by Sam Ferguson
Only when another gust of wind pushed through could he see the enemy fleet clearly. He counted twenty vessels sailing directly for them. They were close. Much closer than he had hoped. The fleet seemed to glide toward the docks with an ethereal speed. Didger could see soldiers lining up on the ships and raising bows. “Basei help us,” Didger prayed. A flood of arrows swamped the docks. Nearly all of the Zinferth sailors were struck down as they ran along the boardwalk. Ballistae flew fast and furious with chains trailing behind them destroying the masts of the docked ships, while catapults launched large stones and devastated the hulls. The attack was perfectly organized, executed, and destructive.
Didger was able to round up a few soldiers by hand and lead them back to the city wall at the top of a small hill above the docks. He had almost reached the portcullis when he noticed that the guards on the inside of the wall had given the order to close the gate.
“Wait, you fools!” Didger shouted frantically. “You can’t expect us to remain out here, let us in!” Didger stood ten yards away from the rapidly descending steel jaws of the gate and cursed his comrades.
One of the soldiers next to Didger decided to try his luck. He sprinted for the gate.
“No, you won’t make it!” Didger yelled, but it was no use. The young soldier wasn’t listening. The man let out a yell and dove for the quickly shrinking space under the portcullis. Didger turned away and clenched his jaw against the thunderous sound of the gate slamming into the ground.
“Captain, he made it!” exclaimed the soldier on Didger’s right.
“Praise the gods,” Didger said.
The soldier jumped up from the dirt and brushed himself off. He turned back and waived to the captain. “I will get the gates open, just give me a second,” he shouted.
“Huzzah!” shouted Didger and the rest of the stranded soldiers.
Their levity was short lived, however. The soldier inside the gate looked up in horror and barely was able to utter a word of prayer before three large boulders crashed into the portcullis in rapid succession. The gate groaned for just an instant before the entire gatehouse shattered as though it were made of glass and crashed down. A great wave of dust washed over Didger and the others, forcing them to shield their faces and retreat from the debris. When they finally were able to see through the clearing dust, they knew there was no hope for their comrade.
Didger knew he couldn’t afford to wait and mourn for the man, so he ordered the rest of his men to climb through the mess and take defensive positions on the wall. The five of them sprinted and bounded upon the rubble like jack rabbits with swords. They clamored up, hands and feet grappling for secure holds to propel them through the mess. Didger made it to the highest part of the rubble and then he felt a sharp pain in his right knee. He looked down to see an arrowhead protruding from his leg just to the side of his kneecap. None of his men had noticed and they were already clear of the pile of debris. The captain bit his lip and tried to run on. The instant his weight fell onto his right leg he faltered and crashed to the pile of stone. He screamed in agony and rolled onto his back.
At that moment, the large shaft of a ballista missile glanced off of the stone wall to his left, showering him with fragments of stone. He sat up and wiped the dirt from his face. He looked out to the sea and saw that none of the soldiers had disembarked from the ships yet.
“What do you wait for?” Didger asked aloud.
He then noticed that several ships were stationary, broadside to shore. Didger grunted when he saw large catapults being pushed to the rails of the decks. For an instant, everything moved in slow motion. The wind slowed and its whispers quieted. The only sound Didger heard was the rush of air when he drew in a deep breath. One after another a heavy, metallic clank sounded from the ships. Within seconds the catapults started to launch large, clay pots. The ceramic bombs shattered everywhere, spewing black goo all over anything within range.
“Oil and pitch,” Didger sighed. He pulled his knife from his belt and stuck the handle in his mouth. His teeth nearly cracked as he bit down on it to distract himself from the pain in his leg as he broke the arrow shaft and pulled the head out through the other side. Blood and tissue clung to the bit of arrow he had pushed through. He spit the knife from his mouth and gasped for breath. He rose to stand on his left leg on top of the rubble and drew his sword. He stood defiantly as the enemy archers let loose flaming arrows to ignite the pitch. “So this is how it ends,” the captain groaned. Thick, ebony smoke rose up from the flames and obscured his vision. He knew that the cover of smoke would blind his own archers atop the city walls, thus allowing the enemy soldiers to take the beach with few casualties. He raised his sword and waited for the shouting voice of his enemies to emerge from the smoke in front of him.
As he watched the swirling, thick smoke mix and dance with the silvery fog, he uttered the warrior’s prayer to the demigod of battle. “Oh Basei, father of the sword, bring down your might and lend me your vengeance. For the enemy outnumbers me, yet I will not run. I am no coward, I am the battle’s son. No blade shall I fear, no enemy spare, till they break my body with sword and spear. Oh Basei, patron of fire, accept my soul in your obsidian spire.” When he finished the prayer, he put his weight equally on both legs. In that moment, he felt no pain. His prayer had given him strength, and his heart was ready.
The smoke and fog whirled in circles as two men charged through. One held a large axe and the other a sword and shield. Didger effortlessly hacked them down and watched as their bodies tumbled back down the rubble toward the smoke. Another soldier emerged from the smoke. This one held a mace. He scurried up, but slipped on a piece of granite that skipped across the larger hunks of stone. As the soldier fell, his neck came within reach of Didger’s sword. The mace-man’s head bounced down the heap to disappear under the smoke. A pain shot through Didger’s leg as he turned to reposition himself. He knew he would not be able to stand for very long.
Another soldier came into sight.
“Come on, you son of Khullan,” Didger cursed at the soldier. “Come and taste my steel.” This soldier was large, and instead of armor he wore only leather trousers. A series of scars covered the man’s chest from shoulder to navel, drawing thick purple lines down his leathery, tanned skin. The man smiled, revealing a missing front tooth, and then moved in with a pair of scimitars. Didger managed to dodge the soldier’s first swing and he countered with a great, upward chop of his sword. The soldier’s hand was severed from his arm. It, and the scimitar it still held, fell to the rubble below. Didger blocked the second scimitar effortlessly, as the large soldier roared in agony. Didger then worked his sword around his enemy and drove it back into the man’s chest. Without armor, the blade easily pierced through the man’s heart and stole the soldier’s life from him. The large corpse fell over backward to crash upon the stones.
The smoke closed in on him, decreasing his visibility. Didger’s breathing quickened, and his eyes darted around him. He could hear shouting and fighting beyond the smoke, but he had no way to know what was happening. He could only hope the others along the dock were at least taking down a few enemy soldiers for each of them.
A shadow emerged from the swirling smoke at Didger’s left and a gash was opened on Didger’s back. Didger turned and only saw a bit of the attacker’s boot as he darted into the smoke at Didger’s right. Didger clambered backward, trying to put distance between him and the encroaching black screen. The smoke opened again and an attacker came rushing toward him with a long knife in each hand. The first blade tore through Didger’s right shoulder and the second struck point-first at Didger’s chest. The captain roared defiantly and moved his blade in just in time to deflect the killing blow. The attacker didn’t stop running, he just kept sprinting across the open area to reach the smoke again. Didger was faster. He spun around, grabbed the attacker’s neck with his left hand, and threw him down in front of him. The soldier struck his head and Didger heard a resounding crack. Didger moved in to f
inish the attacker with a quick thrust of his sword. Before he could pull his blade out, two more soldiers rushed up the rubble, one of them struck out with an axe and the other jabbed his spear at Didger’s abdomen.
Didger parried the spear with his sword, moving the handle to direct the blade while the tip was still inside the dead knife-man, but the axe hooked his weapon and wrenched it free from him, pulling the knife-man’s corpse down the heap a bit as well. Empowered by his rage, Didger leapt from his perch, ignoring the pain in his leg. He drove his shoulder into the spearman and grabbed the other soldier with his hands. The three of them crashed down to the stone and tumbled over the jagged masonry. The spearman’s head slammed hard into a piece of granite and that was the end of him. Didger yanked the spear from the fallen man and thrust the tip into the axe-man’s throat. His foe twitched wildly, but Didger held on, driving the point home until the man coughed and spurted blood from his mouth and his eyes glazed over.
A new wave of enemies emerged from the smoke.
Reciting the prayer aloud again, Didger was able to scramble to a kneeling position. His left hand held the spear and his right hand wielded the axe. One of the charging soldiers skewered himself on the spear before any of them realized that Didger was there. The other two froze in disbelief. The hesitation cost them their lives. The captain swung the axe down and cleaved one of the men from the collarbone down to his stomach. As the man fell, the axe was tugged out of Didger’s grasp, so he quickly retracted the spear and swung it like a long mace at the third foe. The spearhead slammed into the side of the soldier’s skull, opening a large gash and resounding with a dull, wet slack! The soldier went down instantly.
Four more soldiers rushed out of the smoke and up the pile of rubble. One tripped on one of the corpses and slammed into the pile of stone face first. Didger smiled and then set about finishing the others. He struck out with the spear and caught one of the soldiers in the right thigh. The spear drove in deep until it hit the bone and then the head snapped off. The man went down, wailing and holding his leg.
Didger slashed out with the sharp, broken shaft at the nearest foe, drawing a red line across the man’s sword hand. The soldier recoiled his arm, but he retained his sword. The fourth soldier landed a heavy warhammer strike on Didger’s right shoulder. What was only a clean slice now mashed into a gruesome mess of flesh and blood. There was a definite crunching of bone as the weight of the weapon crushed through. Didger winced and his arm fell limp beside him. Never before had he felt such pain. His right side burned, red spots and yellow lights appeared before his face, and his nose filled with the smell of sulfur. Yet he did not falter. Again he shouted the warrior’s prayer. Didger struck out with the wooden shaft of the spear, beating the assailant repeatedly and forcing the man into a defensive position.
The swordsman charged in again, ready to strike. He raised his sword high, but an arrow shaft pierced his heart. A second later there were shouts coming from behind Didger. His soldiers had returned for him. The four men finished off the two foes without delay and formed a defensive position around their captain. Didger was emboldened by the sight of his men and struggled to a standing position. “It’s about time, men,” he scolded with a cough.
“Our apologies sir,” Corporal Faet replied without turning back. “We lost you in the smoke for a moment, but we are here now.”
“Then let us send these dogs to Hammenfein!” Didger snarled.
After he finished his words a wave of twenty soldiers poured out from the smoke and scrambled up the rubble. The five Zinferth soldiers powered through the onslaught, felling each of the twenty attackers, adding their bodies to the pile of rubble and debris. Another wave of twenty men emerged from the smoke and charged the five soldiers. This time, arrows from the battlements above rained down on the attackers before they reached the five Zinferthian soldiers.
“The smoke is still pretty thick up here, captain, but we’ll do our best to help as we can,” one of the archers called out from above.
Didger looked up and waived to his comrade in appreciation. He looked back to the smoke just in time to see a solid wall of foes burst through the black screen. He gave up counting at forty, and held his broken spear at the ready. He and his men fought valiantly. They slew foe after foe, kicking the corpses back down the hill of broken masonry to trip up their enemy while the archers from above pelted the attackers with arrows. Didger and his men fought with the strength of ogres, confident that they had been blessed by Basei himself, but in the end they were overrun as the full force of the enemy horde washed over the rubble and into the city.
The din of swords soon rose to a thunderous tumult as the soldiers from Shausmat stormed the city. Khatthun was heavily outnumbered. The surprise and efficacy of the attack had left them crippled. There was no way that the soldiers, even with the added might of the militia and other citizens, could organize a proper response to the slaughter. The city never stood a chance. By the end of the afternoon, Shausmatian flags flew from the towers and battlement. Thousands were hewn down by the blade, and many more were grievously wounded.
At sundown, Governor Pixier was beheaded in the public square.
Unbeknownst to anyone in Khatthun, a similar battle was on its way to Blundfish at the same time.
*****
Governor Kimmel tapped his knuckles on the cherry-wood desk before him and stared out the window. From his office on the fourth floor of the municipal building, he could just see over the western wall to the plains beyond. His line of sight ended in the hills off in the western horizon. He glanced back down to the letter on the desk and brought his hand up to twirl his pointed moustache.
“Well?” asked Amdur.
Governor Kimmel looked up to eye the old, gray bearded man sitting on the divan and nursing a glass of whiskey. “Well what?” Kimmel groused.
“What are you going to do about Boots?” Amdur asked.
“Boots is dead, what else is there to do?” Kimmel snapped. “He and his whole group have been killed.”
“Precisely my point,” Amdur said with a finger in the air. He took another sip of his drink and set the glass onto the table next to him. He leaned forward and coughed. After he cleared his throat he shook his head. “You are supposed to keep your dogs off of organizations like his. Granted, occasionally they might fight amongst themselves over some hovel or shop in the poorer districts, but your guards are supposed to stay out of it.”
Kimmel wiped a hand down his face and let out an impatient sigh. “I told you before, they weren’t my men, and I don’t know where they came from.”
“Then why is it only today that you have agreed to see me?” Amdur pressed.
“Because, if I were to meet with you immediately afterward, someone would notice. While it is true I have enough men in my pocket to keep things profitable for all of us, not all of my officers would tolerate it.”
“I heard there were two Rangers among the dead, and a Shausmatian trader, is that true?”
Kimmel nodded and pointed to the bottle of whiskey. “Since you feel free enough to help yourself to my booze, how about you make yourself useful and pour me a glass.”
“Your booze,” Amdur said as he frowned and cocked his head to the side. “I should have thought you would remember who it was who placed your gilded arse in the governor’s chair. Not that I need you to come out and fawn over me, but the occasional expression of gratitude would be appreciated.”
“We have other problems now,” Kimmel said as he tapped the letter on the desk. “Rasselin has been sacked.”
Amdur paused and took it in. Then he reached over and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. He stood and carried it over to set it on the desk before Kimmel. “What do you intend to do?” he asked.
“What else can I do? I have to raise a militia. Can you bring the families together on this? I need their support.”
“Unite the five remaining families against a common enemy,” Amdur mused. He scoffed and shook his head. “
No, I suppose that is not very reasonable.”
“Why would you say that?”
“The Telbaros family and the Sylvanis have deep familial roots to Shausmat from before the empire split. I am certain that they will throw in their lot with the enemy. The others, the Brumsted family, the Gregaens, and the Fimoral will all be too busy trying to loot each other to form any sort of cohesive front.”
Kimmel nodded and kicked back a glass of whiskey in one fell swoop. He twitched his head sideways and gasped a bit as his eyes teared up. “You are supposed to keep me apprised of the situation when a family decides to do something that could be detrimental to the city.” Kimmel poured another glass. “If the Telbaros and Sylvanis are both going to defect, then it would not matter much what we do in terms of raising a defense. The Telbaros men are the backbone of the officer corps among the Blundfish city guard.” He shook his head.
“And the Sylvanis produce a fair share of the troops that line the walls.” Amdur frowned and sighed heavily. “I think it best if we sit this one out, old boy,” Amdur said. “The good news for us is that the enemy will most likely come across the land, so we can escape by ship if we are quick.”
Kimmel narrowed his eyes on the old man and pointed a finger at him from behind the glass of whiskey, some of the golden brown liquid spilled out as he jabbed his finger in the air. “You have sold yourself out too, haven’t you?”