Horizon of War Series

Chapter 126: Brighter Than Blood

Brighter Than Blood

Three Hills City

There was a reason Lord Lansius had only 1,300 Nicopolan remaining from the original 2,000 that had marched from Korimor to South Hill.

While 300 were left to garrison South Hill, a select group of 400 was reassigned to the skirmishers. The Lord believed in their proven effectiveness during the recent campaign. Although Sigmund’s absence had slowed the training, the new leader, Farkas, compensated by urging his veterans to share their expertise with the recruits.

Thus, over one hundred ex-mercenaries were trained as minstrels with roles as spies and fighters, while the rest were trained as field skirmishers, adapting to fight in non-traditional ways. Fortunately, the skirmishers' tactics weren't entirely new. To use terrain and buildings to their advantage, or to retreat when necessary, only to counterattack, was a known fighting strategy but had never been realized on a larger scale or with specialized groups.

The Nicopolans, having been mercenaries despite their young age, had more than enough experience to grasp these concepts, even when drilled during marches.

Now, two hundred mixed Nicopolan regulars and skirmishers were under Dame Daniella, reinforcing the Black Knights. Meanwhile, two hundred skirmishers, who had remained undetected in various cheap inns, rented houses, or warehouses where they could bunk, had been quietly assembled since last night in the elite shopping row next to the garden.

Farkas and his aides soon arrived. Watching as the eyes of his men lit up, he seated himself on an empty crate. The Black Bandits, ironically dressed in bright colors, quietly gathered in a circle around him.

"Fellow comrades," young Lieutenant Farkas began, "the Dame is engaging the conspirators' column in the garden. You know their strength, and I believe we can either strike them from behind or trap them as they exit the garden."

"Trap," Farkas replied without hesitation.

Without question but grins on their faces, the Black Bandits marched. Only a few carried crossbows due to their disguise, but they were more than confident with their blades.

Farkas led his men in a sprint, surprising onlookers along the still-empty cobblestone streets adjacent to the elite shopping row. His hunter's instincts prompted him to let the conspirators exit the garden freely before striking as they emerged.

Inside the garden, the vibrant colors of the plants were marred by sticky ocher-red stains. The meticulously maintained green hedges had been trampled, sullied by gore. The usually pleasant floral fragrance was overpowered by the stench of piss and blood.

Despite the carnage unfolding in the front part of the garden, several dozen conspirators from the second group — comprising mutinous guardsmen, thugs, and hired men-at-arms — remained oblivious to the turmoil.

They had not seen the Mage Knight who ventured to another part of the garden, pursuing the fleeing remnants of the first group.

The second group's purpose was a reserve, in case the opponents at the guest house posed a greater threat than expected. However, having secured the gatehouse fairly easily, they anticipated little trouble. Thus, they were mildly surprised to encounter the enemy, who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Despite facing men in black armor, the second group quickly assumed formation. There, they chose to make their stand.

On the other side, the Black Knights, even in Sir Morton's absence, showed no hesitation. Sixteen knights fearlessly charged into the disorganized wall of spears and poleaxes. The halberdiers thrust or swung their weapons with sheer determination, but the knights, anticipating these moves, blocked and parried with ease.

One knight quickly turned the halberd thrust into a grapple, closing the distance in one fluid motion and landing vicious thrusts with his sword. Another knight, showcasing the vast gulf in training and experience, deflected a powerful halberd thrust with just his left gauntlet, pushed the long shaft aside to unbalance the attacker, and then rushed forward to deliver a crushing thrust to his opponent's body.

While swords stood little chance of penetrating thick gambesons or good riveted ringmail, they knew that the blunt force behind a blow could still break ribs, shoulder bones, or collapse the airways and neck.

Thus, despite their numbers and the reach of their weapons, the halberdiers found themselves severely outclassed. The Black Knights moved with a cohesion born of years of fighting side by side, exploiting every careless move to take down their opponents.

The knights' advance was relentless, but the conspirators, still believing in their superior numbers, clung to their hope amid the sound of clashing steel and screams echoing through the garden.

A young, eager halberdier swung his weapon with all his might, aiming to catch a knight off-guard. However, the Black Knight's ally anticipated this and blocked the strike. In an instant, the young halberdier was counterattacked not by one, but by three seasoned warriors. They attacked him like hungry wolves, striking with such ferocity that the young man had no chance to even scream before drawing his final breath, overwhelmed by multiple wounds.

For the conspirators' column, that moment showed just how much things hadn't gone according to plan. Their hands gripped their weapons until they were white, yet their knees trembled. They had tried to make their stand, but it was clear that it was a hopeless endeavor. Thus, in sheer desperation, they turned tail and rushed to exit the garden, trampling anyone in their path.

The survivors crawled, climbed, or pushed their way out. Upon reaching the outside in a state of panic, they rushed toward the open road, their only plan to run until their legs gave out. Suddenly, they encountered a small but seemingly friendly crowd who directed them to a hiding spot.

Swayed by promises of a shortcut or a safe place to rest and hide, many followed, believing these individuals were allies or friends. Yet, they were led into back alleys where they met their end, slain by crossbow bolts or hidden blades.

One by one, across multiple locations, they were deceived and murdered in cold blood. Only a few perceived the deception, but a swift blade to the throat ensured eternal silence. The two-hundred-strong Black Bandits, lurking in every corner, made sure that none could escape.

...

The fight lasted no more than half an hour. At the Mage Knight's command, ten survivors with non-threatening injuries were spared. Externally, they were kept alive for interrogation. Internally, it was planned that once freed, they would serve as eyewitnesses to the populace about the consequences of crossing the Black Knights.

Dame Daniella saw Farkas and his men approaching. "How's outside?" she asked.

"It feels like we caught everyone, but there might be survivors, so I've kept the men on watch," Farkas reported.

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"Good job," the Dame said. "What's the tally?"

"Thirty-seven. How about here?"

"Sixty or so. Hard to get a figure, since some are missing body parts."

"The Mage Knight's victim?" Farkas whispered.

Daniella nodded.

Farkas drew a deep breath. "I almost felt pity for those traitors."

Distinct clinking sounds of plate armor were heard, and Sir Morton and a squire appeared. "Dame," he greeted first.

"Sir Morton," the other two responded.

"I just returned from interrogation. We learned that fifty are in the gatehouse. The rest are in the castle."

"How many of them?" Daniella asked.

"A hundred or two," the Mage Knight replied, then added, "Not enough to stop me. Are you coming?"

"My Lord ordered me to provide assistance, and assistance is what you'll get."

"Gratitude, Dame, from the bottom of my heart."

With no fatalities but several injuries among their ranks, twenty Black Knights, alongside one hundred Nicopolan regulars and three hundred skirmishers, headed to the castle. They anticipated heavy resistance but knew they had the strength and the numbers to overcome the coup.

***

Three Hills Castle Area

The castle was in uproar as the attacker managed to find and break a small door with woodsman's axes. Unlike the battleaxe, which was too light and had a thin head to go against solid wood, a woodsman's axe made even a sturdy door into a heap of splinters.

A series of fights ensued as the conspirators penetrated the castle's corridors. The defenders evacuated the chamber and barricaded yet another door. It was frustrating, but they knew they were heading in the right direction. Soon, they would gain access to the rest of the castle.

In one of the recently captured chambers, a young guard lay on the floor, his sword arm mangled, broken at the wrist, his belly bleeding from a stab wound which he tried to close by pressing his hand against it. He had no armor as he was on leave and was planning to go home when the attack happened.

His pained groan caught the attention of one of the masterminds of this coup. Stopping in front of the young guard, the heir of the moneylender House looked down and asked, "Hey, how many are inside? Answer me."

The young guard looked up, gathered up his strength, and spat a mouthful of blood and saliva in the heir's direction.

The heir jumped, but it was too late, and his pristine brigandine was stained. That immediately caused a commotion as his men proceeded to beat the wounded young guard. Despite his cries of agony, one broke his other arm as he shielded his face from a vicious attack, another swung a sword to his head.

It looked like it was over. However, the young guard, even with an open wound on top of his head, and an eye popping out of its socket, survived. In low whispers, he chanted, "Death to the traitors..."

The one who attacked him with a sword raised his sword again.

"Stop it," the heir suddenly spoke. "Don't give him a quick death. Let him enjoy the pain," he scowled.

His men chuckled and left the mangled young guard alone to writhe in agony as his pain became unbearable. The wounds on his belly and head were fatal, and he was losing blood. The head concussion made him stuck in a dream-like state. The only thing that prevented him from fainting was the pain from both broken arms pulsating madly as if on fire.

He was just seventeen years old.

With blurry eyes, the young guard witnessed the conspirator's growing frustration. Then, he heard that the defenders, led by Lord Jorge's trusted old knight, had smeared the next room with tallow oil and lit it up to deny access to the attackers. Despite his pain, he took great joy in hearing it.

His look of amusement did not go unnoticed by the heir, who returned to him out of boredom. "Enjoying the news?"

The young guard wanted to respond but couldn't think clearly.

Kneeling closely, the heir said, "Don't die yet, because I'll drag your friend here so you can hear his screaming to accompany you."

Yet the smile on the young man's lips never wavered.

The sound of men running from outside alerted everyone. The heir stood up readily, and the rest readied their arms, only to recognize their allies, who breathlessly reported, "Armed men spotted in the city. Black armors."

"What did you say?" the heir asked with a troubled expression.

"Dozens of armed men, also the Black Knights," the men repeated.

There was only silence among the masterminds.

Suddenly, an older esquire in his green brigandine walked past and headed out.

"Where are you going?" his fellow from a knight family chased after him.

"Leave me alone, this is hopeless," the old esquire replied.

"How can you say that? We almost took the castle," the son of a knight tried to convince him.

The older man stared back and raised his voice, "Can't you see? They're prepared for this!"

The heir approached them and blurted out, "Who prepared for what?"

"The Black Lord!" the older esquire exclaimed before spitting out, "This cunningness and deviousness is not Lord Jorge's doing. It must be his."

The masterminds could only exchange glances. The thought that the Black Lord had planned for this eventuality sent chills down their spines.

"Nonsense! This is all just cowardice," the heir raised his voice.

However, the rest thought otherwise. The man next to them, a wealthy landowner, asked the esquire in green, "What shall we do?"

The old esquire looked at him and explained, "They'll be marching here. There's no time, let's head to the gatehouse and leave the city."

"Leave to where?" the heir asked mockingly.

"I have no idea. You gave me no time to prepare!" the old esquire howled, reminding the heir that he was the one who pushed for this coup.

Another stepped up, "But the castle is almost ours."

The esquire was about to answer when screams, along with the noises of clashing steel, were heard.

Everyone in the chamber turned in that direction, only to witness a man, with a spear embedded in his chest, being hurled through the air with such force that he flew straight into the wall, crashing just below the chamber's ceiling, and then fell to the ground.

There were collective gasps. They had never seen anything like it.

Like panicked children, the masterminds in their bright brigandines ran to take cover behind tens of their men, who could do nothing but ready their swords and fix their gaze on the exit, from where more screams and shrieking could be heard. Their lieutenants quickly called in other groups from different locations; they still had more than a hundred fighters.

Their opponents, the men in black armor, appeared, their armor glistening with blood.

"They're just knights. Get the poleaxes," the heir instructed as he regained his voice. More of his men had returned to his side.

However, a cold voice from the knight at the front captured everyone's attention. "Greetings. Today, I'll be your executioner."

Then another voice, a female's, added ominously from the side, "Lord Lansius sends his greetings."

Upon her gesture, his men fanned out to the left and right. One row knelt while another row stood, each aiming their crossbows. Despite the angry shouts and pleas for mercy from the other side, the bolts were unleashed mercilessly.

***

Sir Morton sheathed his sword. His mace had been bent, and its handle was too slippery to use due to the caked blood on its grip. The fighting had ceased, but the carnage was so brutal that even seasoned mercenaries like Dame Daniella vomited in a corner. Yet, she immediately felt better and showed no remorse or pity.

Only key figures were taken hostage. They were not spared; instead, they were to be placed in the torture chamber to reveal their motives and the names of their cronies.

The Nicopolans began the dirty work of looting the dead and dragging them outside. The defenders inside had cautiously sent some of their men to assess the situation and, afterward, were glad to send more to assist with the work. The old knight overseeing the operation was amazed by the unexpected reinforcements, as he had been unaware of this plan.

As for Daniella, she was about to lead a separate detachment to the gatehouse when she saw Sir Morton kneeling next to a wounded man on the floor. The Mage Knight compassionately placed his hand on the wounded man, who looked not even twenty years old.

She stopped and overheard them.

"I saw armors in black. Is this true? Are the Black Knights here? Are we winning?" the young man asked, staring emptily at the mage knight's face.

"Indeed, the Black Knights are here," Sir Morton replied. "We are also winning."

The young man looked so pale but offered a genuine grin between groans of pain. "I recognize your voice. It's an honor to meet you, Sir."

"The honor is mine," the Mage Knight replied warmly.

"Then Sir, please... a favor, if you will," he begged.

"Ask away."

"The pain. It's unbearable. Can you make it painless and quick?"

Sir Morton took the young man into his embrace, like a father to his son. "Any last words?"

The young man almost shook but said, "Please take care of my mum."

"I will. Then, are you ready?"

He nodded, and then a blast of air occurred around the young man. He instantly looked drowsy and closed his eyes for the last time. There were no more painful groans or writhing heard from him.

Sir Morton's squire promptly assisted his master and tended to the dead, laying him on the floor until more arrangements could be made. A shield was placed honorably on his body to mark that he was one of them.

Dame Daniella offered her waterskin to Sir Morton, who drank eagerly.

"Do you know him?" she asked.

"No. But I recognize his face."

"It's a shame. He was so young."

Sir Morton did not answer but gazed around the corridors and said, "It's time to wrap this up."

Daniella nodded and faced her men. "To the gatehouse," she instructed.

Her men, ready with retrieved crossbow bolts and laden with trinkets and coins, marched out confidently, their eyes reflecting a sense of righteousness and purpose. They had witnessed another victory, another proof that not even a coup in an ally's land could escape their Lord's watchful eye.

***