Tides of Blood and Steel

by Christian Warren Freed

  “What is your ammunition status, captain?”

  “We have enough for at least another day and a half of constant barrage. The terrain is naturally rocky so there is no shortage of rounds.”

  Rolnir nodded. “Good. Then we can take the chance to drop a few rounds short and introduce ourselves to our Goblin friends.”

  Ulf couldn’t conceal the joy he felt. “That can be arranged, sir.”

  “Keep up your fire, Ulf. We have to beat down the men inside before the first scaling ladder goes up. Every round you fire saves one of our men.”

  Ulf saluted. “You can count on us to do our part, sir.”

  “I know, lad. I know.”

  A battalion of heavy infantry marched north. They were heading to join Piper and the main assault force. Piper had told him earlier that nearly three thousand men were being gathered for the attack. Under normal circumstances that number was too conservative, but with the mass of Goblins, Rolnir didn’t see any issues. Hate them as he did, there was no mistaking the sheer dominating power the Goblin presence had.

  Fresh snow began falling. Rolnir tipped his head back and let the soft flakes kiss his bearded face. Another salvo of rounds roared across the battlefield. It was times like this that made him appreciate being alive.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The Beginning of the End

  Manzo awoke suddenly with the irresistible urge to relive himself. He grumbled quietly at the thought of leaving his warm sleeping bag to brave the freezing temperatures on the wall. It never failed. Each winter night he had gone through this ritual at least once, sometimes twice. Wrapping his heavy cloak around his shoulders, Manzo headed to the nearest section of the wall designated as a latrine. Engineers staked a handful of large pipes into holes in the wall to allow for a run-off so the waste wouldn’t get any of the defenders sick. Manzo appreciated the effort. Blood and death were one thing, but having to live in the filth of scat and urine was simply unbearable. He unbuckled his trousers and sighed as he let it out.

  A new wave of explosions rocked the wall. There was something different this time. The noise was louder. The ground shook longer. Manzo cursed. A full week had gone by since the damned Delrananians began their siege. A week and he still jumped at the sound. He supposed it was more reaction than anything else. Much longer and he wouldn’t even notice it. Manzo shook the excess off and pulled his trousers back up.

  “The gates! They’ve breached the gates!”

  A bell began ringing. Manzo’s blood chilled. Men rolled from their sleeping mats and bunks and hurried to their fighting positions. Rogscroft quickly became alive with rushed activity. Manzo watched the panic set in and struggled to keep his own from overpowering him. This is it, he kept telling himself. We are all going to die. Manzo fought against his fears, but the thought that the castle was one big death trap was almost too much.

  He took a step towards his sleeping area when horrible pain filled his chest cavity. Winded, he dropped to his knees. His eyes widened in shock. Blood filled his mouth when he tried to yell. Manzo reached up and felt the razor barb protruding from his chest. He mouthed words without sound.

  The back wall!

  Blood bubbled from his lips and he fell dead. The enemy crossbowman smiled and signaled to the others on the ground. Scaling ladders started to go up.

  “What is happening?” Aurec demanded as he slipped into his armor.

  Venten held out the prince’s sword. “I am not sure, but some of the men claim the gates have been breached.”

  Damnation. “We need to be there, now.”

  This was an inevitable moment, but terror still gripped them. Aurec needed to act quickly if they were to have any hope of stopping the attack long enough for Stelskor’s plan to work. The rest of their lives depended on the next few moments. He claimed his sword from Venten.

  “Send word to my father. It is time for him to escape to Grunmarrow. I will hold the defense long enough for him to be safely away. Then I will follow as I can.”

  “I will. Hold the gates long enough for me to return. I wouldn’t mind a crack at these Goblin bastards myself.”

  Aurec nodded and Venten ran off to fulfill his task. Confusion and panic awaited Aurec as he took to the battlements. Generations had passed since the last time the castle had been sacked. Aurec held every intention of stopping the Wolfsreik and pushing them back to Delranan in shame. He refused to be the man who lost his kingdom. Outside, the heat from the flames nearly drove him to his knees. The city gates, which had stood for two hundred years, were shattered into a ruin of their former splendor. Gaping holes yawned back at him. Hundreds of direct hits finally tore the wood to splinters. Only a handful of meters of running water separated him from the Goblin hordes.

  “Who is in command here?” Aurec called out once he joined the front lines.

  Bodies littered the area. A makeshift field hospital was set up under the dubious protection of the wall. A constant flow of wounded was being dragged in. Fires raged uncontrollably all around them. Aurec winced, suddenly very tired of war. Ragged lines of defenders formed behind a barricade. He made his way through the debris field to where a grizzled sergeant awaited. The top of his head was heavily bandaged, spots of blood staining through.

  “I am, my lord. Sergeant Thorsson.”

  Aurec looked at the ranks of scared men. “Where is your commanding officer?”

  Thorsson gestured towards a stack of half frozen bodies by the wall. “He had his head crushed during the bombardment.”

  Aurec winced despite his projected air of confidence. The men noticed. Arrows and catapult rounds were indiscriminant killers. “Report, sergeant.”

  “The gates are destroyed and will not hold. I have close to one hundred able-bodied men ready to fight once the Goblins cross. We should be able to hold them for a good while.”

  He hoped so. The harder they fought gave the king more time to escape. Aurec hoped his presence would inspire the men to fight harder. Aurec dared a closer look at his enemy. Archers rained down a murderous barrage into the Goblin ranks from atop the wall. Bodies fell dead into the river to be swept away. Goblins hauled massive rafts towards the banks. The enemy meant to assault immediately. Aurec ducked back. “Sergeant Thorsson, form the ranks. Pikes in front. Archers behind. We must stop the rafts from reaching this shore.”

  Thorsson threw a crisp salute. “On your feet, dogs! To the gates! I want a nice thick flank of pikes ready to impale these grey-skinned bastards. Archers form behind me. Move it or you are all Goblin food!”

  Aurec found himself easily liking the veteran. He hefted his own pike, taken from a dead man.

  “My lord, you are out of your mind if you think I am going to let you stand the line,” Thorsson snapped.

  He darkened with anger. “I am your prince, sergeant.”

  The much bigger man folded his massive arms across his chest and shot Aurec a stern glare. “I don’t care. This is my battle and I am not going to allow the only prince in Rogscroft to throw away his life so carelessly.”

  Aurec recognized the same vitality in Thorsson’s face that he often saw staring back in the mirror. There was only resolve, no sense of weakness. Aurec silently thanked his father for developing such a strong, noncommissioned officer corps. Men like Thorsson needed to live if Rogscroft was going to stand a chance.

  “Fine, sergeant,” he relented. “Where do you want me? Keep in mind that you cannot keep me from the all of the fighting.”

  Thorsson didn’t budge. His face remained impassive, even as screams from the wounded danced around his ears. “You are a leader. You will be of most use to me on the wall directing the battle. I can’t see everything from down here.”

  Aurec glanced longingly at the massed ranks of soldiers as they readied to do battle against the pulsing Goblin horde. Desperation clung to them like a rotted stink. The desire to live gnawed teasingly at each of them. All the while death laughed as it floated across the skies. The prince reluctantly sheat
hed his sword. His almond-colored eyes bore a subtle sadness. He reached out and took Thorsson’s hand.

  “Where do you plan on being?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Thorsson offered a savage grin. “Right in the middle of it, where I belong.”

  Raste ripped his sword from the dying man’s stomach and kicked the body away. Blood stained his hands and jerkin. Sweat trickled down his face, but there was no respite. Another attacker charged. Raste had a fraction of a moment to look around. Men from both sides fell dead or dying in a brutal struggle. The surprise attack was timed perfectly with the Goblin assault. The Wolfsreik now swarmed over the walls, killing and hacking. Raste fought against the urge to throw down his weapon and run.

  There was no shortage of enemy. Raste already had three lying at his feet. The younger scout, unused to extended combat, struggled to maintain his strength. Wavering determination echoed in his cold blue eyes. A small cut on the left cheek had already stopped bleeding, leaving him with a painted face. The fight he so longed for had come and he was woefully unprepared.

  The man beside him grunted suddenly and fell back with an enemy short sword plunged deep into his chest. Arterial blood, steaming and dark red, flowed freely down his deerskin shirt. Raste watched the man’s eyes glaze over. Fury and anger became his conscience and he attacked. His sword cut clean through the elbow in one stroke. The Wolfsreik soldier dropped screaming to his knees. Distracted, Raste couldn’t duck in time to keep from being struck in the temple by a mailed fist. He stumbled back as the pain lanced across his head. Unbalanced, he dropped into a pile of bodies. Their escaping warmth was oddly comforting.

  “Stay down you fool!” snapped a familiar voice he couldn’t place.

  An arrow zipped by, narrowly missing the top of his head. Raste’s would-be killer dropped, the shaft buried in his throat. Men pushed forward, fresh troops up from the barracks. Unlike Raste, they were fully armored and armed. Rough hands helped him up. Unfamiliar faces looked him over.

  “Can you move on your own?”

  He nodded, winced from the pain.

  “Stay with us. We have been ordered to fall back.”

  Raste couldn’t believe it. So much killing, and now he was being told to abandon what he had bled for. The reinforcements halted the Wolfsreik surge, momentarily.

  “We can’t leave. The walls will fall!” Raste struggled to shout above the battle.

  “The walls are already fallen! We must move and secure the stairs before it is too late!” the newcomer shouted back.

  The Wolfsreik already held a forty-meter section of the wall and were expanding with each passing moment. Rogscroft slowly sank into defeat. The defenders fought well, but it was not enough. Half of the kingdom’s armies were peasant conscripts unused to the violence of combat. All of the heart and love of country they possessed meant nothing against the ten thousand seasoned veterans trying to kill them. Fear would soon take them and all hope was lost when it did. Raste felt like he had been punched in the stomach. All of this was in vain. He spit a mouthful of blood. Manzo’s corpse lay nearby. The ching-ching of clashing swords seemed an ironic epitaph. Raste’s knuckles whitened as he tightened the grip on his sword. If Manzo had fallen, an accomplished warrior, what chance had he? Dawn broke over the eastern approach. It was a violent shade of red.

  “We were supposed to win,” he whispered.

  “Fall back!” bellowed the order over the battlefield. “Fall back to the stairs!”

  The defenders collapsed as orderly as possible. Raste knew that had the reinforcements not arrived it would have turned to a slaughter. His heart doubted it was going to end any other way.

  King Stelskor struggled to stay calm as he watched his enemies press in from all sides. Companies of Wolfsreik were steadily enlarging their hold on his walls while the Goblin army continued to waste lives at the front gates. He occasionally caught glimpses of his son, his silver armor reflecting the demonic red glow from so many fires. The king bit his trembling lower lip. Hope was lost. The enemy numbers were too much to defeat. Tears softened his once hard face.

  “Sire, you must go now,” Paneolus urged. “Time is gone.”

  “I cannot. Not while brave men still stand,” he all but whimpered.

  Venten shot the minister of state a pleading stare. Stelskor had never looked so old. His regality was gone, transformed by age and wrinkles. His skin was much paler than it once had been. His eyes had lost their luster and now simmered a dull brown. Venten frowned. “You are the city, Sire. So long as you survive, we do. You must evacuate now before the chance is lost.”

  A flash of old confidence flared. “Have you no confidence in me, my old general?”

  The others in the small band stared at him in muted shock. Venten held his tongue. This was no time for secrets and his was the least important. More important issues demanded attention.

  “Sire, faith has nothing to do with reality. This city is lost. The only thing that remains undetermined is how many men will die before the end. Sound the retreat. Let us make haste to Grunmarrow with as many men as we may.”

  “What say the rest of you?” the king demanded.

  Paneolus shook his head, excess rolls of flesh jiggling uncontrollably. As minister of state, it was his responsibility to manage all aspects of the governance of Rogscroft. He had failed. “Sire, leave now. There will be no other chance.”

  Stelskor turned his eye towards General Vajna. The general of the armies folded his thickly corded arms across his barrel chest and looked down at his boots. The shame of defeat wormed deep into his psyche. “We must retreat.”

  Venten made to talk, but was cut off curtly by the king. “I already know your counsel. All of you have provided me and this proud city sage counsel for years. But look around you. Everywhere brave men die, men from both sides. This is a sad day.”

  He turned, leaving the marbled balcony to sit upon his throne one last time. His hands slid, almost caressed, along the arms. His head nestled into that familiar spot on the cushioned back. Stelskor closed his eyes and sighed from the heavy weight in his soul.

  “Very well. Sound retreat. Start with the wounded. I do not want a single man left behind for our enemy’s amusement.”

  Paneolus and Vajna bowed and were gone amidst a host of bodyguards and administrative assistants.

  Stelskor stopped Venten from following. “Wait a moment, old friend.”

  He winced, suddenly afraid of what was coming.

  Stelskor stared deep into his eyes, making Venten worm uncomfortably. “Find my son, Venten. Get him out of here alive no matter what he says. Guide him in the coming days. Rogscroft is going to need strong leadership if we’re to find a way out of this mess.”

  The old general nodded. “I shall do my best, Sire.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Argis

  “We should start with burning down the barracks at the docks. Harnin won’t be able to attack us so quickly without a nearby base of operations,” Joefke told them.

  He tapped the tip of his index finger on the torn and faded map.

  “It might buy us a little time, but how much?” old man Fenning said as he casually chewed a mint leaf.

  Joefke rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept in two days. “Harnin isn’t going to just walk away or offer terms at the bargaining table, old man. Every little victory gives us more credit and more willing bodies. That will be enough to turn the tide before the end.”

  Fenning offered an empathetic glance. “Maybe. Maybe it will be enough.”

  More than anything, Joefke hated being treated like a child. He had already proven himself a dozen times in the rebellion, earning Argis’s praise more than once. He very much wanted to quit and go home, but that was impossible now. There was no safe place in Delranan. Innocent people were being abducted, never to be heard from again. Paranoia was out of control.

  Inaella, a black-haired beauty who chose to hide behind heavy, burdensome clothing, interrupted. “I
think Joefke is right. We can hurt their ability to hunt us by burning the barracks.”

  “At what cost?” Fenning asked them.

  “Sacrifice, Fenning,” Joefke answered. “Isn’t that what Argis has been preaching this whole time? It is the only way we will win.”

  The room fell silent at the mention of Argis’s name. The former Delranan lord was strangely missing. Joefke was deeply troubled, but refused to speak those fears aloud. Argis never missed a council meeting. Never.

  The door suddenly burst open. A wild-haired youth of no more than twenty summers slipped past the pair of guards. His face was flushed and he gasped for breath.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Fenning demanded.

  “They…they have Lord Argis!”

  Joefke felt his world shatter. “How is this possible?”

  “The city guard raided the house he was staying in. I watched soldiers drag Argis away, I swear!”

  Glass walls shattered. The rebellion lived or died with Argis. The future of Delranan had shifted drastically.

  “Where is he now?” Inaella asked. The panic in her voice terrified Joefke.

  “Up to the Keep, ma’am.”

  Joefke’s blood chilled. “We have to get him before Harnin gets him inside those walls. It’s the only chance we have.”

  “That is exactly what the enemy wants us to do,” Fenning warned. “We’ll be slaughtered if we move now.”

  “We owe him our lives!” Joefke protested.

  “This is the reason we shouldn’t waste them in an ill-conceived rescue attempt.”

  “He has a point, Joefke,” Inaella added. “We risk everything by going to the Keep unprepared. It’s what Harnin has been hoping for, to break us and force us to act brashly. Besides, there is no way we can assemble a force strong enough in time. You know this is true.”