond bellowing at his squad. He organised two ranks along the side wall of the tower and they started launching arrows down into the growing mass of urak.
“It ain’t gonna be enough.” Longhair pointed back out over the battlefield. Rank upon rank of urak massed at the earthen dyke, clambering over it. They covered the field like a black tide rolling inexorably towards them, unchallenged. The defenders on the wall were already engaged and unable to direct any fire at them.
“Plenty to aim at,” Amos said. “You have command here….”
Amos looked hard at Wynter hearing the challenge in his question then pointed.
“Down there. Our defence is crumbling. We need to stiffen it up and push them back or we’re all dead.”
Wynter stared him in the eye, taking his measure then held his arm out suddenly. “Kildare smile on ya Lord Amos,” he said invoking the name of the Soldier, Lord of War and Death. They clasped hands briefly. “Want me to look after thaten for ya.” He nodded at Amos’s bow.
The audacity of the man Amos thought, then with a wry smile. “Aye why not, bring her back to me alright.” He thrust his bow at Longhair before he changed his mind.
“Jobe on me,” Amos yelled running for the stairs, grabbing his shield up on the way.
The tower was empty as they burst through it and down the stairs to the ground. If it looked like chaos from up above, on the ground it was far worse. He barged through crowds of men and women milling about as sergeants bellowed trying to gather them into some sort of order.
Amos spotted the sergeant from the day before but couldn’t remember his name. “Sergeant on me, bring your squad,” he commanded. The man looked pale and scared but didn’t hesitate.
“Sir,” he acknowledged before turning and bellowing orders.
Amos didn’t wait but pushed on through following the curtain wall as it ran east shouting as he went.
“On me!” he commanded. Most ignored Amos to start with but some few heeded his call and joined him until the tide slowly turned and the mottled militia in their mismatched armour grew behind him.
Up ahead he saw the large frame of Byron Mueller. He was arguing with someone and as the mob parted for him he saw it was with Captain Samuels, idiots. Amos took in their surroundings as he marched up to them.
“Mueller get your archers up high, those roof tops.” Amos pointed. “Captain we need to contain and push back the urak. Get your men and follow me.” Amos didn’t stop to argue the toss. They would follow or not. They didn’t have time for talk.
The militia in front of him wavered and parted suddenly, pushing back and away. They were running.
“Stand fast or die,” Amos yelled. Didn’t they understand there was nowhere to run? The sound of fighting drew near, the screams of the wounded and dying mixing with the clash of arms.
The air felt heavy, cloying. The smell of sweat and oiled steel from the close press of bodies was tainted by the sickly aroma of blood and the putrid stench of voided bowels and ruptured organs.
His teeth hurt where his jaws clenched. Then he was there. The man in front turned and ran gushing blood as he was impaled through the back, a big boar head spear snaring his entrails as it burst from his gut clean through his leather cuirass. He fell before Amos spewing blood.
The urak was a big bastard dwarfing Amos and the man he had felled. It placed a booted foot on the dying man’s back pulling his spear back through with a guttural cry of triumph. Amos leapt forward punching his sword into it, feeling its keen edge break skin and pierce belly.
Its bellow of triumph turned to a howl of pain and it slipped to its knees. Amos twisted his blade as he drew his sword out and round slicing it into its neck before planting a boot to the uraks chest knocking it over on to its back.
Jobe was at his side and together they pushed forward hacking and parrying.
“On me!” Amos screamed batting aside a spear with his blade and thumping his shield up into a face.
Militia rallied to his call forming a wall. Shields to the front and spears extended they stepped forward. Amos let them pass him, hovering behind looking for any breach. They held their ground at first and then incredibly started to press the urak back.
“Push forward! Together keep your shape!” Amos’s voice was growing hoarse from shouting.
The urak rallied, several with large cleavers stepped to the fore. Deflecting spear tips they slammed into shields and Amos’s brief rally faltered.
One man over extended, stepping out of the line of spears. An urak grabbed his spear haft below the head and pulled him off balance before stepping in and clubbing him with his sword hilt. The man stumbled back his mouth a mess of blood and smashed teeth, howling.
The line wavered, Amos could feel it falter and start to buckle as more urak smashed into it. It bowed and slowly they were pushed back. They might have weight of numbers but the urak were fearless, their size and ferocity unmatched and intimidating.
They were lost, the militia he had were untrained and instinct screamed at them to turn and run. Then arrows started to fall, the first puncturing an urak through the eye. Mueller’s archers had reached the roof tops and had started firing down into the massing urak. It was enough to stall their assault.
Amos spared a quick glance to the walls; it looked grim. The urak were winning the battle there all too easily. The walls were narrow and the men upon it were overwhelmed by the larger, stronger urak. They would be flanked soon and the urak would be free to drop from the walls behind them.
“Step back, together. Step back!” Amos shouted. They would have to regroup near the tower where Wynter’s archers could support the wall. Jobe took up the cry adding his voice and slowly they retreated.
The battle raged on as slowly foot by foot they were forced back. Urak leapt upon the shield wall in front, battering at them. More joined pulling defender’s out of the line and slaughtering them.
Amos stepped in, his sword thrusting up into an armpit before stepping back and bringing his shield up. A massive thud sounded as it was struck. Pain vibrated up his arm and he cried out dropping to a knee. The wounded urak stepped in impaling himself on Jobe’s sword.
“No time to sit down boss,” Jobe quipped bringing his shield round to cover Amos.
Amos staggered to his feet. His shield arm throbbed with a dull ache and he was tired beyond belief. He glanced up as an urak straddled his fallen comrade swinging a big sword in a roundhouse blow. Amos stepped back knowing he was to slow, knowing he couldn’t bring his shield up in time. The air fluttered and there was a thunk as an arrow punched into the urak's chest. It staggered back a step, stumbled then fell.
The defensive line had dropped leaving him and Jobe exposed. They both took the chance to step back into the line. In the brief respite Amos looked back over his shoulder. That shot had almost taken him in the back of the head. He was shocked to see the tower was only twenty paces away. Above he saw Wynter leaning through an embrasure sighting down his bow at Amos. He released and Amos froze in shock as the arrow flew.
It missed him, passing over his left shoulder and hitting with a wet thud as it found flesh. Spinning round Amos saw an urak fall away howling in pain. The arrow had struck it in the groin and it dropped its sword, collapsing on the ground thrashing in agony.
Anger flared in his blood, why had he taken his eyes from the battle? He’d almost killed himself.
There was a surge of bodies as a rush of men-at-arms came up from behind, enveloping and then passing him. Captain Samuels was suddenly there shouting at him, his face flushed. “Fall back Lord Amos.”
Amos nodded, too battered and tired to speak. Watching as the guardsmen stepped through the ranks of embattled and weary militia. Locking shields they slipped long spears between them forming a solid defensive wall. Urak crashed against them but the shield wall held and the spears found many marks judging by the roars of pain Amos heard.
Jobe grabbed his arm hauling on him none to gently and Amos stumbled backwards, still watching as Samuel’s regulars brought shield and spear up. They were better armed and trained than the ragged remnants of his militia, who looked beaten and tired.
Limbs aching, body heavy, Amos allowed Jobe to march him back to the crowded square in front of the tower. They found Jerkze there looking for them. Pushing through the masses he reached Amos’s side.
“Nice a you two ta start without me,” he said, smiling grimly.
“Aye you’re w
elcome,” Amos mumbled.
“We need to go. Black Crow wants us back at the keep,” Jerkze said.
That fired his veins. “Is he taking the piss? We’re fighting and losing. I’m needed here,” Amos spat.
Jerkze looked about then leaned in close. “The wall is lost Amos, another hour maybe sooner. The north wall is also breached. They’re barely contained and we don’t have the numbers to push em back. The town is lost.” He gripped Amos’s shoulder and held his eye. “The Black Crow was insistent Amos.”
Amos sucked air in; his limbs had stopped their slight trembling. Finally, reluctantly, he nodded. “Okay let’s go see what the Crow wants. Lead on.”
“You go. I gotta find some bow master called Wynter. Crow wants him as well.”
“Wynter… I know him. Follow me,” Amos said.
“Just tell me where. No offense, but you look beat and I’ll be quicker on me own. Head to the keep and show the guards this.” He handed Amos a token. “It’ll get you through the gate.”
Amos grasped it and gave Jerkze directions. “Tell the bastard to bring my bow with him.”
Jerkze disappeared into the tower whilst Amos and Jobe pushed their way through the square and onto the road leading to the town centre. Men and women hurried by, most poorly armed and armoured. Amos felt a deep despair as he jogged wearily past them.
It was with a heavy heart that he entered the town square. It was empty of the stalls and bazaar that had crowded it only a few days past. Now it was filled with the wounded, the dying and the desperate. Part of the square was an assembly point where militia were being organised into groups and sent into town, most headed up North Road.
At the keep Amos showed his token to the guards and he and Jobe were ushered through.
“Lord Richard is atop the keep,” he was told.
It was a long climb, the keep was large and the stairs up full of people headed both ways. When he finally made the roof Amos was forced to show his token to the guards there before being allowed to continue.